Whisky & Wheels

Thanksgiving Ride, 2011

2011-10-14T06:46:00.002-04:00

Cycling is the ideal form of exercise for a temperament that clings to a grudge. If the stretch is long enough, the bitter broth of anxiety that stews from a nursed grudge seems to evaporate over the miles. On the other hand, of course, cars and their drivers also provide no shortage of meaty grudge material.

I won't get into the sins of my brethren with the internal combustion engines, except to say I can't understand why, when the opportunity presents itself, a driver doesn't give a cyclist a respectable berth. I could have, and maybe should have, pushed the impulse and gone for another three-hour ride. Perhaps the extra hour would have purged me of the snarly vibe that built up as I encountered driver after driver who dropped their good manners when they picked up the keys to the car.

Still, in this small corner of the world it has been a sensational fall season. I'm thankful for that. In fact, the weekend was downright hot. I'm not so thankful for that, but since the blame falls squarely on the shoulders of my wretched species it would be disingenuous of me to grumble. We slept with the windows open and the ceiling fans on, the better to catch the noise made by drunken youths tying one on into Sunday morning. When the sun rose without a church being set alight, I was grateful for that.

I'm also grateful for the road work being done on a stretch of highway north of town, which has discouraged traffic and enabled me to ride in relative peace and quiet. I've had a lovely, hilly circuit that takes me north of, then through Woodville, before depositing me back at home. And the girls holding the traffic signs have all been pleasant. An unusually lengthy cycling season does indeed seem like a gift.

To Zephyr, and back -- the first time

2011-06-23T07:49:00.003-04:00

Having said all that . . .

. . . I was woefully ill-prepared for a 65 km ride last week, particularly one that had Zephyr Road as its centerpiece.

Looks beautiful, doesn’t it? It’s relatively back-country; paved, yet modestly challenging as well. Ever since we moved out this way, I’d thought this stretch of road would make for some fabulous cycling. What I was resolutely unwilling to do, however, was the reasonable thing: ride my car over, pull the bicycle out of the trunk, hop on and do a quick there-and-back, or perhaps a slightly larger circuit of modest ambition. For whatever absurd reason, it seemed the honorable thing to cycle the entire distance there and back.

Sixty-five kilometers doesn’t have to be a big deal, even for a 46-year-old who could stand to shed a dozen pounds. I’d been preparing by making increasingly longer runs in that direction, and figured I'd be in shape to complete the entire Zephyr run by early July. Then Saturday came along. The weather was so gorgeous, I was making such remarkable time, the farmers were out haying and it was such a delicious smell, and I was feeling so good — and I’d just turned 46! Wouldn’t it be something to say, “Yeah, I did Zephyr and back the day of” etc? I reached the point (Udora) where I had planned to turn around and head home, looked ahead to the beckoning highway, and thought, “Why not?”

Well . . . there were several very good reasons why not, the most important of which was: I hadn’t yet hit the wall.

In the years since the cyclathon I haven’t much bothered with long-distance riding — it’s been the rare time I’ve cycled for longer than an hour — so I wasn’t familiar with this business of “hitting the wall.” But any marathon runner will tell you there comes a moment when your body has burned up the various sugars you’re carrying around in your bloodstream, and must now start burning other materials — muscle fiber, say, or maybe even a little fat. When you reach that moment, there is no mistaking it: you hit the wall.

Patient training had gradually extended that moment for me. Here I was, over an hour away from home, and I’d not yet hit the wall. With a little luck, maybe I’d hit the wall in Zephyr, buy a chocolate bar and some Gatorade, then turn around and ride back.

I hit the wall down in the first valley en route to Zephyr. As I struggled up the first hill, I remembered that I hadn’t bothered with money, because when I left the house I wasn’t thinking about cycling to Zephyr. So no chocolate bar, no Gatorade. Also, I hadn’t bothered with sunscreen, because I’d left in the early morning and didn’t expect to spend more than two hours in the sunlight. Zephyr was going to add another hour, maybe more, to that total, and the sun would reach its zenith as I rode home. A long hot ride home. Oh, and only one water bottle. Because I wasn’t thinking about cycling to Zephyr.

I wasn’t thinking at all. The eight-plus kms up and down and through the Zephyr Valley were the most physically demanding riding I’d done yet, and I was doing them with my reserves exhausted — and I’d be repeating the ordeal on the ride back.

Agh. I did it. But that was one bone-headed impulse I should never have followed. But I'm hoping to do it another time or two before the full heat of summer hits.

The Cyclathon

2011-06-21T10:46:00.003-04:00

Note: this is a dual post; my apologies to followers of both blogs.

When I was a kid in the 70s, the summer camp I went to held a yearly “cyclathon” fundraiser. Kids rode their bicycles to the camp; the camp collected money (and mailing addresses) from the marks who sponsored the kids. It was a pennies-per-mile arrangement, and the distance to the camp was rounded down to 100 miles, completed over two consecutive days.

I managed this feat twice, when I was 12 and 13 years old. I rode a CCM five-speed, wore cheap sneakers, tube-socks and polyester gitch purchased at the local “Style-Rite” store, and threw on a pair of recent cut-offs. T-shirt was optional (for boys) and using sunscreen (or “suntan lotion,” as it was so quaintly referred to) was unheard of.

There was a great deal to endure besides the dreary reality of churning through a day’s worth of Canadian grasslands. The event drew an enormous crowd of participants, which put me on edge even back then. Participants were divvied up into groups of six or eight; you could request, and be reasonably assured of, the company of a friend, but after that it was the luck of the draw who you wound up with. My memories of both groups are marked by disagreeable loud-mouthed lunks who were maybe two years away from impregnating and marrying their first wives. And despite the fact that everyone had just pedaled close to 60 miles that first day, it seemed like I was the only one keen on getting a good night’s sleep.

In the days leading up to my second cyclathon I was bed-ridden with a wrenching case of diarrhea. Nevertheless, the dawn of departure found me gingerly perched on top of my bicycle, ready to go. Ten miles later, I was lying in a ditch, staring up at the blue sky and wondering why I wasn’t on my bike anymore. I sat in the camp director’s truck for a few minutes, sipping on a warm coke and answering the man’s questions (“How much money did you raise? How are you feeling now?”). He urged me on, so on I went. Lunch was hot dogs, chips and pop; supper was sloppy joe sandwiches.

And yet — and yet — despite all this my predominant emotional memory of these two rides is one of happiness. Despite being too sore to walk, never mind ride, the second day of cycling felt like a gift. The flat and wind-swept prairies were decisively left behind for the rugged and rolling terrain of the Canadian Shield, a welcome variety that couldn’t help but lift the spirits. Even better, our group leader was now worn down to indifference, and no longer made any effort to keep the group together. Now my buddy and I could pedal in peace, enjoying the scenery and discussing what mattered most — Star Trek — while the others pushed ahead to see who could arrive at the camp and plunge into the frigid waters first.

But more than that, those trips offered a very welcome and lasting change in perspective. An adolescent kid living in a small town surrounded by seemingly endless prairie will tend to think of himself as “stuck” if he doesn’t have access to a car with a full tank of gas. A 12-year-old kid who got on his bike and pedaled from that small town to his favorite summer camp 100 miles away thinks very differently about his circumstances — so long as he has access to a bicycle. There are at least four guys I know from my cyclathon days who went on to do fabulous multi-week bicycle tours of exotic locales, long before “outfitters” showed up to offer their decadently comfortable and nutritious versions of the cyclathon.

Last Saturday as the fam celebrated my birthday with pecan pie on the porch, the younger asked me where I’d bicycled that morning. “Zephyr,” I said.

“Whoah. That’s far.”

It was a 65 kilometre round trip. But far? Well . . . .

Ah, the bonhomie of cyclists!

2011-06-06T06:37:00.004-04:00

Gorgeous weather leads to longer rides. I spent nearly 90 minutes doing 29.1 kms yesterday morning, and would have committed to another hour or two if I knew there was someone else at home to receive daughter #1 from her overnighter. My distance total is probably just over 30 kms, actually: as I neared my turn-off I spotted another cyclist approaching and decided to bike further, just so I could greet the person. As we passed, I gave him a cheery, "Good morning!" He stared back at me and just kept going. I don't know if he was listening to an iPod or just deep in his own thoughts, but either way the guy's a knob.

There's no such thing as "the loneliness of long-distance cycling," so far as I'm concerned. The geography is too engaging, especially in this part of the world.

Paul Simon's "The Afterlife"

2011-05-24T10:51:00.005-04:00

On Sunday I did the usual May 2-4 routine and rode out to Wilfrid and back, a 23 km round trip that took me just over an hour.

This was in the morning, shortly before church, and I was mulling over the nature of so-called worship music, and what it is meant to achieve. Ignoring, if I can, the blunt presumption of Divine Proscription (“We sing this stuff because God tells us to”) it seems to me that when worship music works it achieves a temporary recalibration of the interior monologue. Frequent strategies include cataloging differences (God is big; we are small, God is Holy; we are sinners, etc.) and manipulations of the language of adoration (“You are holy and I bow before you”) etc. Neither strategy has reached the point of absolute bankruptcy with me, but they’re both scraping the bottom of the account.

I wonder if this isn’t an unfortunate side-effect that comes with Protestantism? So much of the Protestant hymnal — from the trenchant works of Fanny Crosby to the sentimental schmutz of mega-church worship bands — hammers home again and again what precious little orthodoxy the Protestant movement has cobbled together. Sola Scriptura is a fine motivation, but the trouble is we’re all deeply divided about which Scriptura to get Sola over, except, “While we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.” To be sure, there is a great deal you can do with that. But I think it is also safe to say that, after 2000 years, there is only so much you can do with that.

Anyway, the most recent song to silence and recalibrate my interior monologue is Paul Simon’s “The Afterlife,” from the recent album So Beautiful or So What? Especially when heard in album sequence, it is a deeply moving work. After Simon expresses in “Getting Ready For Christmas Day” the common wistfulness that, following this life, somehow all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well (“I could tell my Mom and Dad that the things we never had/Never mattered we were always okay”) he goes on to paint a humorous picture of just what a banal sort of Purgatory awaits (“You’ve gotta fill out a form first; And then you wait in the line”).

The first two verses give us a dead narrator who's still an incorrigible smart-ass trying to figure out how to get ahead, but by the third verse Simon bluntly assesses the human situation:

Well it seems like our fate to suffer and wait for the knowledge we seek.

This is the crux of so much of my own religious frustration. I'm impatient with humanity, I'm impatient with myself, I'm impatient with God — and nobody in this configuration seems to be in any hurry to help us out of the mess we're in. Don't expect me to reach for my internal “reset” button if I can't just somehow out and say it.

By fourth verse Simon's narrator finally gets his way. As he slowly climbs the cosmic ladder to God, all the petty, stupid, banal words and strictures that brought frustration to his life are transformed into speaking-in-tongues nonsense that we recognize from the days of transistor radios.

Lord, is it Be-boppa-lula/Or, Oh Poppa-do?

So that was the in-shower chorus that followed my ride. And it might not be a hymn for the ages, but “The Afterlife” was enough to once again nudge me toward the shabby queue at the Communion Rail.

Lyrics for "The Afterlife."

Red Bull. Vodka. WiFi. We Are All City-Folk, Now

2011-05-12T14:20:00.000-04:00

Today's title came to me midway through today's ride. No need to expound, really.

I managed 20 kms in 50 minutes,

Spinning Wheels

2010-08-29T08:38:00.003-04:00

I ride daily now, or just about. Fresh gravel has been spread on the steeper hills, and riding ascents are nearly impossible. I dismount and push, and consider moving to paved (and busier) roads.

Other considerations: a potentially BIG posting on WP re: the nature of memory, its interaction with the physical geography of childhood and "home." The plasticity of memory is often lamented, but it can be a beneficial characteristic as well.

As I mull over all this, an old Paul Simon chorus keeps coming to mind:

If you'll be my bodyguard
I can be your long lost pal
I can call you Betty
And Betty when you call me
You can call me Al

Best to keep spinning until there's some direction for me to proceed with this.

Haying Time

2010-06-29T15:31:00.001-04:00

Heavy rains, followed by long sunny days = Time to be haying.

Bad Either Way

2010-06-21T19:19:00.003-04:00

This hill's grade probably isn't any steeper than eight degrees, but it's nasty to ride either way. Down there's always the worry of fresh gravel (the township seems to add it weekly); up, well ... kinda self-explanatory.

Today's Excitement

2010-06-06T16:15:00.003-04:00

Shortly before noon we heard an enormous commotion we very much hoped was happening on someone else's yard. Alas, the yard was ours.

Bow-saw out, and busy.

Missed Photo

2010-05-26T17:32:00.004-04:00

I finally pedaled round to where I missed my spectacular shot. Here it is, sans clouds.

It's been unseasonably hot: 30 C, not including the humidex. The wind is from the north(!), keeping the clouds away. It's all very unsettling, but you might as well spin while the sun shines.

The May Two-Four Weekend

2010-05-24T10:29:00.003-04:00

I removed the bald tires and put the grippers back on. I feel more confidence when I ride downhill on dirt, probably not at all commensurate to any appreciable difference in traction.

I kicked myself for not bringing the camera along the other day, when I barreled down into a lovely marshland view. The hills to the west held a small copse of pine trees, with a few fluffy clouds providing some pleasant contrast to the blue sky and green foliage.

I wasn't able to get that far today, so you get this shot instead. A sweltering Monday, on the May Two-Four Weekend (W).

Clipless Pedals

2010-04-20T17:45:00.004-04:00

I allowed myself to be cajoled into a set of clipless pedals this spring (the brand name escapes me, for the moment, but they're your standard egg-beaters). I took the Jake inside and put it back on the trainer, where I spent an hour or so fiddling with cleat adjustment. Once I was comfortable and had some confidence in my technique, I took the bike for a spin. Once again, actual riding revealed that my cleat placement needed further attention.

Also: no matter how much you practice releasing yourself from those nifty pedals, when it's crisis time you'll still be caught off guard. Or maybe you won't, but I certainly was. My sister visiting from Ottawa was there to see it all happen. As were the occupants of a van, two cars, a dirt bike and an ATV. I figured it was best to let everybody clear the intersection before I took the corner, so I unhooked my right foot and set it down. Unfortunately, as the traffic slowly moved by my balance shifted to my left foot which was still hooked into its pedal. "It was kind of like watching it in slow-motion," said my sister.

It's been three weeks now, and the scab has finally come off. I can't believe children weather skinned knees with such a complete lack of concern -- mine was inconveniencing me at the strangest times, with considerable discomfort. I've probably learned a lesson or two, but I'm not yet sure whether they relate to clip-less pedals. I understand that once everything is adjusted to perfection you can't beat their utility. But for now my personal jury is still out: I still miss shifting my feet around, inefficient though that "freedom" might be.

W&W Comments Policy

2010-04-18T21:38:00.002-04:00

I apologize for the iron hand approach, but I'm subjecting all comments to my personal approval, because this blog is getting walloped with off-shore weirdness. But don't let that dissuade you from saying something pertinent. If it's worth saying, it's worth posting.

Second Ride of Spring

2010-03-11T20:50:00.006-05:00

Only 30 minutes' worth, both days. I meant to take the camera, for footage of the spring run-off, in memory of my grandfather. He loved to get in the car and drive out to ditches where the run-off was especially spectacular. Any shots I might have taken the last few days would have been a joke: pleasant, burbling streams that wouldn't cause so much as a booter for an intrepid seven-year-old.

The run-off we had in Manitoba was of a very different caliber. Every few years, some farmer's kid gets swept away and drowns in a ditch. I can remember pulling on my Wellies and joining friends in the fields when I was 13, and getting scared spitless -- this at an age when nothing puts fear into you.

Not in this part of the world. We have other natural threats, I guess.

Stained Glass

2010-02-08T07:02:00.007-05:00

The windows on the south wall were brilliant yesterday, so I ran home and got the camera.

The north windows miss the sunshine, but made for better exposure:

The quilt to the right is actually older than the building. Each square is embroidered with the family names of the original Methodist (now United) congregation.

With some closer attention I could have taken better pictures, but there's only so much "tech" fiddlin' I care to do whilst parishioners file in to worship.

Farms For Sale

2009-08-10T06:18:00.002-04:00

Two farms have gone up for sale in the last two weeks. I don't know either of the owners, but can see they are both on the young side (mid-30s). Farming at that age is very rarely a break-even prospect. And farming at any age occupies the body and mind 24/7. I'll be curious to see who ponies up the dough for these properties, if anybody does.

Distance: 21.4 kms in 1:07. AvS 19.3 kph, MxS 60.7 kph (there were some dandy hills, but not enough of them in my favour to raise my AvS -- in fact, I dismounted to climb one of them). A gorgeous morning, pre-thunder-showers.

Manure

2009-08-05T09:11:00.003-04:00

Yesterday I rode past a small dairy operation and I realized, not for the first time, that a light spread of manure can smell rather refreshing. Not that I'm about to start dabbing a little behind the ears, or anything like that. My emotional response depends largely on the defecating animal: I greatly prefer cows and horses to goats and pigs, for example. There are reasons for this, which I will expound on (and link to) on my other blog.

Back In The Saddle

2009-07-30T19:25:00.003-04:00

Back in the saddle after a three-week lay-off, two of which were spent on a Winnipeg visit, and one of which was simply rained-out. The heart and lungs were willing, but the body required a little care.

Too much rain, not enough sunlight makes the planted corn unhappy, but I think we're doing a little better than most corn-growers in Manitoba. It's a little hard to believe, given how much rain we seemed to get in the last month.

Distance: 14.5 km in 45 minutes, for an average speed of 19 kph (reached 56.7 kph while chugging downhill). Chafing is getting to be an issue: I suspect I've misadjusted the saddle. Too high? Not far enough forward? I'll keep adjusting until I've got it where it ought to be. (Sigh. Was a time when I would join a "cycla-thon" and pedal just over 50 miles in a day ... on a CCM five-speed ... wearing cut-offs!)

Another Church

2009-07-09T20:54:00.005-04:00

I'm self-conscious about taking pictures of other people's houses. I'd seen this view of the church often, but had never taken a closer look. When I came to the yard, two people (mother & adolescent son(?)) were leaning on a van and having a heated discussion. I wasn't about to ask their permission and I certainly wasn't going to snap the shot and sprint for the hills. As I passed, I noticed the building's state of disrepair. It looks like a stoner house, alas. The brushes eating at the foundation (hm - metaphor?) of the building could have indicated as much had I given the matter some thought.

12.8 kms in 38 minutes. Muddy roads.

Introducing "Smells"

2009-07-05T10:56:00.004-04:00

I took the camera with me today, hoping to snap a shot of a picturesque schoolhouse-turned-residence just outside of town. When I reached the house, the picture was obviously out of the question. The lovely maple trees which border the property are lush enough to obscure the drama of the house; the inconvenient angle of the sunrise botched the rest of it. Throughout the remainder of my ride I realized that most picture-worthy properties face the west (I suppose most of us are preconditioned to think we have more time, or a greater need, for aesthetics at the end of the day -- sunset -- than we do at its beginning). There are ways to compensate for shooting into the sun, but few of them result in anything especially attractive. And they all require more work than I was prepared to do on a ride.

I mulled over my usual bevy of preoccupations, obsessions and anxieties, including, in no particular order, mortality, the ethical dilemmas facing my children's generation, peak oil, what constitutes a desirable perspective, etc. The body eventually reaches a point where the energy that generates questions is harnessed for locomotion. The mind slips into a pleasantly befuzzled state, and consciousness is alerted only occasionally, either by unusual sights or, in my case, smells.

I've sometimes thought my sense of smell is a shade too acute. We had a rodent problem in our first house, which a little poison quickly took care of. Less than a year later I knew we had to deal with the problem again, because I could smell them (mice pee everywhere).

Age and palate abuse has certainly dulled this sense, but I'm still sensitive. While riding, if a car passes me in either direction I can usually tell whether or not the rider has shampooed. Then there's smoker's fug, which is hardly noteworthy. There's a scene in 84 Charlie MoPic where a new Lieutenant is berated by his seasoned grunts for lighting up in the field. "Charlie can smell cigarette smoke from a mile away," or something to that effect.

Today one of the smells to catch me off-guard was strawberries. The season is ending, so there are berries rotting in their patches -- a sickly smell I was happy to leave downwind.

Distance: 17.7 kms in 54 minutes, concluding with a sore keister. Kinda humbling when I think my friend Scott is doing 100 kms in a windy day like yesterday. I'd like to work up to a century, but since I replaced my stem I've been getting saddle-weary, and haven't yet figured out the right adjustment.

One Hour In The Rain

2009-07-01T09:55:00.003-04:00

21 kms in one hour today, in the rain. The skies were looking heavy, but I simply couldn't absorb another day inside. 20 minutes of sprints on the trainer has got nothing on one hour of riding hills in the rain.

Unfortunately, the rain kept me on the pavement. I've done gravel roads in the rain, but that requires a thorough cleaning session which lasts just about as long as the ride. Most of the locals know me on sight (I'm the guy in the Costco undershirt and OP shorts (with a pair of Louis Garneaus underneath)) and pass me with a wide berth. Cottage travelers, on the other hand, aren't usually so generous. It was early, though, and traffic was light.

The clover in the ditch smells especially sweet in a light rain.

Mowed Fields

2009-06-28T07:22:00.002-04:00

Yesterday was a gorgeous day for cycling, and I regret not taking the camera along: there were so many opportunities of the sort displayed on the blog banner. After a week or two of steady rain, we finally got a stretch of hot sunny days that made for perfect haying weather. I pushed myself through 16 kms of loamy perfume. The wind was slightly from the northwest, making the air less humid than it can get in Central Ontario. The wind also kept the aroma of the fields from getting too thick for me. Very fine.

Product Review: Helmet Mirrors, Filzer dZ4L Cycling Computer

2009-06-24T13:46:00.004-04:00

Helmet Mirrors:

Under most conditions, I can usually hear well in advance when a vehicle is approaching me from the rear. But when I'm pedaling into a strong headwind, all bets are off. That's when gravel trucks catch me completely by surprise.

I bought a helmet mirror to remedy this situation. When I attached it to my helmet, I realized immediately that I was in trouble. My vision is skewed so that one eye is near-sighted and the other far-sighted. Working together they compensate amazingly well -- at 44 I still don't yet need glasses. Unfortunately, it's my left eyeball that's far-sighted, and the mirror is designed to prop four inches away from it.

I took it for a tour, figuring maybe this challenge would force my deficient lens to exercise some flexibility. But no, that was not going to happen. Instead, the mirror became a serious distraction and I finally ripped it off.

Since the design deficiency is my own, I'll not bother with a brand name. I'm told there are cyclists who swear by their helmet mirrors.

Filzer dZ4L Cycling Computer:

I gambled $16 on this baby, and I'm glad I did. It isn't a necessity for cyclists, unless they take their driving directions from Google Maps. But for those of us who wonder how fast we're going, and how far, this little gadget pays off in spades. It's a snap to mount (took me 45 minutes of consulting the instructions and attaching the gizmo to the appropriate spot on the bike). Negatives: it's impossible to read in the light of high noon; it, uh, can puncture the ego, somewhat (trips I thought were the equivalent of a spin to the Big Apple turned out to be only 16 kms).

Old Churches

2009-06-24T13:35:00.006-04:00

The countryside is dotted with old churches and schoolhouses, most of which have been converted into residences. Having spent some time in just such a structure, I can attest that there are some practical negatives that accompany the funky positives. These places are great for holding family gatherings, art shows and parties; they're lousy for holding in heat.

But I digress. They're very lovely to pedal past. Here's one such. I'm not sure of the denomination. The sign on the door seems to indicate there is still a congregation that meets there. Either that, or the denomination is putting in a minimum of maintenance to hold on to a heritage building. The bizarre eaves-trough configuration would seem to bear out the latter theory.

Over Hill, Over Dale...

2009-05-07T11:49:00.005-04:00

My route of choice just received a fresh drop of gravel and some grading. The Jake is built to withstand a hefty punishment, but it is not built to navigate through sand or gravel, so I took it down some unexplored roads (which have yet to receive a spring grooming).

One hill pretty much looks like the other when you're looking at it through a camera's viewfinder. It's a different story when you're pushing the pedals, of course. But I am gratified to see how quickly my aging bod is acclimatizing itself to the new regime.

Season's First Ride

2009-04-29T10:07:00.003-04:00

I finally released the Jake from the trainer and took it for this year's first ride on the gravel roads. I apologize for the lack of pictures, but the view hasn't changed much from last year.

The temptation during the first ride is to go ahead and see what's over the next hill. After all, I was fairly disciplined with my basement sessions: the legs and heart and lungs should all be up for it.

The ugly truth, however, is there will never ever ever be an indoor workout that matches the effort required out of doors. I kept the first ride to 20 minutes; I'm guessing my resting heart rate will return to me sometime before supper.

Major Tom as rendered by Shiny Toy Guns

2009-04-16T18:58:00.009-04:00

The other night as I dozed before the television set, I was suddenly struck with longing. I woke up, shook my head and realized what had hit me: some car company was employing a clever remake of Peter Schilling's Major Tom.

A little history: Peter Schilling was a contemporary of Nena's, both of whose management capitalized on that brief, surreal window in the 80s when "the New Wave" received a second, larger shot at life via video. "Major Tom" was Schilling's international hit, a song of desire, desolation and alienation (and, possibly, adultery and substance abuse) that was nearly undone by a goofy video.

It's a little unnerving to see kids these days take a shine to music I've almost completely forgotten, even though I once laced up my ALDO certified Italian shoes to dance to it. Unnerving, but also invigorating. I think Shiny Toy Guns gets the hunger at the core of "Major Tom." I won't be buying the car attached to the song, but I don't mind visiting their site and offering some scant info to get the "free" download. This is commercialism I can buy into.

Playing At Fitness

2009-04-13T07:51:00.012-04:00

This month's ish of Men's Health describes a fitness camp in the rain-forests of Brazil. It can be read online, but the link, unfortunately, doesn't include any of the photos in the magazine. Basically, campers (all male) pay to strip down to their surfer shorts and run around the jungle like they're Tarzan.

You could not pay me enough to join a group like that. First of all, I hate group exercise; I hate to exercise in front of anyone. Restricting the group to men is a further disincentive. Add the flaky element of "let's pretend" ("We're warriors!" "We're an elite corps of primates!" "We're all Tarzan!") and you've just described my idea of Hell.

And yet, and yet ... there is an aspect of "play" that I miss in my fitness routine (such as it is). Years ago I took an early morning Aikido class at the YMCA. I had mixed feelings about the experience which became decidedly un-mixed the morning I was dropped on my head by a Russian black-belt (silver lining: the Russian knew a terrific chiropractor). I didn't much enjoy the grappling, but I had nothing but love for the warm-up.

This consisted of breathing exercises, followed by stretching, followed by tumbling. It lasted about 12 minutes, and by the end of it the entire body felt ready for anything (short of being dropped on the head). The breathing and the stretching I can do easily enough on my own, but the tumbling is another matter. A large space is required, and floor mats are recommended. And to be honest, there is something thrilling about a group of 20 people hitting the floor in unison.

Hm. Maybe I need to start my own "fitness camp" (emphasis on camp -- second definition) in the verdant forests of Ontario?

Stem Research

2009-03-09T08:58:00.003-04:00

One of the locals asked if I wanted to join his cycling club. They're a bunch of guys whose median age is 44, who plow through a given stretch of woods when the moon is full. I thanked him for the invite, but turned him down. I would have jumped at the opportunity in my 20s; in my 40s it sounds like a short path to humiliation and serious injury.

My winter cycling consists of 15 minute stints on a magnetic resistance trainer, usually doing variations on sprints and only occasionally working a 20-plus minute aerobic spread (i.e., dying of boredom). Since I'm not climbing in and out of the saddle to navigate hilly terrain, I am discovering that the Jake is just a little long for my grasp: my shoulders and neck can get pretty stiff after the longer sessions. I'm hoping a shorter stem (7.5 cm, down from 10.5) will fix that problem.

The Power Toboggan

2009-01-26T06:47:00.011-05:00

The guy who fixed our roof came into the cafe the other day. He was trussed up in three different braces. I gaped. "What happened to you?"

"Aw, snowmobiling. I jumped over a driveway and landed wrong. Then the next guy landed on me."

So far as snowmobiles are concerned, my first impulse is to be a scold. They are very popular in this part of the world. On any day of the week we're likely to see a 14-year-old kid rip through town, well past the speed limit.

But I hold my tongue. I was 14 once, too. And I jumped at any chance to use the family snowmobile: a 1970 Arctic Cat Panther.

My youngest uncle persuaded my grandfather to drop money on this machine when it was still new. It was a noisy two-stroke monster that couldn't break 40 mph. It was heavy, and gallingly dependable. By the time my uncle left town for university, my grandfather was only too happy to let my family take the snowmobile off his yard. I was 12-years-old by then, and only too happy to give it a go on ours.

I had a couple of friends with similar machines. My father would drop me and the snowmobile off at the outskirts of town, and off I'd go with my buds, cutting trails into acres of pristine snow. I also had friends with newer, snazzier, faster machines, but for some reason I never got together with them.

My love affair with snowmobiling began to cool as I grew older. The trouble started one Saturday when my father took me on a tour of snowmobile dealerships. We had no interest in actually buying anything -- we were just curious to see what was on the market. The long and short of it was that for a few thousand unavailable dollars we could purchase a lighter machine capable of reaching speeds in excess of 100 mph.

Also, it wouldn't be too much longer before I turned 16 and could drive a real vehicle -- one with over 350 cubic inches and eight cylinders under the hood. The snowmobile, seemingly in tune with my fickle affections, began to act up. If I pushed the accelerator, she responded only to a point, then cut out and died.

We took it to mechanics. We took apart the carburetor and replaced all the gaskets and aeration screws. We propped the rear on a cinder block and fiddled with the carburetor settings for hours. Nothing seemed to work.

For a while I could ride it at half-throttle, but before too long she wouldn't let me coax her past a quarter-throttle. My younger sister wanted a tobogganing/snowmobile birthday party, and I was enlisted as the designated rider. I ferried eight-year-old girls around the tobogganing hill and through a copse of poplars. The girls seemed pleased with the experience, but beneath my balaclava I burned with shame as cross-country skiers glided effortlessly past me.

I don't remember how the snowmobile finally disappeared from our yard. I expect my father sold her, and passed the money back to his father. The fact that this event didn't even register on my personal radar indicates just how out of love I was with the "sport."

Still am, really. I think these things are a blight on our landscape and a menace to our ecosystem -- possibly even to our survival as a species.

But I have to admit: it was fun at the time.

"Mambo Italiano" -- Rosemary Clooney

2009-01-13T20:47:00.003-05:00

What a gorgeous woman.

"Mambo Italiano" was today's randomizer pick, a peppy little novelty song that owes all its sexy snap to the young Rosemary Clooney's cheerful abandon. It depresses me a little to think she had to trot it out for audiences when she was an older woman. It's like asking the older, "Is That All There Is?" Peggy Lee to sing "How Much Is That Doggy In The Window?" But Clooney was an entertainer and a pro; if the song had become tedious to her she never let on.

So I'll amend my former declaration to: What a woman.

"Innocent" Ears

2008-12-10T09:49:00.005-05:00

You said you'd always love me
You said you'd be my friend
You had your fingers crossed
You stuck it to me in the end

Innocence ... it's all you'll ever plead

Ah, Harlequin ... rescuing the pride of Winnipeg rockers in the 80s!

Burton Cummings was flying solo; The Guess Who were done; BTO was on the verge of paying the principal on the "Overdrive" ... what were the odds a Winnipeg band would ever pull us back into the arena for a rockin' good time?

The guitar-based, synth-friendly Harlequin accomplished that very stunt with mullet-coiffed élan.

Last night I was walkin'
And I, I saw you with my friend again
And you weren't both talking
Least I don't try to pretend

Yesterday as I wheezed to the melody it occurred to me that "innocence" was pretty much required from the listener for this song to work its magic. When I was 15 this was just the song to get me roller-skating: at the time, the odds of witnessing the object of my desire holding hands with any one of my friends were actually pretty good -- better, in fact, than my own. Now, almost 30 years later, this sort of song with its stilted lyrics would prompt me to switch stations.

In fact, it didn't take 30 years for my taste in music to change. The next track chosen by the randomizer was "Dirty Pool" by Stevie Ray Vaughn & Double Trouble. Same subject matter, better execution and only three short years' difference between 'em.

Post-Q Thoughts

2008-12-03T08:42:00.008-05:00

CBC Radio One is an example of our tax-dollars being put to the best possible use in a given medium, and Q, as hosted by Jian Ghomeshi, is the cream of the crop. It may be "lighter" in content than Ideas, but it is every bit as thought-provocative. Consider the Nov 27 show (pod) which features back-to-back interviews with Gene Simmons and David Foster. Simmons has taken it upon himself to save the Canadian record industry; Foster took off for LA to become the hit-maker of the 80s and 90s.

Two impressions from the show:

(1) I don't know how this happens, but despite the fact that Simmons should be the dreariest (if not loathsome) personality on the planet, I end up (as ever) quite charmed by his performance. I'm not sure what he's likely to accomplish in his latest gambit, but I suppose we owe him at least some credit for the longevity of RUSH: Geddy Lee has said that opening for KISS in the 70s was all the education RUSH needed to survive. Lee & Co. saw firsthand that while the other KISS members were partying and packing their faces with drugs, Simmons was mostly sober and fastidiously working the business (when he wasn't, erm, "working" the groupies).

(2) In the musical component of the Foster interview, Foster off-handedly says he had to "do the math" before approaching the piano -- a statement that spoke volumes to me. I was a disaster at math all through my primary education. For reasons that still elude me, that all changed in my 30s. And music, at least as it is appreciated in the West, is chiefly a mathematical exercise: it can be basic math like Hank Williams and KISS, or it can be the more complex stuff like late Coltrane, or Branford Marsalis. Either way, the performer abandons rigor and structure at his (or her) own peril.

Addendum: There is a subtext to these conversations that I think is worth making explicit. Ghomeshi was, in a former life, one of the front-men for Moxy Früvous (w). I was loitering in the Toronto music scene back in the day when Ghomeshi's band was sharing the stage with The Barenaked Ladies. At the time I was sure Moxy Früvous would soar to much greater heights than the Ladies: when they both participated in public workshops, MF would improvise songs that were catchier, cleverer and funnier than TBL. MF eventually cultivated a respectable "college" crowd. As for the Ladies, well ....

Anyway, when Ghomeshi challenges Simmons on his notion of how Canadian musicians need to change the challenge arises from his history as a performer. I'm sure he has some trenchant thoughts re: the desirability and nature of fame and fortune. I'd love to hear him expound, but this show is not his platform -- he is only its able host.

Whither The (Male) Jazz Singer?

2008-11-23T13:29:00.008-05:00

"A Lot Of Livin' To Do" as performed by Sammy Davis Jr. came up today, and it got me wondering: where are the male jazz singers? I could name a dozen living female jazz singers, but the first and only male name that comes to mind is Michael Bublé -- a singer who, like Diana Krall, I have little use for, and thus hesitate to acknowledge as being in the "jazz" camp.

Then again, had I been a little more sentient when he was alive I might have been reluctant toward Sammy, too.

Sammy gets the jazz award in hindsight. The guy had some kind of attitude when it came to music. Where other people might try something, he DID it. In fact he often did something he wasn't asked to do -- like give Nixon a hug -- but even that earns him hindsight kudos. Bang bang, daddy-o.

The Groove That Saved The Song That Saved My Life

2008-11-20T06:36:00.004-05:00

Today's exercise with the randomizer produced two tracks with simple but delightful grooves that generate their own electricity:

"It's A Long Way To The Top (If You Wanna Rock 'n' Roll)" -- AC/DC
"Found A Job" -- Talking Heads

"Long Way" is one of those rock songs that gets me nudging the volume knob a touch higher, to give it "that extra push over the cliff." What's the attraction? Other than bagpipes, nothing more than a stripped-down Chuck Berry groove that just won't quit. It's not just my favorite AC/DC song, it's my favorite AC/DC video as well: Bon the Falstaffian clown is still alive, and the other four are young enough to throw everything they've got into making a "concert" on a flatbed truck look like it's a heap of fun. And did I forget to mention the bagpipes?

The "Long Way" riff is the easiest thing for a first-time guitar-player to learn, which gives it an instant nostalgia factor. The groove the propels Talking Heads' "Found A Job" is similarly straight-forward -- two bar-chords, A7 and D7 -- but physically trickier to master. In fact, the dexterity it requires never really occurred to me until I saw David Byrne strumming it on his Strat in the movie. His strumming wrist is as fluid as the rest of his body, making it all look very easy -- for him. That visual memory of Byrne's rhythmic panache adds to the song's groove. It's also got funny lyrics that seem to have pretty much become the stock and trade of this world-wide web we're on.

The other song courtesy of the randomizer was The Kinks' "Destroyer." Nothing particularly groovy about that tune, but I've always admired the band's audacity, harnessing new lyrics to a former top-ten hit ("All Day And All Of The Night") and nearly getting the same slot 15 years later.

Cycling With A Zombie

2008-11-17T08:25:00.005-05:00

The recent snowfall has forced me to move the Jake indoors again. I very much prefer the road to the trainer, but I know from personal experience what a terrible toll salted roads take on a bicycle -- even one with an aluminum frame. The one benefit to indoor pedaling: listening to music and podcasts.

I went with music yesterday, and the randomizer kicked out:

"The Great American Nightmare" -- Rob Zombie
"LA Is Where I Belong" -- Peachfuzz
"Manteca" -- Dizzy Gillespie/Funky Lowlives Remix
"The Man Without Fear" -- Drowning Pool, with Rob Zombie

As my late father-in-law was fond of quoting, "The lines have fallen for me in pleasant places!" I have a rather soft spot in my heart for Mr. Zombie. My first exposure to his vocal stylings was at the closing of Daredevil. I was staring at the screen, trying to put my finger on how a movie could be so true to its source material and yet feel so soulless, when Drowning Pool came on with their cascading guitar riff, stopped, waited for Zombie's shout: "GO!!" I actually laughed and clapped my hands when it was over. Then I got to my feet and bought the soundtrack. Then I bought Past, Present & Future. After years of dismissing Metal as witless and stoopid, I was now thoroughly charmed by its witless stupidity.

This really was the perfect soundtrack for comic books. For the next few years after that moment, whenever I took the girls tobogganing they could be counted on to cheer, "C'MON, C'MON, C'MON -- DAREDEVIL!!" Now they can be counted on to roll their eyes, and request a change to Mama Mia.

Yes, well: two -- or more -- can play at the eye-rolling game.

Random Tracks

2008-10-23T12:36:00.002-04:00

The randomizer chose some surprisingly heavy tracks, considering this was a "light"* day for me:

"Bon Temps Rouler" -- T Bone Burnett
"Sweet Child Of Mine" -- Guns n' Roses
"The Criminal Inside Me" -- R.L. Burnside

The session did conclude on a light note:

"Everybody Wants Everything" -- Carolyn Arends

Post-mortem: I only have three GnR tracks on my player, but they come up with such frequency I'm thinking of pulling them. Have to admit, however, that Slash knew what it took to build a rock 'n' roll guitar solo. His playing on this track is elemental, sure, but it works brilliantly within the song's structure.

The randomizer also seems to like R.L. Burnside. I do too, for the most part. A friend was playing A Ass-Pocket Of Whiskey at a party. Someone asked him what he thought of Burnside. "He sounds like Robert Johnson screaming from the depths of Hell," said my friend.

The questioner was taken aback. "I kind of like Burnside," he said.

I guess the questioner missed the note of admiration in my friend's assessment.

Some months back I rented and watched Black Snake Moan chiefly because the filmmaker (Craig Brewer) cited Burnside as the basis for Samuel Jackson's character. The film is unintentionally risible in spots, but not without value: Sam Jackson communicates exactly why playing filthy blues in a juke-joint is the sole means of his salvation. Not many films do a good job of capturing that quality: at the moment, The Commitments is the only other flick that comes to mind.

Random Tracks

2008-10-18T15:20:00.004-04:00

"Tush" -- ZZ Top
"I'm Bad, I'm Nationwide" -- ZZ Top
"Gone Gone Gone" -- Robert Plant & Alison Krauss
"Best Of My Love" -- The Commodores
"Take On Me" -- a-ha
"Someday I Will Kill You" -- Supersuckers

The inclusion of a-ha was a bit of a buzz-kill. Jet Li contends that happy music inspires better work-outs. "Take On Me" qualifies as a "happy song," but none of the (entirely pleasant) memories it conjures add to my iron-heaving will-power. Quite the opposite, really. Thank God for the Supersuckers.

Other songs: Chuck Klosterman once proposed that we respond to and remember bits of songs, as oppose to their whole. He enumerated several such bits -- the bagpipes in "It's A Long Way To The Top (If You Want To Rock 'n' Roll)" by AC/DC was the only one I remember. I think this theory, like so many he throws on paper, is half-baked but whimsical enough to stir the magazine reader's imagination. Suspending my criticism for a second longer, I'll propose that the cymbal work in "Gone Gone Gone" by Robert Plant & Alison Krauss is another such "bit." Remarkable how such a simple bit of "tic-tic-tic TSH-TSH-TSH-TSH TSH-TSH-TSH-TSH" gets the blood surging.

Thanksgiving Monday, 1:15 - 2:50

2008-10-13T15:40:00.009-04:00

In a dry-heave clench of post-Thanksgiving remorse, I pulled a double-shift in exercise. First, the Random Tracks:

"Twist" -- Tones On Tail
"Goodbye Stranger" -- Supertramp
"Country Home" -- Neil Young & Crazy Horse

Then it was off to Wilfred. The song in my head on the way there was "One Long Saturday Night" by BR5-49.

Say, could you point me to the Interesting Music Shoppe?

Closed, of course. Actually, the owner is an avid cyclist -- we talk more about bikes than we do about guitars -- so I suspect he's doing what I'm doing, probably somewhere up the Bruce Trail.

Even with my father-in-law in the hospital, this year's Thanksgiving was an absolute delight in contrast to last year's. The song in my head for the journey home: "What A Good Year For The Roses" -- Elvis Costello.

Random Tracks

2008-10-09T12:31:00.002-04:00

A "heavy" day generates a longer list of random selected tracks. My player took it easy on me today, indulging in only a pinch of nostalgia.

"Hero Of Nineteen Eighty Three" -- Peachfuzz
"Damn My Soul" -- Supersuckers
"Immigrant Song" -- Led Zeppelin
"Where's Your Boyfriend At" -- The Yayhoos
"Like A Rocket" -- Reverend Horton Heat
"Fishin' In The Muddy" -- Gurf Morlix
"Gospel Plow" -- Jason & The Scorchers

Gee, after a tracklist like this I wonder why I'm thirsty for a beer?

Tuesday, 1:05 - 2:00

2008-10-07T16:22:00.000-04:00

The Manilla Valley was one of my father-in-law's favorite sights in the Fall. Whenever I was a passenger in their car and we were passing the valley I could expect the old man to slow down to a crawl, the better to take in the view (and incite drivers behind us to road rage).

Looking at the pictures I've taken I can't get over how inert and pedestrian they are. There are good and bad ways to take landscape shots. These aren't bad, really, just ... there.

Alright, I'll admit it: the above shot is bad.

But then it's also a rare landscape that lends itself to dramatic photos. I suspect most landscapes incite a sense of drama via our capacity to move through them. Perhaps video is the better way to capture some of their emotional impact.

My father-in-law is a preoccupation because his health is very frail. He's been in the hospital for the last four weeks, and administrative staff have made it clear they cannot release him to anything but a long-term care facility. He has said he would rather die, and his body and spirit show every indication that this will be the likely outcome. He alone has emotional clarity in this matter.

Random Tracks: "This Is Me In Grade 11!"

2008-10-06T09:25:00.000-04:00

A "light" day, so the track list is short (BTW, I'm serious about "light" -- the bar has 12 1/2 pounds on it):

"Burnin' For You" -- Blue Öyster Cult
"Photograph" -- Def Leppard
"Directory Assistance" -- Barnabas
"Roll With The Changes" -- REO Speedwagon

The randomizer was in a nostalgic mood, it seems. Just looking at this list is enough to bring out a rash of facial acne. The Def Lep was the most difficult track to endure, but BÖC and Barnabas were genuine delights. "Burnin' For You" in particular stirred an olfactory memory: the smell of my buddy's Plymouth Duster, an old but reliable slant-six he drove for five or six years. That car had a dusty smell that actually seemed to get worse when the weather was rainy. I recall spending a weekend with him and his cousin, and driving that car through a prairie storm of apocalyptic proportions that brought out all the frogs. Just cruising from Winnipeg to Headingley we must have mowed down 1000 frogs. It just seemed of a piece with the panoply of weirdness that constituted our late adolescence in the early 80s.

Later that night the three of us sat on the front porch, sipping "Pic-a-Pop" as we watched the lightning roll southwest. We didn't have a clue about anything, which was just as well for all concerned. What little knowledge we did possess only got us into trouble.

Thursday, 11:35-12:20

2008-10-02T12:54:00.000-04:00

The bridge permitting entrance/exit at the east side of town has finally reopened. I figured lunch time was probably the best time to court disaster with gravel truck drivers and young yahoos driving half-tonnes. Any later and alcohol invariably becomes a factor.

I've avoided the highway to the east of us, and my reasons for doing so were confirmed when I finally traveled it. It is every bit as busy as the highway to the west of us, but it is not so well maintained. The apron to this highway is slighter than the apron to the western highway; it is also a shambles.

I spent the first 25 minutes riding on the left side of that white line -- NOT my preference. Whenever I heard a vehicle come up behind me I resorted to the gravel shoulder. Some spots were treacherously soft. No wipe-outs, and I eventually attained the Manilla Valley.

Vurrey purty, 'n' all, but I think the next time I'll attempt this trip is on a late Sunday morning when traffic is slight and I can chance an extended loop to the south, west, north and back east into town.

Over 400 Tracks To Choose From, And "Random" Gave Me This:

2008-10-02T08:58:00.000-04:00

"Monkey With A Gun" -- The Yayhoos
"Snake Drive" -- R.L. Burnside
"Treat Me Right" -- Pat Benatar
"Holy Roller Novocaine" -- The Kings Of Leon
"Kick The Chair" -- Megadeth
"Brother, Where Are You?" -- Oscar Brown, Jr., Matthew Herbert Remix
"Rock Your Ass" -- The Supersuckers

"Brother Where Are You?" came on twice. I suppose if my player is trying to tell me anything it's that I could stand to substitute slower music for some of my, um, harsher tracks.

(Reluctantly) Pumping Iron

2008-10-01T20:22:00.000-04:00

The year I turned 38 was also the year of my very last killer workout routine (this one). I heaved and hoed, and bent myself in unusual shapes in hopes of getting unusual results. And, in fact, the results were impressive -- perhaps more impressive on the bar than they were on my bod, but impressive nonetheless.

As I was taking note of the new records I was setting, the penny slowly dropped: this was as good as I was going to get. Ever. Oh, I could take another stab at it after a two-month lay-off, perhaps paying stricter attention to my diet, but I knew there were aspects in which I had reached my physical limit. My elbows were especially clear on this matter: when it came to that hallmark of masculine oomph, the bench-press, I wasn't up for any further "progress."

When I finished the program, I took a break. The break grew longer than I'd intended, but eventually I dragged myself back into the garage and went through a few routines. And that's roughly what my "pumping iron" amounts to these days: a basic routine that gets the blood flowing and keeps the dust from settling in my joints. Ideally I do this twice a week, with one day heavier than the other. Most workouts last 15-20 minutes; I never break 30.

Five years on, this "program" has succeeded in keeping me fit enough to rake leaves in the fall and sand in the spring. It also allows me the chance to listen to workout music, which leads to my next posting...

Sunday Morning, 8:35 - 10:00 a.m.

2008-09-28T12:03:00.000-04:00

Cloudy and cool after last night's hard rain. For the first ten minutes of the ride I wondered if my shorts and T-shirt were warm enough, but my body temperature climbed and I was grateful not to be burdened with the hoody.

After a summer of near continuous rain the dirt sideroads have become treacherous for cycling. The roads are washboard rough; the shoulders so soft they absorb and stop a skinny-tired bicycle like the Jake. And so I resort to paved roads -- not my first choice, but really quite fine for an early Sunday morning (no gravel trucks).

It's been over a week since I last hit the road. By exceeding an hour in the saddle I run the risk of pushing my body a little too hard, but it is the right thing to do. There is a level of anxiety that does not get worked out of the body until I hit the one-hour mark. I read in Saturday's Globe & Mail that there were over 300,000 foreclosures in the United States just this August. That's roughly the population of the Winnipeg of my youth (1970s). It's just the beginning, of course. Throw in a presidential run that defies even-tempered analysis and I wonder if an hour and a half will do the trick.

But it does. Then it's off to church, and back home to type this up as I listen to the last 30 minutes of Darko's show. Sundays were made for this.