Friendly Competition

Chasing another ball. Two supremely swell boys from the gym, Frick and Frack, an accountant and a lawyer respectively, want to play golf with me. I've been after them for a while to join me for an early morning ride in the hills but I've had no success. Phrased another way: I think they're both chicken. They needn't be. Frick proposed the idea of golf and, when I agreed, he excitedly went to fetch Frack and then they did a figure eight/waggle dance together like bees that have found nectar. That's a joke. They didn't dance. But they may as well have.

I did mention that although I've been to driving ranges to, ahem, launch golf balls, the last time I played a round was sneaking onto the Sandpiper Resort in Florida 15 years ago. I snuck daily for a week...but still. 15 years ago? They still want to play. More so now. I know what's going here. They want to kick my ass. You see, I relentlessly poke fun. It's payback time.
"I imagine you will be going out every day practicing now, running up and down flights of stairs, skipping rope, and drinking glasses of raw eggs?" I queried. Frack (standing slightly behind Frick) nodded, rolled his eyes, and pointed at Frick like indeed Frick would be doing exactly that. Frack tells me I'll get a good laugh seeing Frick's tee off shot. I imagine mine is WAY funnier. So, sometime soon, we will play a round. I proposed a long bike ride first to make it a biathalon but, no surprise here, they weren't game for that.
They left, pushing and shoving each other like school boys.
I shouted after them to have fun in the steam together...and immediately began pondering my options on an intensive crash-course in golf. But no. This will be an easy give. And I'm certain I will be witnessing more dancing. This time real.
Unless, of course, I have exceptionally good luck. It could happen. Ooh, wouldn't that be good?!

Seeded People

I made a dash for home around 5 p.m., using a form of sign language (the nice kind) to bid cheerio to my teammates. The weather had been perfect for the volleyball tournament. Sunny, high 20's, and little wind (just a gentle breeze every now and then would swish over). There were a thousand teams playing and we were on Court 2 (of 100) right on the beach. We also (wisely) had an umbrellaed table directly in front of one monolith of a speaker (unwisely) beside the stage. At 11 a.m., bands started the non-stop show and I kissed my eardrums bye-bye. Does mentioning that make me seem old? Well, I'm very childish, I assure you. It was a lovely time and I beaned no one. But more importantly (hee hee) ~ I finally got rid of my pesky bike sock lines. The only thing better than tanned hands is tanned feet and now mine are! I can't keep my eyes off them! Grand.

After a quick shower (and staring at my feet) at home, I called T and we headed to see/hear David Sedaris read from his new book "When You Are Engulfed in Flames". How that small bookstore in this little town was chosen for an appearance is a mystery. And a mystery I excitedly embraced because I think his writing is beyond splendid.
We arrived at the bookstore and people were already packed liked sardines inside, waiting and fanning themselves. A man posted at the entrance directed us to the back parking lot where an open giant tent, with a twinkly pretty chandelier suspended inside, was set up...along with a sound system to pipe David out to us all. T and I stood for a moment surveying for any empty seats. None. The seated people had a good long ogle, as monkeys do, at the new group of arrivals. We are sitting and you are not so we will stare at you. One of my heritable traits (passed down from my father's side) is ignoring stares but T had fun staring back.

Just before 7 p.m. David emerged from the bookstore's back door and, very charmingly, seemed gobsmacked by the size of the herd of listeners. He said he was always amazed that people even went to his readings. "I'm sure there are people here that could read."
The funny thing is, David, they're isn't. Your stories + your voice & delivery = superb.

p.s. If you're a boy and you don't have a blue shirt like that yet, I'd recommend you get one. You'll look fantastic.

So Pleasant

In all the kilometres (50,000 give or take) I've cycled in the past 10+ years, something rather incredible has happened. Or, rather, HASN'T. I haven't had a flat. Well, we all know where this is leading, don't we?
Heading up to the hills at the pinnacle of hotness on Sunday afternoon - KABLOOIE!!! And that's exactly the noise my back tire made. And here's the REALLY hilarious part: I didn't have a tube OR my pump with me. I had become so very confident in my streak that I stopped carrying them (and a cellphone), delighting in being as light as possible. And I usually cycle with people way smarter than I. Smarter in that they carry these necessities - on every ride. But I was alone on Sunday. So very alone.
I did have some dollars though. So I started looking for a taxi or a pick-up truck with a non-serial-killer-looking-driver that might offer me a lift as I began my long clippy march towards town. None passed. Of course.

One hot hour later I arrived at my favourite bike shop. Another cyclist (also with a flat) was approaching from the opposite direction looking dejected whereas I, by that point, had accepted my misfortune and was (almost) having a swell time - even the drunks that accosted me near the corner beer store didn't phase me.
But (surprise!) the bike shop was closed. I continued on my odyssey towards home wondering if my shoe clips would be totally kaput...ground to little nubs. On that stretch, I passed a Jeep AND, a bit further along, an Audi both with flat tires. The owners waited on the grass beside their vehicles for rescue. It was Flat-o-rama Sunday I thought.

Have I mentioned before that I (sometimes) think of inanimate objects as real? I do. Ones I care about. With your bike, you must! It will try its best to protect you if you do. So, with that revelation, I'll admit that I wanted to carry my bike (a him) the entire way back. I didn't though only because I thought the extra weight would be doubly bad for my clips. I pointed out nice trees and fun mystery objects at the side of the road to distract him. When we arrived home he said "Harumpf" and I rolled him gingerly to a cool corner of the room and apologized. He understood.

Yesterday I walked the wheel with the sliced tire back to the bike shop across the river for a new one. Curiously, because I was carrying the tire perhaps (?), everyone thought I was the Direction Information Officer for the city. Five people stopped me and asked me where things were. The Parliament Buildings please? The museum? How do I get under that bridge? Où est le banque Montréal? It was SUPER DUPER windy and, at times, it took two hands (good thing I have two!) to hold my wheel from flapping wildly sideways. I saw an opportunity for a shorter trip and cut across traffic to the median. Being rush hour, there was a constant and heavy stream...so for quite some time, I became the crazy median-walking-girl-with-the-flapping-tire. I'm sure you've seen her many times. Maybe you've honked. And, oh yes, many did.

Photo: I Googled "kablooie!" just to see what images would come up and, surprisingly and to my delight, this one did.
James Stewart from the 1950 film Harvey. "You can be oh so smart, or oh so pleasant. Well, for years I was smart; I recommend pleasant. And you may quote me."

Ave Maria

There's two tennis courts near my place that remind me of the charming ones I looked after for a couple summers when I was a teenager. That gig was an early example (oh so very long ago) of how, with just a little effort, you can swing things you desire for free ~ and FREE is one of my very favourite words. It started with me saying hello and stopping to talk to a priest, Father Joe, who was holding a rake (but not raking) and smiling beside the courts next to St. George's Church. I suggested that perhaps I could do the raking in exchange for a free membership (and one for my father too, please I added). He laughed. I told him about my years of experience in our giant yard at home. I also really enjoyed tennis and had certainly had enough of playing against my school's brick wall. Father Joe, also a tennis-lover I learned, liked the idea and gave me a little tour. He also gave me the gate key and asked if I could look after memberships too.

I walked away from our meeting very excited to tell my Dad (he was a fan of all things *FREE* too). I think we high-fived. That evening, I went back with a broom and swept the courts, picking up the little sticks and stones, making sure the surface was perfect. I was well-trained. The hardcourts were tucked snugly beside the lovely grey stone church with high jewel-coloured stained glass windows. There were lilies and daisies and lilac bushes around. So pretty. Wooden benches framed the courts. There was a water fountain. My name, telephone number went up on the sign attached to the gate for memberships. I quickly started to think of the courts as my own.

My father and I were deep into a game one Sunday morning when we (O.K. most certainly I) had rather forgotten that a service was going on. I missed one beauty of a shot that dropped just inside the baseline and, unfortunately, shouted a very unholy word. Loudly. So loud I knew it must have floated inside the church. I froze and made an exaggerated "Oh dear!" face to my Dad. We silently walked to the net and whispered to each other "Enough?". He also tapped me lightly on the head with his racket. Doink.
The next evening we were back playing again and Father Joe approached. He often sat on one of the benches and watched us play or, sometimes, played with another on the court beside us.
"I think something may have interrupted service yesterday and I want to apologize. It won't happen again." I said.
"Tennis is a game that stirs great feeling and emotion. No worries." he said.
Tweety birds sang in the trees around us.
But it did happen again of course...though never by me...on a Sunday morning.

Photo: Maria. I thought that black dress was really outstanding.

Muscat Tomorrow

There's a delightful park behind my place with ample shade trees, a couple of lovely monuments, many benches and picnic tables. Now that the weather is warm and the grass green, it's a popular spot. At one of the tables - the choice one in the corner, they've claimed it - there's frequently a group of three men. They appear in the spring like beautiful flowers. Distinguished, casually (but oh so handsomely) dressed, and very charming. I always get friendly waves and hellos from them when I pass. There's newspapers and exhuberant discussion. Sometimes a couple of them have a coffee. I'm quite smitten with them. Just seeing them there makes me happy.

I've been thinking of the television show The Amazing Race and how much fun it would be to be in/on it. Teams of two race around the world competing to reach each pit stop first. There are clues to decipher, tasks and challenges to complete, and fast forwards and roadblocks along the way. So, naturally, I've been swirling the idea of a perfect team mate. T and I had a superb time in Havana despite being burnt to a crisp on a long trek trying to find the botanical gardens (we never did). She had been in charge of studying the map that day (not blaming of course ~ just mentioning and weighing)...but she's very easy going. A good travel mate indeed. T will talk to any/everyone. Any/everyone talks to me. We both are minimalists and could travel with just a back pack but also agree that a hotel, with a shower and decent food, along the way is imperative though a degree of struggle would be manageable. We both like a big challenge. Then I thought of T's noncompetitiveness - she would no doubt clap heartily for another team as they ran by. Hmm. Maybe not T.
So my friend 10? World traveller. Crafty. Superb driver. Reads people well. And over-the-top competitive. He's in Dubai now and heading to explore Oman tomorrow. Excellent training Sir! I just called his hotel, catching him before bed to see if he'd be game (though I know he can do without sleep - another bonus). "Absolutely, yes." he said.
O.K. That settles it. I'm applying.
And I'll visit the three wise men for counsel.

Driving Fix

To everyone that needs to drive a car to get places, I'm sorry. Sorry for all of us.
I've been absent for a bit because I've been having a grand time on my bike. You see, all the snow has melted (pretty much) and the roads whisper to me "Come out and play on us". If every person who is capable of riding a bicycle could pull behind them one person that wasn't (in a small chariot ~ fun!), the world might be a quieter/cleaner/nicer place. In fact, I'm certain it would be. I admit that I do like driving but if I am to drive a car, I want to drive fast. Very fast. Faster than that car over there. And that, obviously, could potentially be a problem. Speed limits? Ridiculous. So this is what I propose, a grand idea: race tracks. But open only to those who absolutely MUST get their driving fix between cycling themselves and their incapable loved-ones around (and strangers too, would be a nice gesture) but NO CARS ON THE ROADS. None! Only bikes.

O.K. Perhaps just one day a month cars will be allowed but this will all have to be discussed at the Big Meeting and there are some very radical cyclists, you understand. So don't get your hopes up. Maybe (probably) there won't be one day at all. *
How about all that food that gets moved around in trucks every day you ask? Everyone will starve! No. Don't be silly. You've heard of the hundred mile (~160.9 km) diet? Possibly limited in variety but, when there's a bicycle/canoe going 200 miles (and I'd certainly do that distance for you if you want some carrots or something), you could really increase your circle of deliciousness.
When I first started to think about this idea, I thought about all the mushrooms I'd be eating. Then, with relief, I spotted what looked to be a tomato greenhouse on one ride south of the city and then, further along but within the limit of course, an emu farm. Oh dear. But I'm willing to try this.
I'm sure there are things I haven't thought of yet. Red roses are quite tasty for example. Really. Just like a (bitter) raspberry.

Oh, and on the track, I want this one please ~ the Spyker C12 Zagato. My, my those talented Dutch.

* Big Meeting Update: Cars will only be allowed on the race track. The roads will forever more be for bikes only.

Brief Meetings

I waited for the "kachunk" sound but just got a message on the screen to scan again. I did. Still nothing. I was at the library trying trying to take out my pile of goodies. A book/CD/DVD is scanned, the security strip demagnetized and the information recorded. I was hoping to get this done on my own and not wait in what is the ancient ritual of a line. I looked at my assortment. Hmm...Mélanie Watt's "Scaredy Squirrel". Yes, it's a children's book. I had heard about it just AFTER an incident several months ago: I opened my blinds one morning to (shockingly!) find a little black squirrel trapped on my window sill, petrified - third/top floor from the ground and not a tree around. He/she looked in at me, spooked but seemingly wanting my help. Yes, I could see it in his/her shiny black eyes. "Don't be a scaredy squirrel. You can get down." I said, encouragingly. I headed to the kitchen to make espresso and looked out that window. The squirrel looked over at me. I pointed down, nodding, and said "You can do it!" He/she was gone the next time I looked. Phew...I'll admit it now. Squirrels creep me out just a tiny bit. When I was kid, one crawled up my leg trying to get the handfull of peanuts that I had hidden in my pocket ~ its tiny claws dug into and pulled on my Play Ranch jeans. A VERY terrifying experience. Trust me. It twas.
So I put myself on the waiting list for the book Scaredy Squirrel after I had perused the mini shelves in the library's children's section with no luck. I discovered it was quite a popular book. I also had Nicolas Sarkozy's "Testimony" (I wanted Ségolène Royal to win that election but...wa wa...) and, a find that I thought my friend 10 might enjoy, a DVD, The History of Violence directed by David Cronenberg.
The moustachioed girl at the library counter scanned out my motley selection and then scrutinized me. I was glad I had paid my eight dollar fine the last time I was in so our meeting was as brief as possible.

Nicolas Sarkozy's Testimony? Comme ci comme ça. Scaredy Squirrel? Fantastic!

Très Bon

It happened several years ago. They were shooting an outdoor scene for the television miniseries "Trudeau" in the parking lot of the museum near my place. The lot was filled with early 70's era automobiles. As my friend TD and I walked by, I spied the lead actor, Colm Feore talking amongst a small group all in period costume (i.e. 1970's giant-lapeled suits with bell-bottom pants). My eyes were drawn to him like a neodymium magnet. Not only am I a bit crazy about Colm Feore but that he was playing the equally appealing Pierre Trudeau? Whoooooosh! Exponentially good.

We stopped and I pointed Colm out to TD: "There he is. Right there! See?." I think my arm was suspended for a while, pointing steadily (and time stood still because I was transported to giggling excited school girl). Then, suddenly, he started pointing back at us. I should have remembered. Pointing is rude. What was I thinking? All those in the circle around him turned to look at us. I grabbed TD and we *very* ridiculously dove into the nearby lilac bush in a fit of laughter then scurried away with twigs in our hair. No, nothing to be embarrassed about there. No sir-ee.

Well, today as I approached the Laurier bridge I heard fiddle music and began seeing a lot of green. Vivid green. Green sequins. Shamrocks. Leprechauns. Getting a bit obvious? Yes indeed, it was a St. Patrick's Day parade ~ though it hadn't begun yet. An odd assortment of vehicles loaded with hay bales, army Jeeps (because they're green?), limos (not green), and fire-trucks (also not green) were in a holding pen of sorts on the bridge. I was walking along the sidewalk when a handsome man jumped off a flatbed truck filled with (apparently) farmers or, maybe, Irish immigrants. All of them were wearing styrofoam white hats with shamrocks on them. Handsome man came straight at me and said, with a very distinct Irish accent "How are ya' doin this mornin'?" very jovially. I was face to face with (I'm near certain!) Colm Feore! "Very well thank you! And you?" I asked. "Oh, just grand!" he said and straightened his cap - not the styrofoam model but a blue wool one. My mittened hand patted him and, ahem, because he was so close and it all happened so fast, it was a bum pat. O.K. Two actually. He smiled widely and so did I.

Thirty minutes later, I returned the same way and everything was *POOF* gone...the leprechauns, the bands, Colm-Pierre. Gone! The bridge had reopened and traffic was buzzing by. Had I imagined it all? Had it really been Colm-Pierre? Here on location shooting a movie? Or was I a bit winter-delusional?
Then there I saw it, below the curb stuck to the slushy road.
Hay and a twisty strip of glittery green clover garland.

Anywhere But

Friends of mine, Barb & David, are away in paradise. Thinking it might be fun, I offered to shovel their walk and driveway as they gaze out at a turquoise sea and listen to palm fronds gently dance in the soft breeze. I'm quite silly you know. They've been gone for five days now and I'm thinking to buy an insulated sleeping pod so I can just stay over at their place. It would be easier. A time-saver. Why? We've been enjoying snow storm after snow storm. My arms are like Popeye's. It goes without saying I suppose, but I've now f**kin' had it shoveling. I tried to make it fun (I really did) but couldn't. This morning, it was coming down hard...and the winds were whipping around...and there were ice pellets. A very large garbage truck got deeply stuck in the street. Garbage trucks do not get stuck. Ever. Yet there it was, enormous tires spinning furiously trying to escape. It's front end at a very peculiar downward angle, buried into a trench of snow. People digging their cars out stood around and ogled. As I heaved shovel after shovel full, my jacket became soaked with the wet falling snow. I took it off and left it on Barb and David's car as I struggled away. It was buried by the time I was done. A man shoveling across the street paused for a moment (to reflect on his life maybe...wishing he was on a tropical island sipping a bubbly drink). He too became buried in no time at all. I went over and shoveled him out. (O.K. That part is made up).

Three months ago I made and saved some perfect little snow balls in my freezer to whip out in July for a snowball fight surprise. I know they're innocent in there. They arrived with a snowfall early in the season. They had no idea it would pile up to all of THIS. But I *almost* removed them to their deaths when I arrived home. Tired and soaked.
Nope. Not lovin' the snow any more.

Photo: model Olga Sherer at the Jil Sander Spring 2008 show. (You understand the joke here I'm sure.)
Note: Models almost never smile even if they're wearing something wonderful in deep navy blue.

Out There

There's something that's very neato about the web. There's someone out there that you read about and the way they write, or what they're doing, hooks you. Perhaps it's something that is totally foreign to you...or, the opposite, so familiar - a common interest and their spin on it captures you. It has happened to me with many (heh, all my links along the left) but particularly right now, Jill Homer, as she's in the thick of a huge challenge. I'm a cyclist. She's an über-cyclist. I'm a bit of a weather wimp. She obviously IS NOT. In any way. She's competing in the Iditarod Trail Invitational up in Alaska, the world's longest human powered winter race. Her boyfriend, Geoff Roes, was also in it - running(!). He had some ankle troubles and, sadly, had to scratch at mile 130. I don't know either of them yet here I am constantly checking the updates to see how she's doing. Concerned but very hopeful.
As of the update at 08:50 this morning, Jill was reported about 20 miles from Nikolai, the 300 mile mark before the final 50 mile push to the finish in McGrath. From the latest news on the Iditarod site "Nikolai reports the wind is starting to come up a little and is feeling very cold (windchill -23°C)...Antonio Frezza is having major trouble with his wheel and has been walking his bike. He will try to get a new wheel brought into McGrath so he can continue on to Nome. If he has not been able to ride at all this will mean about 150 miles of pushing his bike."

It's freezing here today (-20°C) but I thought of Jill and the other racers and it was easier to endure, somehow.
Go Jill!
Jill's Amazing Blog
Alaska Ultrasport

UPDATE March 1, 2008 17:00hrs;
Jill Homer arrived in McGrath at 16:20hrs (and smiling was reported). Her total time was 6 days 2 hours and 20 minutes.
I salute you Jill. An incredible accomplishment. Wow! (Now I hope you're toasty warm.)