Terrestrial Transport Twenty-Twelve

Now, I believe we’ve come the point in the continuation of this blog, where it has become salient to give apposite recognition to those who have taken upon themselves to support the journey of your faithful author. To put it less eloquently, it’s time for a sponsor shout-out. At this point I imagine most readers to be rapidly backtracking their search engine as quickly as manual dexterity and broadband width permits, or perhaps smiling smugly to a friend or significant other, whilst rubbing thumb and forefinger together in a rudimentary evocation of a cashed-up, soul selling, bean counter.

However, a college recent informed me that many of the pundits out there are quite interested in the brand of choice that the ITU cognoscenti wield, and despite that the same persons arsenal of ‘facts’ included also confided that ‘3 out of 4 domestic dogs are racist’, I’ll choose to take his former information on board, whilst leaving the latter to further cognation. 

So without further ado, welcome to Terrestrial Transport 2012, a very indebted encapsulation of the premier constituents of my land-based endeavors for this year. 

Cannondale EVO. Unbelievable new rig providing a superlative juxtaposition of stiffness and light weight. For comparison purposes, the bike weighs roughly as much as the beverages placed alongside. (Note: Not currently endorsed by the beverage company in question, inquiries are welcome, I’m a Sprite Zero man myself)

Brooks. Diesels to the right, Premium Unleaded to the left. Effort put into the ‘Diesel's’ usually produces a linear equation to the velocity of the ‘Premiums’.

That'll do for now. Look for more plugs than a sink factory in blogs to come…

Take care friends,

Willy

Sleep High, Train Slow, Part Three: The Return Of The Tenting

Welcome friends, as another trivial post edges us closer to the commencement of the season. If any communiqué upon the grapevine is to be heeded there has been a change of training among the majority of athletes, eyeing off the start of the season like an appetizing, yet challenging sized meal. If the introduction of copious amounts of intensity into respective programs has been anything like mine, then one can rest easy in the knowledge many athletes in the triathlon coterie share my current hobbies of whinging about sore muscles, swearing at my calves at the start of each run, and every now and again, completely blowing up.

The last few weeks have seen myself somewhat imitate a wandering vagrant, sampling the training wares on offer at both the AIS HQ on the Gold Coast, and the open water mecca of the Sunshine Coast, featuring the dry wit of Mitch Kealey, and the wet deluge of Mudjimba respectively. 

Capping off my parody of a wayfaring vagabond, I’ve put the icing on the proverbial cake by assuming my position on top of Mt Brendale once again, with the oxygen depriving help of the altitude tent. Those of you not cognisant with my penchant for indoor tenting, can make themselves conversant with my situation in this preceding post.  

Thus deeming myself a veteran of the hypoxic home, allow me to indulge myself by passing on a few tips for anyone planning such domicile modification in the future. 

• Turn off any ceiling fans prior to assembling tent, lest you inadvertently commence a game of what I like to call ‘Tent Pole Pinata’
• Eradicate garlic, chilli, prunes and baked beans from your diet. The tent is small, and airflow negligible. Enough said. 
• Mental approach to spending idle time in the tent is crucial. Playing the harmonica, or throwing a baseball against the wall aka ‘The Great Escape’ leads to a negative mind-frame, and a more arduous sentence board.
• Leaving a trail of M&M’s leading into the tent provides the sometimes necessary encouragement to enter ‘lockdown’ that extra 30 mins earlier of an evening. 
• Explaining to my (or potentially ‘your’) still-perplexed ‘civilian’ housemates the indoor tent’s function as a cure for acute agoraphobia, is slightly easier than a physiological based explanation.
• Imagining a graceful dive into the small slit to enter the tent, and practical implementation of such a dive, result in two completely different final scenarios.  

My elaborate accommodation will last until 10 days out from the Oceania Champs down in Devonport, my first major race of Season 2012. Before then, chances are I’ll have a hit out at a local USM race, which could possibly lead to a Wideos With Wilson feature, which is sure to excite the many pundits out there...

Take care friends,

Willy

Hear My Rain A Comin'

Welcome friends, this edition of the blogzine comes from the semi aquatic locale of Brisbane, currently firmly in the grips of a incessant deluge. Indeed, short of Kevin Costner riding past on a jet-ski, the Boroughs of the South East are beginning to resemble the set of Waterworld, and has led to a largely indoor lifestyle rife with boredom and restlessness. Again, much like Kevin’s work in Waterworld. 

Fortunately, the precipitation has not put too much of a dampener (pun intended) on training. Obviously, the only difference in swim training has been to resist the urge to tell the most obvious joke in the world prior to training (‘Looks like we’ll be getting wet today...’). Bike sessions have been divided between squinting into the rain on the road, and squinting at my dwindling wattage on the wind-trainer, both methods of which are beneficial for the legs, but not the ego. The effects on running routes are significant, but the sessions minimal, the only difference being allowing for the 20 minutes of standing in the dry doorway, before finally stepping on the the wet pavement prior to commencing bipedal activity.  

The major effects have been felt on leisure activities, as the inundation of precipitation has led to activities involving a roof. Thus, time not training has been spent: 

• Checking weather.com for forecasts
• Holding a hand outside to confirm such forecasts
• Gratuitous sport watching (Tennis/Cricket/Cycling/SurfIronman/Waterpolo*)
• Pacing up and down the hallway, pausing to look out the window at each pass
• Checking weather.com again
• Annoying the neighbors by inexpertly playing some electric guitar, content in the knowledge they won’t brave the rain to tell me to either cease or get some lessons
• Adjusting the pedestal fan attempting to dry my bevy of sodden running shoes in the garage
• Flinching at the overwhelming olfactory cannonade of pure dampness upon entering the garage
• Repeating the above upon entering The Gurgler (my car)
• Collecting goggles and togs for swim set
• Collecting goggles and togs for bike set
• Collecting goggles and togs for run set
• Dissatisfied with the forecasts on weather.com, checking weatherchannel.com instead, but swearing upon reading their decidedly more forbidding prophecy
• Finally, devoid of further procrastination, sitting at a typewriter to write a caviling blog about how tough it is to have slightly wet clothes for a change. 

*Originally planned as polo, but the rain has altered the format)

Which brings me up to date. Time to post this, then straight to weather.com, followed by more pacing. I’m including the hallway pacing in my weekly kms this week.

Take care, friends,

Willy

A Preview Of Coming Attractions...

Welcome friends, to a landmark iteration of the chronicling of consequence-less occurrence. The forthcoming video represents a toothsome hors d'oeuvre for the season to some, in which I hope to take you onboard to sample some training and racing sessions throughout the season. Rest easy, fans of pettifogging publication, the bulk of the blog will still consist of the mindless, literary-based waffle you have come to know, and perhaps love, over the course of this sites lifespan. For now, put away the thesaurus and sink your teeth into a teaser sample of things to come this season....

Take care friends,

Willy

Memoirs Of An Insignificant Tuesday

Inspired by fellow athlete and long time collaborator Clayton Fettell’s superlative documentary, and showing a flagrant disregard for blatant conceptual plagiarism, I present to you a day spent plying my trade. The day detailed is Tuesday of this week, bearing no particular relevance or significance aside from the idle ruminations dictated forthwith. Hardly a day bereft of training, however I felt the detailing a recovery day spent wearing boxer shorts around the house and eating peanut butter from a finger dipped straight in the jar was best left to a future pictorial. 

The alarm goes off at 4:45, and I commence what I envisage is planned in my head as a neat Commando Roll off the bed, but what in execution probably could be more accurately described as a Wounded Commando Roll. I clutch a sore calf, grumble at my tired arms, and rub the sleep out of my eyes and check the window, which reveals a spectacular day in our preeminent Brisbane climate. I briefly revisit my suspicions that my roommates have swapped my window for a photograph of a pleasant horizon, a hunch founded by getting rained on 5 minutes into many rides whilst wearing sleeveless jerseys chosen due to the view from my ‘window’. Either that, or my housemates still wonder why I claim ‘It’s nice out!’, whilst looking at a painting.

A perfunctory ingestion of some toast and coffee, and I jump in the Falcon, or The Gurgler as it’s more infamously hailed, a car whose history deserves a blog post all of it’s own. It’s front bumper is currently fastened by the use of a google strap and an elastic shoelace, derived from some ingenuity and on-the-fly maintenance fashioned in a tight spot. The petrol alarm protests the distinct lack of unleaded in the tank, and I briefly entertain the thought of giving it a can of Pepsi Max from the fridge to get me to the pool, but fortunately sanity prevails (It’s sugar-free, no fuel anyway...)

I sneak in a quick post-metal track on the way to the pool, so by the time I’m on deck the blood is starting to flow, and I’m ready for the two pre-swim rituals of a little dry-land work, and annoying my training partners. So a few activation exercises and a few pokes of Boxy with a broomstick, and by 5:30 everyones ready to swim. We’re hosted this morn by the Lawton swim squad, headlined by Aussie Open Water juggernaught Trent Grimsey. Today’s set is a 6km kick/pull set, much to my chagrin, as my kick is about as useful as a steak-knife at a vegan’s dinner party. And so I spend a few k’s getting thumped, then pull back a few ego points by giving a reasonable account of myself for the pull segment of the session.

Back in The Gurgler, and once again the petrol alarm squeals, and my hand strays to a Powerade bottle, but I resist the temptation and kid myself that I’ll get up 5 mins earlier tomorrow to fill up. Over a hearty breakfast of fruit, yogurt, cereal and coffee, I check a few emails, watch the ABC morning news, and, lacking any triathlon-related ruminations, tweet a unconvincing pun instead. After one last coffee, I assemble my riding paraphernalia, forgetting my powerbar, sunscreen up, and have one more coffee for good luck. Quickly checking the starting lineup for the Celtics NBA game, I’m confident my favorite team can shut down the Wizards, providing Rondo provides strong perimeter defense on John Wall. So, after another cup of coffee (just in case) it’s just before 10 am and I mount my trusty steed and roll out to meet my fellow comrades of aerobic endeavor. Due to personnel situations containing varying degrees of fiction, it’s a small bunch, with only Drew Box and Emma Jackson signing on. It’s windier than a bathroom at a Baked Bean convention, and we head towards Bribie Island, and swap stories at first, and then turns on the front with Boxy as we punch out a solid pace out to Bribie and back. It’s over 30 C, and I’m sweating like a claustrophobic in a closet. 4 hours later, the watch says 2 pm, the SRM says 124 km, my brain says ‘That’ll do Wilson’, my legs nod in agreement, and satisfied with the majority vote, both brain and legs stop cycling and put the Cannondale to rest for another day. 

Note: File Photo, that is neither Boxy nor Jacko. I was sucking wheel the whole ride though. 

I politely greet my housemates as I enter the house, but in my fatigued state it comes out as “Whgnd hsunt dotnn!’, and, failing to explain myself further, I cleanse myself expeditiously and morph into a Consumer of Mass Destruction, laying waste to a previously well stocked fridge. I allow myself a fist pump as I read news of a Celtic victory, and indulge in a second fist pump as I see Australia has bowled out India on Day 1 of the 2nd Test. By the time I’m nourished to my satisfaction, I postulate that my body could use some TLC, and so I throw some music on the headphones, and spend some time making faces, much to my housemates amusement, whilst in various states of trigger point. Once my body has been absolved of tight areas, I poorly improvise a few riffs on the guitar, stare at the pantry with far too much thoughtfulness, and then let out a small yelp of surprise when I realise it’s 4:45 pm, and time to catalyse my running preparations.

There’s a few efforts on the agenda for the afternoon, so my soundtrack on the Shuffle gravitates to a fartlek staple of Spite Extreme Wing, music it’s impossible not to run (or at least attempt to) fast to. The session I’ve subscribed to is an hour with 2 x 8min efforts, and in the interests of warding of velocity induced depression, I turn off the Garmin’s speed sensor, and make heart rate my cynosure. Given that my legs initially feel as heavy as a Amish toolkit, this might prove to be a wise choice. However, with a little more warm up, and some extra help from Spite Extreme Wing, the legs start to emulate my mind, and I punch out some decent efforts at around 170 BPM, then cruise home to clock off for a solid day ‘In the Office’. 

Gratified with the knowledge I had made surfeit of dinner last night, thus affording myself the night off cooking, I grant myself one last fist pump for the day, but get busted by my housemate, and make a feeble attempt to disguise it as scratching myself. Slightly embarrassed, I eat a quick meal, then retire to savor an episode of delightful political satire, courtesy of the Brits behind In The Thick Of It. Then, absolutely shattered, I hit the lights at the stroke of 8:43, and quietly fade out for the night to sound of the greatest album ever recorded, Neurosis’s The Eye Of Every Storm

The Stats:

Time Training: 7 hrs

Swim: 6 km

Bike: 124 km

Run: 14 km

Fist Pumps: 2.5

Petrol Left In The Gurgler: 100 mls

Coffee: Surplus

...and that’s a normal day. What else would you rather do for a living?

Take care friends,

Willy

Another Year In The Theme Park Of Life

Squires and wenches, on behalf of all the staff here at Word’s with Wilson (I do the writing, and my brain comes up with the ideas, so that’s two of us), I’d like to take the forthcoming numerological progression of humanities chronology to wish you all the best for the forthcoming year.

On a personal note, I’ll be doing my utmost to ensure I spend 2012 spending less time imitating a rugby touch judge (i.e. On the sidelines), and more time imitating a geometry professor (i.e. Testing my shape)

So, take care, and enjoy your 2012. Enjoyment is exemplified in Exhibit A. Although I can understand if many of you don’t get as animated about long rides, Boost bars, danishes and Pepsi Max, as Boxy and I do. Nevertheless, my point remains elucidated.

Take care friends,

Willy

Exhibit A

3 Weeks In The Life...

Further to the preceding rambling narrative detailing life on training camp, click here to check out a superlative video, courtesy of Sam ‘David Attenborough’ Betten. I'm the one with the big yellow helmet on the bike, the big yellow swim cap in the pool, and the big head of hair when running.