After these last two events, I have decided I need a new bike. I want one that has gears… that actually shift; wheels that actually turn, propelling one forward, as you pedal uphill; a seat that actually supports an ass, rather than violates it; and… well, I just want a REAL bike.

Sure, this lovely specimen won’t help me set any records in the Wasa tri- all those hardcore trifreaks will continue to look down their Cervelo P2 Carbons at me as I roll into the transition area on my big, fat, nubby tires- but I don’t care, I’m hoping to narrow down my annual event circuit to our local Extreme 3 anyways. And for that, I would need the bike, this bike, I found today.

Ahhh… she’s a beaut… oh yes. A fine bicycle.

And I would have thoroughly lost myself in it’s previously owned magnificence… had I not been distracted by the young man trying to sell it to me. Understand, I’m one hip momma. I’m all over the whole tatoo and piercing thing. In fact, I even have a few… tatoos, not piercings. OK, so I have a couple of piercings: my ears, in the usual location, and my belly button. But we all know these hardly count.

I digress. His arms were covered in tatoos. And hey, like I said, I’m one hip momma, I barely noticed. I’m kind of into that anyhow. However, I was having a hard time not staring at the dumbbell through his eyebrow- Hate them. Hate them. Hate them. I found myself silently questioning, as I do whenever I am confronted with young, innocent, eyebrows impaled, WTF and Why The Hell…?

But honestly, when I found I could actually see the row of bikes through the holes in his earlobes, that was it. Over. I couldn’t hear a word the nice, young feller was saying. I mean, I could see everything… a guy getting his bike fixed at the back of the open shop… the Dairy Queen across the street… my Honda Odyssey…. Depending on where he decided to position himself as he rattled off specs and features of said bike, I was provided a whole new view of my hometown through the symmetrical pair of holes in his ears. Sure, it was a little disjointed. I mean, each scene was oddly cleaved by his head, before resuming once again through the other sagging, open lobe.

I was transfixed. Totally. Entertained. I found myself bobbing around wildly trying to get good sight of my car to see what my kid was doing within. Is that my neighbor in the drive-thru? Hey, hair salon… I need to remember to get my highlights done this month… Jesus, that guy needs to slow down….

Oh my God. Too weird.

Whatever. Each to his own, I guess. I still want the bike…. And between now and October, when it goes on sale, I’ll enjoy visiting it and gazing upon its loveliness through my nice salesboy’s ears.

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Today is Canada Day. The Canadians July 4th equivalent, minus the monster fireworks, the apple pie, the jingo-ism and by and large, the historic significance.

But what we will have… is a Triathlon. Yes, a mere two weeks after the last, three events- swimming, cycling and running- in, today, an effort to earn our festive national celebration. Apparently trying to make up for our nation’s lack of any real defining historic moments such as, say, the signing of The Declaration of Independence. Ahhh…. proud to be Canadian.

Anyways, the difference between this event and the last, other than the festive national celebration to follow, is that this is The Inaugural. The Very First. And last but not least, after the swim. Entirely. Uphill.

After a lovely 650 metres in our lovely pool, we make our way, another 12 kms, by mountain bike and then by foot, up… up… up… to, and around, our local ski hill. Before we get the t-shirt. The burger. The beer.

The problem is this is the first time for this event in our area. Really, this should take the pressure off- reinforce the notion of just plain old wholesome, athletic FUN… but I find myself distracted, considering irrationally all of the possible worst case scenarios of this, a very first time event.

OK… so my fear is the biggest issue will be the lack of volunteers. After all, any event such as this is only as good as it’s team of generous and unpaid support! Which means, few, if any, water stations on the course. Also, too few playing a supporting role on the course to ensure all participants are alive and accounted for… and as I am fairly confident I will be one of the last out of the pool and most definitely will lag behind the pack on my shitty, old, kluged and bungee’d, mountain bike, therefore, assuming I have not taken the wrong turn at the fork in the pitifully unmarked trail, bringing me in last to start the run… where I will be parched- thanks to the lack of water stations on course… and I will, as the last participant on the trail, have the ironic misfortune of coming across an annoyed and hungry black bear and her cubs- bothered at having watched other meal opportunities sprint nimbly by- relieved to finally see an available, not to mention adequately fleshy, meal within easy swiping distance. Meanwhile, I have nothing left in the tank. Not to run. Not to climb. Not even to pee. And I will be dragged through the dense bush to my violent and bloody demise. While my family enjoys the music, hotdogs and beer garden.

As I lay here on my comfy couch despondent relaxing before the big event, the wiggly jiggly flesh butterflies are all I can feel of my stomach…. Despite telling myself repeatedly this is a FUN event, just finishing is the goal- times bedamned- I still have that nervous, nauseous tummy and I am wishing I had just never signed us up!

I just want to enjoy this holiday and the fun without the fucking strings! Bottom line at this point, committed and unable, no-unwilling- to back out… Yeah, I just want to finish, alright… ALIVE!

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And so the great news.

Our closest, largest town is getting an independent standing Starbucks. Yes! It’s only taken… I dunno how many years, but just as everybody has had Starbucks out the ying yang and everyone is starting to complain about the quality of the supermegaestablishment-yes, even The Man loves his coffee-conformistbottomlinebeforequalityfourfackingdollarsa cuponeoneverycorneroverabilliontrillionsold coffee stops, we are getting one.

Sure, now, just when mom ‘n pop coffee bars are making a gasfireplacecozychairscreativeinspired
non-conformistlivemusicliquorlicensenanaimo-hempseed-bar resurgence, we are finally getting one.

Sure, for the past two years, we could go to the new Starbucks kiosk in the Safeway… but… it’s… Safeway.

And whether it’s in our closest Safeway or standing independently on the Cranbrook fastfood strip… it’s still a fucking hour away!

Hello mom ‘n pop… vanilla soy latte and a nanaimo bar please. And make that with a shot of Bailey’s…

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OK. Who do I have to screw pay off to get this bitch off our backs?!

Mother Nature is pushing her luck this morning, boy. Temps below freezing and a friggin’ inch of fresh, white, albeit beautiful, snow….

It’s the middle of April!!! Now, as with my last post railiing against her antics, my patience is at an end. It’s not like we’re dealing with some petulant child to whom we can threaten a good and proper beating time out, or can bribe with Ritalin infused candies. No, this old bird has been around the block. She’s got an axe to grind and our pitiful, late in the game negotiations: recycling, hybrids, ethanol, organic, sustainability, bamboo, Kyoto, The Barenaked Ladies… you name it; are just not gonna cut it anymore.

Somebody find this bitter, manic, old bag some Prozac so we can move on to the next season…

Triathlon… less than two months and counting.

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We don’t fly a lot.  Perhaps two or three times a year, to and fro.  So, I guess all told, that means with the to and fro we’re looking, more accurately, at 4-6 times a year.  OK.  Perhaps compared to the average family, we fly quite a bit during the course of a year.

I, and I do believe I can speak for the family (Filipes, as always, will not have me speaking for him and in this case, likely would surely disagree), am happy to fly fully clothed.  The seats are not particularly comfortable, even with pants.  They have been sat in by many, many, MANY behinds.  Behinds that have been, only God, knows where.  Airline seats, as previously stated, sat in by innumerable behinds, and while I’ve not seen any formal studies of what variety of creepie crawlies have been identified to flourish, I prefer to know that I am protected by a sturdy barrier of nylon parachute travel pants with fanny pack….  Food and drinks inevitably spill… on me.  As I am always cold on airplanes I am kept mostly clean and dry by the (ack!) airline blanket (don’t ask, don’t tell!).  However, if I were not protected by my clothes and the added protective, flame and HAZMAT retardant layer of (ack!) airline blanket I would run the risk of being scalded, jellied, drenched, cream cheesed, mayonnaised, impaled by ice cubes… the possibilities are endless.  Oh, and I could never bring myself to ignore the questionable history enjoy the comfort of my blanket without the protection of aforementioned clothing.

So therefore.  This.  Is of completely no interest to me.  Again, I am not able to speak for Filipes. 

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