Author Archives: Andrew

I Did It!

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And you should too.  On Wednesday, the van from Canadian Blood Services pulled up outside work and loaded six of us up for a trip to the donation clinic.  Among the group were three first-time donors, including me.

I hadn’t given it much thought when I signed up to go.  Seemed like an appropriate thing to do and courtesy of a left-turning driver, a yellow light, rain-slicked roads and a motorcycle I was riding, I’d been the beneficiary of their services in the past.  Plus, I couldn’t think of any excuse not to go.

Once in the van, I started getting nervous as I wondered how I would react – would I be weak and dizzy?  Would I faint?  Would it hurt?  Would I do it properly?  I’m not sure how you can give blood improperly but ego is a funny thing isn’t it.  Upon arrival we were signed up and ushered into the iron-check – “your iron is excellent – enough to take from both arms” they joked.  Apparently I’m getting my share of red meat.

On to the medical history and ahem “behaviour” questions – ever used illegal IV drugs, ever used illegal IV steroids, ever traded money or food for sex, ever had sex with someone in exchange for money or food, ever had sex with a man – even once…  Now, I understand – I think – why they ask that last one, but I couldn’t help wondering if that applied to women too?  At the end of the questions, they give you a face-saving out.  Some people don’t feel they can be honest on the questionnaire or they’re feeling pressured to donate blood even though they feel they can’t for reasons we’ve discussed.  I’ll leave the room, you take sticker from this sheet from either the “yes” or “no” bar codes and stick it on the form, then throw the bar code paper in the trash so nobody sees it.  Nobody can tell what you’ve selected until the form is scanned during testing.  You’ll still donate blood, but if you’ve selected”no”, your blood will be tested and then destroyed. 

Admirable understanding of human nature, peer pressure and the need for some people to keep a secret.  Brilliant on their part.  Being a relatively boring sort in a fashion, I had no reason not to donate and found myself ushered into a donation chair in short order.  I tried to relax but there’s just something about needles.  It’s one thing when @captdrlarry sticks a needle in your mouth so he can get to work rectifying the damage I’ve self-inflicted.  I’ve had my share of needles in the hospital for various and sundry – again – self-inflicted damage and yet I was still finding myself a bit hyped up.

I turned my head when she brought the needle out, not able to watch it going in.  The logical side was certain it wouldn’t hurt but the rest of me was not sure how it was going to stay in the chair.  POKE!  Oh ow!  Okay – that hurt more than the logician expected…I look – ah, well that’s why – it’s not a needle like I’m familiar with.  It’s a bit larger, say like the size of a gas pump nozzle.  Okay maybe a little smaller – but it looked big – and stout – enough to inflate a basketball.  I noticed the clear tubing on the end of the needle was still clear.  Odd.  “Oh…oh shoot, I’m sorry, I’ve missed.  Darn…we’re going to have to try the other arm.“  Ha!  Do that again?  You must be kidding.  “Is that going to be okay – can we try the other one?”  “No problem!” I heard someone say in my voice, while my face broke into an autopilot smile.  I thought you were kidding about taking from both arms.

2nd time’s the charm it seems and I finished up in a little over 6 minutes, little band-aids in both elbows.  Not wanting to risk any adverse side-effects, I availed myself the Oreos, Fudgeos, creme-filled cookies with the red jelly dot centers and an orange juice.  And a granola bar.  Have to make sure the blood sugar is up!  Nothing to do with a sweet tooth…honest.

There it was, all done.  In fairness, the momentary pain of the needle was nothing to be worked up about and they were quick to point out that my little donation could save a life.  How cool is that?  How can you not donate?

They did warn me before we left – no heavy lifting or strenuous activity for 6 to 8 hours.  “Uhm…I rode my bicycle to work today” I said, not pointing out that Adam, who was the first to sign up for donating, had also ridden his.  They smiled and laughed.  “No, really – I rode my bike to work – that’s how I commute”.  No laughing.  “Hmmm….how far?”  “15km”.  “Hmmm…you should be okay.  Just take it easy and get a ride if you need to”. Sure.  Thing is, you don’t know if you’re going to need a ride until…well…you’re already committed and out there, do you?

www.blood.ca

Biggerexia

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This post was started in September of 2011.  It’s a bit more personal than normal, hence the delay in it’s completion and publication.

Bigorexia. Biggerxia. Body Dysmorphia. However you decide to spell it, it all means the same thing. If an anorexic can’t be too thin, a biggerexic can’t be too huge. Steroid huge. Obsessive size.  Not quite big enough.

I’ve always been a yoyo – rail-skinny, pretty fat, skinny-fat, fat-fat, skinny, fat…wheeee. Always self-concious, always aware of being too skinny (weak) or fat (and still weak).  Bring on the self-esteem issues!

15 years ago I plowed into weight training at full speed and in short order I was measuring my food, buying all kinds of strange potions and powders and generally being obsessive about it all. It worked, sorta.  In day-to-day trim I weighed 180 flabbyish pounds (I’m 6 feet tall) but had bounded up to 195 and still didn’t have arms to fit my shirt as tightly as my belly. A beach ball with stick arms. As I started training and learning about food, I dropped down to 170 and then slowly back up to 197. This time instead of the 24% bodyfat reading I’d received when I started, I was down to 15%. More muscle than I’d ever possessed and in the best shape I’d ever been. I wanted more. I fought my way up to 205 pounds at 11%. Not enough. I pondered pharmaceutical assistance in my Lorax-like quest of biggering and biggering, but could never find enough money. I managed to avoid steroid trip not so much by wise choice as by accident.

I floated in and out of the gym as I got married and moved to the other side of the world, came back, moved to Europe and came back yet again. I never did find that combination of size, strength and confidence, always dragging along that travel-trunk of insecurity.

One of my aspirations while training was to take my scrawny flabby self from 180 pounds to 220. “6 foot, 220″ always had a nice ring to it.  I’ve achieved that. And more. Three months ago (12 months now) I peaked at a solid 230 pounds. And by solid I mean undeniable, not rock-hard. 230 pounds of fat-ass. Egads – this is not the type of 220 I wanted to be!!

Enter today – July 2012.  Riding has made a huge difference – my mood, my cardio, my overall health and of course my weight.  Certainly cured me of wanting to be bigger – hauling one’s self up a climb becomes increasingly arduous as your weight goes up – 20 pounds is a big deal.  People don’t give 20 pounds the respect it deserves – go to grocery store and throw 20 pounds of ground beef in your cart.  That’s a lot of meat!

As I get closer to 40, I am more comfortable in my own skin.  I am who and what I am – I gain weight easy but I’ve got a skinny structure underneath it all.  I’ll never be a healthy 220 pounds – it would either be a fat 220 (again) or a drug-assisted version.  I’m okay with that, meaning, I’m happier being a lean, healthy 185 than a muscular yet unhealthy 220.  I’m certain that there is no combination of size and strength to address insecurity.  That’s a beast one must slay on their own.

After watching bits and pieces of the TdF this year, I am amused by the “cycling physique”.  Enormous, powerful quads and hamstrings (thighs), muscular calves, skinny torso and the arms of a starving supermodel.  The reason there’s so much carnage with  cyclists when there’s a pile-up – apart from having just .5mm of stretchy-pants between them and the pavement – is their lack of mass exposing their skeletons and making them fragile.  Dainty.  5’11″ and 140 pounds.  This year’s TdF champion is 6 foot 2 and half inches tall and weights less than 170 pounds.  Most of it is their thighs I’m sure.

Man, if you ever wanted a dirty sport for doping – there you go.  Now in fairness, the testing is driving the users out of the sport slowly but surely.  As the testing science starts to catch the doping science, the peloton gets cleaner and cleaner and 2012 looks to be the beginning of a new era.  Two of the three podium winners for this year – Brad Wiggins and Chris Froome, both riding for Team Sky out of Britain – are outspoken anti-doping advocates.  Wiggins took the lead early and never let it go showing that, after 15 years of the dirtiest cycling around, clean riders aren’t only competitive, they’re champions.

Oh, but how do we know they’re not cheating?  In fairness, we don’t.  It’s easy to prove someone did – hey lookie here, a failed drug test from athlete L.  Much harder to prove that someone didn’t.  We have no failed tests, but we believe he cheated.  Mathematics to the rescue!

I love this stuff – as an engine fanatic (I loooove automotive engines) I learned everything I could about them, digging deeper and deeper and unearthing all sorts of mathematical models.  Imagine how pleased I was to find that similar mathematical models exist for people!  An engine can pump X amount of air in a given time frame.  Using known data, we can determine the reasonable expected performance of any given engine without having to actually measure it.  When it performs well outside our expectations then either our data presumptions are wrong or they’re cheating.  With people it’s even easier – there’s far fewer criteria.  With a small handful of exceptions, none of which are racing in the Tour de France, we’re all 2-lungs, 1 heart, air-breathing, calorie burning machines.  We vary in how much air we can breathe or how efficiently we pedal a bike (or run) or how much of our food is turned into energy at the pedal but we all function within a range, elite cyclists in a pretty narrow and specific range.  That translates to a specific output (watts) per kilogram of body mass.  That power output can be used to predict performance, particularly when climbing.  So working the math on a rider’s weight and hill-climbing performance, we can determine their power output per kilogram with pretty good accuracy.  Compare their actual output performance with the statistical norms and tah-dah!  We have a winner, or a cheater.

So – how do we know that Brad Wiggins and the rest of the Tour leaders aren’t cheaters?  Again, we don’t – but we can say that their performance ranks where it should.  In fact, in  the climbing stages of the 2012 race, the best times wouldn’t have got them into the top 40 just a couple of years ago.  They’re riding like elite human not superhumans and they’re winning.  Now that’s big.

 

 

Digging Deep (ish)

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I was struck this morning by the bumper-sticker (or in this case, desktop calendar) philosophy penned by author William Feather: Success seems to be largely a matter of hanging on after others have let go.  What caught my attention was not the observation in and of itself, rather the obviousness of it, yet how often we ignore it.

Almost all of us can get up and sprint when the need or desire arises, but how many quit when that initial burst of effort is spent?  The “reasons” you confabulate to justify a half-assed effort – who are they for?  You know when you’re throwing in the proverbial towel so why do we feed ourselves half-truths and flimsy excuses?

The flags were straining their poles this afternoon as the south wind whipped them and everything else with a furious 50km/h gale.  I watched them with a mixture of anticipation and trepidation that seemed misplaced.  It wasn’t.  Before the afternoon was over, the direction had changed.  While it will appear that I’m about to complain – because I am – I’m grateful that the new direction was a cross-wind and not a headwind.

That does not discount it’s effect however – a crosswind still messes with the effort required, especially one howling like a freight train.  Earlier this year, I’d asked Guru Thomas about riding in high winds, looking for an excuse to cut and run.  His answer was simple – Ride it like a hill!  And enjoy the sunshine! I’ve taken that advice to heart this season and while I never look forward to a stiff headwind (or crosswind), I’ve managed to ride irrespective of the wind conditions.

This afternoon was no different as I headed home.  My plans for a 30km ride on the way home were imperiled as I made my first due-west leg and the wind made its full force apparent.  Still, going north wasn’t too bad – legs felt good, lungs felt good, heart monitor was reading higher than I felt like I was working but there you go, that’s why we create these little gadgets isn’t it.

I jumped on the canal trail heading north with a rider out of downtown 20 meters behind me.  Dutifully playing the part of the rabbit, I set to work running away though not with any great speed I admit.  Slowly he fell further and further behind until I could no longer catch sight of him in my mirror.  I aimed for home on the short route, pedaling down 4th/Edmonton Trail towards the short, sharp climb past the bus (and apparently garbage truck) traps, debating the next turn – no need to get home right now, lots of time for a ride, but this wind sucks…I don’t owe anyone a longer ride, yes you do - to you, nobody would call me on it if I went home, except me.  I knew that, just like the days I chose to drive instead of ride because it might rain, I’d be disappointed with my effort if I cut now and went home.

I jumped back on the path and continued heading north at a crosswind-reduced pace and pondered my route.  2nd thoughts overwhelmed me and the Rescue Bike insticntively headed for the exit on 64th. Once more I kicked myself and turned around to get head back to the canal path, stopping just long enough to catch site of the wolf going by on his journey.  Now I had a route – wherever he’s headed – and some inspiration.  I set about closing the distance as we neared the end of north-bound pathway.

I caught him as we entered Nose Creek park but held off passing him as I debated the likelihood of getting re-passed on the little climb to the ridge.  When I couldn’t bear it any longer, I pulled and passed him with an unexpected (to me) burst of energy and speed, quickly opening up a gap between us.  Slowing down I tried to recover some before tackling the short into-the-wind climb.  As is its way, it dragged me to the bottom of the middle ring, heart rate climbing towards redline as I huffed and puffed my way up while trying to hold my position as the rabbit.  Today there was a little trick at the top – a full-on, unbuffered, no-shelter headwind pounding away at my ego.  I thought for sure I’d be caught and re-passed as I hobbled along barely making any distance.  He was there all right, but suffering as badly as me, the gap between us slowly, very slowly growing in my favour.

There comes a point when choosing to ride into a 50km/h headwind while climbing for pleasure seems like little more than unnecessary, self-inflicted torture.  I peeled off at Centre street and headed south for home, the long climb from the golf course to the Co-op waiting for me – at least we were back to a crosswind.  I would have preferred to make the big loop around and done some more climbing but the thought of battling it out with the headwind for another hour took all the fun out of it.  I would not be enjoying the sunshine.

I glanced in my mirror a last time as I left the park pathway and caught a final glimpse of my pursuer, soldiering on into the headwind that had finally dissuaded me.  Success comes to those who hang on after the others let go.