RUNAWAY

I think people are going to have a problem with Kanye West’s new “movie”. Mainly because it’s pretty much half an hour of classic Kanye pretentiousness, and a little bit because he bullied that poor Taylor Swift girl. However, I also think that if we hadn’t been subjected to Kanye’s antics for the past six years, and this were the first we had heard of him, it would be hailed as innovative and spectacular.

“Runaway” is visually stimulating enough to warrant a watch and the supermodel bird lady is giving off a serious 2010 Edward Scissorhands vide, which I appreciate. So, if Kanye West is worth 34 minutes of your time, or if you just like gigantic papier-mâché Michael Jackson heads, or the ballet (or all three!), this is the video for you:

HYPERtheticals with Chuck Klosterman

“Think about your life. Think about the greatest thing you have ever done, and think about the worst thing you have ever done. Try to remember what motivated you to do the former, and try to remember what motivated you to do the latter...

How similar are these two motives?”

Chuck Klosterman

The above is, in my opinion, an extremely fascinating query from Chuck Klosterman’s book, “IV: A Decade of Curious People and Dangerous Ideas”. Klosterman (pronounced Kloh-ster-man) is a writer/journalist who has authored six books (both fiction and non-fiction) and countless articles. He loves pop culture and seems to write with the notion that people enjoy reading about topics which they already have an inherent understanding of, as opposed to more fringe-like subjects. Why learn about some obscure movie when you can weigh in on that juicy reality TV show you watch every Monday night? Critics have labeled Chuck Klosterman as everything from “the voice of a generation” to “a sloppy literary pothead”. But the word most thrown around when discussing his work is “curious”. That word will also serve as the basis for this blog post. Of greater interest to me than his books or essays is Klosterman’s extensive array of hypothetical situations. You can actually buy a set of cards containing crazy Klosterman questions called, “HYPERtheticals: 50 Questions for Insane Conversations”. Below are four of Chuck’s HYPERthetical scenarios, one link to the author reading a HYPERthetical himself, and one hypothetical of my own. If you can get past the absurdity of these things, some (like the one above) have pretty important questions at their core (others, not so much).

ONE)     Think of someone who is your friend (do not select your best friend, but make sure the person is someone you would classify as “considerably more then an acquaintance”). This friend is going to be attacked by a grizzly bear. Now this person will survive the attack; that is guaranteed. There is a 100 percent chance that your friend will live. However, the extent of his injuries is unknown; he might receive nothing but a few superficial scratches, but he also might lose a limb (or multiple limbs). He might recover completely in twenty-four hours with nothing but a great story, or he might spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair. Somehow you have the ability to stop this attack from happening. You can magically save your friend from the bear. But his (or her) salvation will come at a peculiar price: if you choose to stop the bear, it will always rain. For the rest of your life, wherever you go, it will be raining. Sometimes it will pour and sometimes it will drizzle—but it will never not be raining. But it won’t rain over the totality of the earth, nor will the hydrological cycle be disrupted; these storm clouds will be isolated, and they will focus entirely on your specific whereabouts. You will also never see the sun again.

Do you stop the bear, accepting the lifetime of rain?

TWO)     At the age of thirty, you suffer a blow to the skull. The head trauma leaves you with a rare form of partial amnesia—though otherwise fine, you’re completely missing five years from your life. You have no memory of anything that happened between the ages of twenty-three and twenty-eight. That period of your life is completely gone; you have no recollection of anything that occurred during that five year gap. You are told by friends and family that—when you were 25—you (supposedly) became close friends with someone you met on the street. You possess numerous photos of you and this person, and everyone in your life insists that you and this individual were best friends for over two years. You were (allegedly) inseparable. In fact, you find several old letters and e-mails from this person that vaguely indicate you may have even shared a brief romantic relationship. But something happened between you and this individual when you were 27, and the friendship abruptly ended (and apparently you never told anyone what caused this schism, so it remains a mystery to all). The friend moved away soon after the incident, wholly disappearing from your day-to-day life. But you have no memory of any of this. Within the context of your own mind, this person never existed. There is tangible proof that you deeply loved this friend, but whenever you look at their photograph all you see is a stranger. Six weeks after your accident, you are informed this person suddenly died.

How sad do you feel?

THREE)     You are offered a Brain Pill. If you swallow this pill, you will become 10 percent more intelligent than you currently are; you will be more adept at reading comprehension, logic, and critical thinking. However, to all other people you know (and to all future people you meet), you will seem 20 percent less intelligent. In other words, you will immediately become smarter, but the rest of the world will perceive you as dumber (and there is now way you can ever alter the universality of this perception).

Do you take this pill?

FOUR)     While traveling on business, your spouse (whom you love) is involved in a plane crash over the Pacific Ocean. It is assumed that everyone on board has died. For the next seven months, you quietly mourn. But then the unbelievable happens: it turns out your spouse has survived. He/She managed to swim to a desert island, where he/she lived in relative comfort with one other survivor (they miraculously located most of the aircraft’s supplies on the beach, and the island itself was filed with ample food sources). Against all odds, they have just been discovered by a Fijian fishing boat. The two survivors return home via helicopter, greeted by the public as media sensations. Immediately upon their arrival, there is an international press conference. And during this press conference, you cannot help but notice how sexy the other survivor is; physically, he/she perfectly embodies the type of person your mate is normally attracted to. Moreover, the intensity of the event has clearly galvanized a relationship between the two crash victims: they spend most of the interview explaining how they could not have survived without the other person’s presence. They explain how they passed the time by telling anecdotes from their respective lives, and both admit to having virtually given up on the possibility of a tearful good-bye hug. It’s extremely emotional. After the press conference you are finally reunited with your spouse. He/She embraces you warmly and kisses you deeply.

How long do you wait before asking if he/she was ever unfaithful to you on this island? Do you never ask? And if your mate’s answer is “yes,” would that (under these specific circumstances) be acceptable?

FIVE)  CLICK HERE - Chuck Klosterman reads his "Jack & Jane Hypothetical"

SIX)     Howie Mandel arrives at your doorstep, gives you a fist pound because he’s a germaphobe, and offers you a deal. If accepted, a tiny computer chip will be planted inside ten heads of your choosing. These heads can be attached to any body, even people whom you’ve never met. There are two different types of computer chips and you may only choose one. The first is placed in the optic nerve and will permit you to see (but only see) anything and everything each of these ten people do, at your leisure. The second type of chip will tap into the auditory nerve and allow you to hear (but only hear) anything and everything that is uttered by, or uttered to, each of these ten individuals. The chosen computer chip will be implanted painlessly, and without consequence, while each subject is asleep. These people will never be made aware of object’s existence nor will the device be detected when passing through airport security.  However, if you take the deal, both forms of computer chip will be lodged inside your own head and ten members of your innermost circle of family and friends will be chosen at random and afforded the ability to watch anything and everything you do at their convenience. 

Deal or no deal? If deal, which option do you choose?

-KK

LOVE IS A GRAVEL PIT

Even though I am technically a graduate of Kwantlen Polytechnic University, I still find myself at the Surrey campus a couple days per week. Two of my six part-time jobs are based out of those halls and I’m also taking/enduring one course this semester. In Thailand they say, “same same, but different”. This applies here.

One thing that is “different” about this semester, however, is that I’ve been doing heaps of writing. Technical report writing, facebook inbox messages, but mostly just writing for fun (sorta like this). At Kwantlen there are two school newspapers that I’m aware of. One is called the Kwantlen Chronicle and the other is called The Runner. I am hardly a religious reader of either rag. However, The Chronicle has left a bad taste in my mouth from my bball “daze” at Kwantlen. They would interview members of our team and always end up writing some strange shit about them. Or maybe it was what they DIDN’T write that bothers me—student journalist requests interview, athlete accepts, student meets athlete at pub, information is exchanged, beers, impromptu photo shoot takes place in athlete’s front yard. The story is never published. Strange shit.

On the other hand, The Runner seems to be taking things a bit more seriously and their issues have been consistently good for a few laughs while on break from class. So, late last week when something noteworthy went down in the Kwantlen parking lot, The Runner was who I turned to.

Something happened. I wrote about it and submitted it to The Runner on the very same day. The Runner asked me if I’m single. I said yes. The Runner said that, not only are they going to “run” my article, but they are not going to rest until “Cute Girl” and I have been reunited. I told them that wasn’t really the point of the piece, but whatever. It is going to be included in next month’s Runner with an angle similar to “missed encounters” on craigslist.com or the “I saw you” section of the Georgia Straight. I find the whole thing hilarious, and silly, and I’m in! Here’s the article:

PAY IT FORWARD (or don’t pay it at all)

I hate paying for parking at Kwantlen and so do you. There, at a university as diverse as ours, we already have something in common. So what do we do about it?

At the Surrey campus I park, almost exclusively, in what has come to be known as the “gravel pit” (if you’ve been there, you know). The other day, as I attempted to navigate my aging Ford Explorer around traffic controllers and through the treacherous crater-like potholes that mark the entrance to “the pit”, I noticed a dark sedan rumbling out in the opposite direction. The driver of the sedan was a cute young brunette—quite cute, actually. Just as we are about to pass each other, she reaches onto the dash, grabs her full-day parking stub, and dangles it out the window at me. The move is so nonchalant that it takes me a moment to comprehend her gesture. It almost appears routine for her, like she has done this a thousand times before. I snatch up her permit, thank her enthusiastically, and life goes on.

Approximate elapsed time of the entire transfer? Three seconds. That’s less time than it takes you to pump your palm under one of those sanitary sauce dispensers after using the old creepy bathroom with the shower in it on the first floor of Fir (formerly known as ‘D’) building. It is my fourth year at Kwantlen and this is the first time such a thing has happening to me. I suppose it was her act of kindness (or perhaps her aforementioned cuteness) that was responsible for the smile on my face. It couldn’t have been the five dollars she saved me—I had not planned on paying anyway.

I no longer pay for parking at Kwantlen.  Not because I think it’s grossly overpriced (which it is), or that IMPARK makes up to $15 per stall per day (which they do, do the math), or because I’m a badass (which I am not). The reason I don’t pay for parking is because history has shown that whether I pay or I stray…I get ticketed anyway. 

I used to purchase official IMPARK (Imperial Parking Canada Corporation) “e-permits”. These are the electronic parking passes that you buy online and, in theory, offer reasonable weekly rates all while reducing your carbon footprint. Because there is no physical pass or paperwork involved, there is nothing to display on your dash. When the parking police notice you are permit-less and plug in your license plate number to issue a violation, their little machines are supposed to inform them that you are, in fact, exempt from punishment (for now). However, this system did not work so smoothly in my case. 

When I parked without a weekly e-permit, I got a fine. When I parked with a weekly e-permit – same story. The tipping point was when I came out to the parking lot after a tough midterm exam to find my vehicle missing. It had been unjustly towed. University life is often one of two things: (a) stressful, or (b) very stressful. I could no longer tolerate sitting in class not knowing if I’d have a ride home. I had to make a change. I decided that, if my Kwantlen education has taught me anything, it is that I should not pay to be ticketed and towed while inside receiving said education.  I stopped paying altogether. I felt great. I also called IMPARK to complain (and to tell them to stop towing my vehicle). They were quick to remind me of my numerous parking infractions (some legit, some not). But I was even quicker to establish that they would not be receiving another cent from me. We haven’t spoken since.

Now, I understand that my situation may not be commonplace. Though if you sit next to a perfect stranger in class and try to break the ice by saying something like, “That parking lot made of gravel sure is a crazy fuckin’ place, huh?” They will invariably respond with some near-death (or at least near-inconvenient) IMPARK experience of their own. 

Ultimately, we as students, along with the KSA, should get organized and propose bill, sign a treaty, or maybe even start a revolt; anything to get a handle on this parking crisis! But until such a bill is passed, why don’t we follow Cute Girl’s lead and start with some passing of our own. If you possess a validated parking permit, pay it forward on your way out of the gravel pit. Too classy for the pit? This concept extends to even the most luxurious of Kwantlen lots. If pulling out of a numbered slot in one of the paved sections, roll down your window and tell one of the dozen-or-so stall scavengers impatiently waiting for your spot that it is paid for (only if it actually is). It will make their day. It will make your day. 

I think Bob Marley even wrote a song about passing on your left hand side. I’m not sure if the man was referring to Kwantlen parking permits or not, but Bob Marley was rarely wrong. Oh, you like Bob too? Well I guess that’s two things we have in common.

GREEN GLOVES

Falling out of touch with all my
friends are somewhere getting wasted,
hope they’re staying glued together,
I have arms for them.

Take another sip of them,
it floats around and takes me over
like a little drop of ink in a glass of water

Get inside their clothes
with my green gloves
watch their videos, in their chairs.
Get inside their beds
with my green gloves
Get inside their heads, love their loves.

Cinderella through the room
I glide and swan cause I’m the best slow dancer
in the universe

Falling out of touch with all my
friends are somewhere getting wasted,
hope they’re staying glued together,
I have arms for them.

Get inside their clothes
with my green gloves
watch their videos, in their chairs.
Get inside their beds
with my green gloves
Get inside their heads, love their loves.

Now I hardly know them
and I’ll take my time
I’ll carry them over, and I’ll make them mine.

Get inside their clothes
with my green gloves
watch their videos, in their chairs.
Get inside their beds
with my green gloves
Get inside their heads, love their loves.

 

41 SHOTS

Amadou Diallo is 22 years old and has just relocated from Guinea to the 1100 block of Wheeler Avenue in the South Bronx. It is 1999 and the drug trade in this poor working-class neighbourhood is bustling. Though dangerous, Wheeler Avenue is exactly the kind of place an immigrant in New York City is looking for—cheap and close to a subway. Minutes before midnight on February 3, 1999, Amadou Diallo perches himself on the steps outside his building and soaks up the night. It has likely been a long day for Diallo. He works as a peddler but a mild stutter and far from perfect English make selling videotapes on the sidewalk difficult. Furthermore, a good friend of Diallo’s has recently been mugged by a group of armed men. In this quiet moment to himself perhaps the short and unassuming man envisions himself overcoming the odds to find success in the big city. Then again, maybe he is simply contemplating what to pack for lunch tomorrow.

A group of four plainclothes police officers pull onto Wheeler Avenue in an unmarked car. They comprise a fragment of the NYPD’s Street Crime Unit and each carries a semiautomatic handgun. This unit is dedicated to patrolling certain crime “hot spots”. Amadou Diallo happens to be standing in one of those hot spots.

He’s out here alone? At midnight?  In this lousy neighbourhood? ALONE? A black guy? He’s got a gun; otherwise he wouldn’t be here. And he’s little, to boot. Where’s he getting the balls to stand out there in the middle of the night? He must have a gun.

The four large men approach Diallo. One calls out, “May we have a word?” Diallo pauses and then flees into the building’s vestibule. A chase ensues. Cornered in the vestibule, Diallo turns his body sideways and digs at something in his pocket. “Show me your hands!” The cops scream. Everything is dark but one officer sees Diallo grasping something black—like a gun. “GUN!” The officer yells. Diallo continues pulling on the object in his pocket and raises it in the direction of the policemen. All four cops begin frantically shooting, aiming for “center mass”. A total of 41 shot are fired. Amadou Diallo is killed. As the cement dust settles the men approach the body. Diallo’s arm is out and his right palm open. Where there should be a gun, there is…a wallet. A snap judgment gone fatally wrong. The four large men sit down on the steps, next to Diallo’s bullet-ridden body, and cry. Bruce Springsteen writes a song:

TERRY: A Timely Tribute

The 2010 Terry Fox run took place a couple weeks back. This run is not competitive—no winners, no awards, just people coming together to raise cash for cancer research.

I recently read a book called “Terry”. It was written by a Vancouver novelist and visual artist named Douglas Coupland. The more I learn about Terry the more I wish I could have been around while his Marathon of Hope was in motion. Here is an excerpt from Coupland’s book on one of Terry’s public speeches:

“Terry was now mobbed by fans of all ages, and on stage, his presence was electric. Listeners were spellbound by the honesty and realism of his words, spoken in a deep voice—along with his pauses and errors. In 1980 Canada’s economy and political future were both on rocky courses. Never before had Canadians been so cynical and jaded about society. And suddenly, there was this young guy in front of a microphone who was everything you wanted the world to be.”

In other words; the squares were freaking!

Now consider this…

On September 1^st, 1980 Terry Fox was forced to end his Marathon of Hope due to severe pains in his upper chest. X-rays revealed that he had a lump in his right lung the size of a golf ball and a growth in his left lung the size of a lemon. These lumps were not lung cancer. Rather, they were actually patches of bone cancer than had spread into his lungs through the bloodstream. The lemon lump was too close to Terry’s heart to make an attempt at removal. Below is a photo of a lemon at actual size. Bring your chest toward the computer screen and just think about that for a moment.

NOTE: If Terry’s saga were to begin today, science would have an answer for his diagnosis. This is thanks, in part, to the millions of dollars raised by The Terry Fox Foundation.

During his final photo shoot, a pale Terry looked to the photographer and said, “Even though I die of cancer my spirit didn’t die and that should influence a lot of people.”  

On September 30^th, at both 11am and 1pm, CTV will air a documentary on Terry Fox titled, “Into the Wind”. The film is co-directed by another Canadian legend, Steve Nash. Set your PVR’s.

Haunting rendition of a Nirvana classic:

Load up on guns, bring your friends
It's fun to lose and to pretend
She's over-bored and self-assured
Oh no, I know a dirty word

Hello, hello, hello, how low?
Hello, hello

I'm worse at what I do best
And for this gift I feel blessed
Our little group has always been
And always will until the end

Hello, hello, hello, how low?
Hello, hello

With the lights out, it's less dangerous
Here we are now, entertain us
I feel stupid and contagious
Here we are now, entertain us

 

Hello, hello, hello, how low?
Hello, hello

With the lights out, it's less dangerous
Here we are now, entertain us
I feel stupid and contagious
Here we are now, entertain us

A mulatto, an albino
A mosquito, my libido

A denial, a denial
A denial, a denial
A denial

A selection of my favourite musicians when they were my age:

Young Neil Young

Gord Downie (The Tragically Hip)

Bob Dylan

Tom Petty

Bruce Springsteen

David Gray

Tupac Shakur

HOW MANY FACEBOOK FRIENDS DO YOU HAVE?

How many of these friends would you sit down and have a drink with if you bumped into them at the bar? Anthropologist Robin Dunbar suggests that the number of people you are comfortable enough to share a pint with is around one hundred and fifty. This “Rule of 150” is based upon the capacity of our brain’s neocortex; the part of the cerebral cortex associated with higher functions like sensory perception, spatial reasoning, language, and therefore – friendship maintenance. To truly know someone is to not only know them individually, but to also understand their relationship with every other member of your social network. Consequently, exceeding Dunbar’s Rule of 150 meaningful social ties typically results in neocortical processing overload. It is interesting to note that the statistics page on facebook claims that its average user has 130 friends. Although a quick browse through my own list yielded far more inflated results. So, how many facebook “friends” do you really have? Regardless of your personal opinion of these people (frienemies), I’ll bet that cognitive limitation scales your list back by the hundreds. 

TO THE MOON!

Observations on Assurance:

Is it just me or do the closing statements in any impulse buy always appear in question form?

Car buying, for example; "Okay, so if I upgrade to a hemi engine I’ll have enough torque to tow away my grandma’s 1940 Maytag deep freeze, right?”

"Ohh ya! The hemi will make short work of that old thing.”

"Oh good! I'll go with the hemi then.”

Of course, we already know the answers to such questions before we ask them. Yet, life remains chalk full of these sweet little assurances (and subsequent reassurances). So much so, that when faced with a true “straight-shooter”, we are often taken aback.

I recently underwent some minor surgery to repair a broken nose. At a post-op checkup my E.N.T. specialist says to me, "So, how do ya feel about how everything turned out?”

"Good," I reply. "How do YOU feel about it?" He rubs the bridge of my nose with his forefinger.

"Ahh…I wouldn’t say it’s my best work, but I am fine with it." He answers with such honesty and conviction that it’s refreshing. All I can do is respect it.

Not to worry though, I am breathing free and clear. I’m also looking better and better by the day, let me assure you.

9/11

I am reading William Langewiesche's "American Ground: unbuilding The World Trade Center" and YOU SHOULD TOO.

"So much of who we are is where we have been."

— William Langewiesche

Music of the Moment

Lately, no two songs in my entire iTunes library speak to me more than these:

IRONMAN - everyone has their opinion...

...some say; "Ironman will always be there, no need to rush."

While others contend; "If Ironman is calling your name, answer it!"

I guess I fall into the latter category.

WHAT am I getting myself into!?!

IRONMAN CANADA 2011

The Search for Meaning: my main man Viktor Frankl

I endorse and defend this with my life.

Colby & Jen's Wedding: August 6, 2010

             

Bride & Groom take in the speech.

EYES WIDE OPEN: An Ironman Calgary 70.3 Race Report (and so much more)

Sorry to those who have been waiting for this. The trip to Calgary turned out to be far more eventful than anticipated and I wanted to take the time to sum it all up. Wade and I also had a wedding speech to polish up before I could concentrate on this AND I went ahead and did a second half ironman in Lake Stevens, Washington. But without further ado, here is my first half ironman experience; the 2010 Calgary Ironman 70.3:

p.s. Don’t forget to check out the pics that accompany this note on facebook (‘TRI, TRI AGAIN’ album).

PART 1: “QUICK! Call 4-1-1!”

Five months of preparation, countless credit card swipes, and eight freshly burned CD’s later, we are finally on the road. Loaded to the brim with all the race essentials, by the time Brent (my dad) and I arrive at Wade’s door our GMC Jimmy looks more like a motorized pack mule. Thankfully, my friend Wade is notorious for packing light; risky light. He and his lone bag quickly find their nest in the backseat amidst a cluster of sleeping bags, pillows, foam rollers, and Fig Newtons. To quote Lloyd Christmas, “Some people just aren’t cut out for life on the road”. Wade drifts off to the peaceful sounds of Neil Young and David Gray and is out cold before we know it. Unbeknownst to us, the road to Alberta will be anything but peaceful this August long weekend. It’s Thursday and the race is three days away.

Hours pass and we find ourselves at the outskirts of Kamloops on Highway 1 and in serious need of a good leg stretch. Suddenly, a cloud of dust billows up from the far edge of the oncoming lane; directly to our left. Dad slows down and I sit up in my seat. We watch as a silver vehicle catapults from the dust and launches high into the air. The car’s front end points toward the sky and for an instant we see its full underbody before it spirals around 360 degrees in mid-air. It was like watching a stunt from some blockbuster movie (a 3D movie!). The driver must have lost control and veered off the road and into the steep ditch that lines the highway. In a last-“ditch” effort to correct his mistake he turned HARD back toward the road, but at that kind of speed the trench acted as a dusty stunt ramp and they were cleared for take-off. Luckily, it is only a single car accident. And even more luckily, this single car has somehow landed back on all four wheels. However, they are not out of the woods yet. Here comes that leg stretch.

Brent pulls over and all three of us hop out. “QUICK! Call 4-1-1!” Dad says to me. I decide to go with 9-1-1 instead. Emergency puts me on HOLD for what feels like 10 minutes (probably closer to 10 seconds). I look over at the car. It is so badly crumpled that I cannot even tell what make or model it is. My call goes through;

“Fire, Police, or Ambulance?” A female voice asks. This is a tough one. It catches me off-guard.

“BRING EVERYONE!” I yell. I am pacing back and forth beside our Jimmy on the opposite side of the highway from the accident. I’m so focused on the 9-1-1 call, and reviewing my decision to tell them to bring EVERYONE, that I don’t even stop to think what Wade and Brent might be up to. The phone line gets transferred over and an incredibly calm new voice speaks into my ear.

“Alright sir, has there been a car accident?” The new lady asks.

“YES!” I reply.

“Well that’s okay. That’s okay. What is your location?” She inquires; more calm than ever.

“Umm…KAMLOOPS!” I instantly recognize that “KAMLOOPS” is not a good enough answer and begin bobbing around for clues. WHY are they asking me all these difficult questions!?! I think to myself. Don’t they have Google Street View or some iPhone app that can take care of this? It was madness. Madness, I tell you!

The accident is no more than one minute old at this point, but as I shoot my head around to find someone with answers it felt like the entire city had shown up. On the right-hand side of the freeway, nearest to our vehicle, there is a steep grassy embankment with houses and rural roads that overlook Highway 1. The top of this hill is now lined with locals eager to provide a running, but primarily counterproductive, commentary on the incident. I call to one of these “hillbillies”, as we would later refer to them as (due to their behaviour and literal position atop the hill), and one of them provides me with our exact location for the 9-1-1 operator. It would turn out to be the last helpful remark uttered by any of these onlookers. The types that come from nowhere then go right back into it.

“Back up! She’s gonna blow!” Screams a hillbilly. This catches my attention and with my cell phone still to my ear, I finally turn around and face the wrecked silver car. Now, when you have just witnessed a serious car accident, are on the phone with 9-1-1, and can hear people screaming “SHE’S GONNA BLOW”, things can feel a bit overwhelming. Altogether though, I felt like I was maintaining my composure. This all began to change as I see Wade and Brent digging around in the passenger seat of a car that was now on fire!

“Alright sir, help is on the way. Can you describe for me the situation?” More questions from the calm lady.

“My father and my best friend are pulling people from a burning vehicle!” I almost can’t believe my own words.

“Okay, go.” She says. Thinking back on it with a clear mind this was kind of a wild thing to say. No instructions? No talking us through this? Just “go”? Okay, I will go. I run across two lanes, through the trench that separates east and westbound traffic, and into the belly of the beast. It is scary and I am really hoping there are no dead people in the car. Wade and Brent have just unbuckled and evacuated a barely conscious female passenger and she’s lying at our feet. Dad runs back to see if anyone else is inside and realizes that another witness has removed the driver from the car – everyone is out. Both are alive. The air is thick with black smoke that is making it hard to breathe. The “It’s gonna blow” chants continue.

“They’re both shitfaced!” Another hillbilly yells eroneously. Wade and I decide to pick up the female and carry her as far from the carnage as possible. She is covered in blood and dirt and her face is so swollen that we can’t tell if she’s 13 or 30. We are trying to be gentle with her but she begins to regain consciousness and is very squirmy. I keep telling her that everything is alright.

“No it’s not!” She screams back at us. She is right. We lay her down well out of harm’s way and Wade makes a pillow with his shirt and places it under her head. I look back to see that the silver car she was buckled to just moments ago is now fully engulfed in flames. The gas tank would later explode, as the hillbillies predicted, but it was far less eventful than their frantic warning yelps implied. The explosion shot up rather than out and was nothing more than a loud BOOM and a puff of smoke.

I see the male driver of the vehicle surrounded by his own group of witnesses. There is a large gash on his forehand but he is standing and walking around on his own power. He holds a dirty cloth to his head to stop the bleeding and is attempting to make his way over to the female but is being slowed down by many well-meaning bystanders. Seemingly out of nowhere comes a Medical First Responder who looks like Doogie Howser. Even though it seems like he has just hit puberty, and it could very well be his first day on the job, this kid does an amazing job taking care of a very distressed female and I earn a ton of respect for, not only him, but anyone in an emergency response profession. The first response team showed up so lightning quick that they must have either been on that stretch of highway already OR they are a bunch of psychics who roll around in first aid Ferrari’s.

Once the professionals have taken over we return to our Jimmy and continue on our journey. When we left the scene of the accident there did not seem to be any reason to believe that either passenger had suffered serious or life-threatening injuries. While we are not doctors, Wade and I do both hold Bachelors Degree’s now so that’s an assessment of health you can take straight to the bank! I see a lot car advertisements bragging about their safety features or crash-test ratings, but it’s impossible to have an appreciation for such things until you witness the importance first-hand. Seatbelts and airbags were the difference between life and death on this day. A few miles down the road I get a text message from my mom. She wants to know how the drive is going and if we’re making good time. I text back:

“Dad and Wade just rescued a person from a burning vehicle. Other than that, everything is going great.”

I have felt some level of nerves in each one of my triathlon races to date. These feelings have ranged from a healthy anxiousness to a full-blown “HOLY SHIT I’M DROWNING” panic attack. As corny as it may sound, to experience such a chilling circumstance, and endure the events that followed, really put things into perspective for me as we safely completed the drive to Ghost Lake, Alberta (location of the swim). I felt strangely calm for the remainder of the trip and throughout my longest race distance yet - thankful that I am strong enough in mind and body to even attempt such a task. I mean, c’mon, if Dad and Wade can rescue a person from a flaming vehicle, the least I can do is swim, cycle, and run for 70.3 miles, right?

PART 2: Tornadoes and Transitions

During my preparations for this race, I read an article by a runner turned triathlete who was attempting to explain the first discipline of the sport to non-swimmers. “Swimming in a pool is to running on a treadmill as swimming in the open water is to running from a hungry bear.” Before finishing our drive to the city of Calgary we set up a tent on the edge of Ghost Lake for one night so that I may test the hungry waters prior to the start gun blast. The only consistent review of this lake has been that it’s cold, cold, COLD. It lived up to this billing. Even through the wetsuit my joints feel frozen and the choppy water tastes like pure gasoline from the dozens of boats anchored near the entry point. I tell myself that the race morning adrenaline will make the cold go away. But I tell myself a lot of things.

After surrendering a few pints of blood to the locust-like mosquito infestation at Ghost Lake, Wade and I drive into town while Brent opts to ride his bike so he can scope out the course and fulfill his Vancouver-to-Whistler Grand Fondo training requirement for the weekend. He doesn’t see us again until hours later; by this point Wade and I have already checked into the hotel and made an impression on at least two local cowgirls…each.  I am curious about the bike course but Brent’s review is a negative one – rough roads, road rage, and rabid skeeters. Again, I engage in some healthy self-talk to shift the pendulum. Obviously conditions will be a bit more favourable on race day as opposed to a weekday ride. I tell myself to not to worry about any of these “uncontrollables” and we flip on the TV in our room. The words IMMINENT TORNADO WARNING are splattered in bold across the weather channel. That is one BIG uncontrollable! Wade and I have a good laugh at this. Hide the women and children!

The rest of the lead up to the race passes quickly. I follow a strict diet while watching Wade eat like a king. I increase my sodium consumption while Wade increases his liquor consumption (ALL beers are Alberta-sized). We both attend the race expo where Wade acts as my agent; pimping me out as the potential new face of everyone’s product. Some are more intrigued than others. At the pre-race meeting, while anxious age groupers are asking inconsequential questions over where to place their helmet sticker, I ask 11-time Ironman champion Lisa Bentley if she thinks it will be a tailwind or headwind tornado. She votes tailwind. And before I know it, I am back laying on the itchy Sandman sheets ready for bed at 8pm on a Saturday night. The 2010 Calgary Ironman 70.3 starts in 10 hours. I put in my earplugs and sleep like a newborn baby.

Unfortunately, Brent decided to put in earplugs as well. Neither of us rise to the multiple 4am alarms. Wade hears them loud and clear and tosses a pillow at us. I spring out of bed. I feel ready: salt pills, caffeine, bagel, banana, yogurt, anti-chaff cream EVERYWHERE, iPod, out the door. Our 4:30am shuttle is an old yellow school bus. Other than the crackle of PowerBar wrappers and the muffled
emissions of everything from Beathovan’s 5^th to Marshall Mather’s ‘Til I Collapse’, everything is silent. I follow suit and pop in my earbuds - “Intro” by The XX is the soundtrack to my morning.

Forty-five minutes later we are back at Ghost Lake. Hundreds of athletes and thousands of mosquitoes are already buzzing around the first transition zone (the caged area housing the bikes). I roam around a little and watch others fumble through their pre-race preparations. I don’t know what it is, but observing overly-anxious people really gives me a sense of calm. Maybe it was because my heat wave (ages 18-24) doesn’t get set loose until 6:45; a full 45 minutes later than the first group. This downtime gives Wade’s school bus a chance to catch up with us and I am able to enjoy watching him swat away skeeters with heavy pre-sunrise hands before it’s time to get wet.

In learning how to swim (properly), one of the biggest obstacles I overcame was acceptance of the fact that submerging myself under water means losing touch with reality for significant periods of time. The idea off having the majority of my senses limited or cut-off really agitated me. It’s like showing up to a party then wearing a blindfold and earmuffs for an hour. When you take them off, your environment is bound to have changed. Perhaps there has been an emergency and you didn’t even realize it, or someone is looking for you, or maybe some cute girls strolled in – who knows? I am exaggerating a tad but the fact remains that similar feelings still manifest themselves during the start of my races.

Before the start gun in Calgary, I seed myself very intelligently amongst the pack; so as not to get mowed down or kicked in the teeth. Nevertheless, I still execute the first 30 strokes or so with my entire head above water to see where I’m going and to ensure I find a pocket of open water. Everything is going smoothly and I know it is now time to dunk my face and commit to this swim. Yet, something is still holding me back. Ahh, but I really don’t feel like going under just yet. It’s like when you’re a kid and your mom’s trying to wake you up for school; “Just a few more minutes, PLEASE!” It is at this moment when I remind myself, for the first of many times, one of triathlon’s important ongoing lessons. When your mind is telling your body any of these words: can’t, won’t, don’t, stop, or WHY? Do you best to tell your brain to SHUT THE HELL UP! I plunge my head into Ghost Lake.
It could be because myself and about one thousand other athletes have just leaked in our wetsuits, or maybe it was all the excitement, but the water felt significantly warmer than two days prior. What do piss warm waters and an instinct to spend as little time as possible with my head under water both have in common? The incentive to swim like a fish. I cruise through the swim and exit in about 33 minutes; much faster than anticipated.

I trot up the boat launch feeling a little legless. Leaving the water is such a drastic change in stimulation to the body and it is still something I am not used to; sort of feels like “liquor legs”. I make a mental note to include more drunken stumbles home in my training. I crest the ramp and flop onto the grass allowing the volunteer wetsuit strippers to do their business. They make short work of me and I’m off to find my transition-1 bag containing all my meticulously packaged bike gear. These races can make for a long day and it is critical to remember that whenever you are doing anything for up to nine hours straight, there are bound to be hiccups. How you choose to cope with these hiccups is up you. I now encounter my first mishap of the day; it is not a tornado, but a transition.

Prior to the swim I placed my red transition bag amongst a sea of other red transition bags just like it. The difference was that mine was strategically set at the very end of a long row of bags. I did not take my eyes off it until I had to enter the water; it would be impossible to miss. I missed it. I run back down the line of bags. I miss it again. I spot a volunteer and feel the urge to scream angry words in their direction. But my heart rate is already soaring from a strong swim effort and obscenities will only serve to increase it. Plus I can see Wade shooting some video footage. “PLEASE tell me you didn’t move the bags while we were swimming?” I say.

“Ummm…we had to.” Replies the nervous volunteer.

It turns out they also “had to” move my bag three rows down to the female athlete section for some reason. I am scrambling around so hard to find it that I half expect a Kamloops car accident hillbilly to pop out with some shoddy advice. It is sort of like finding a needle in a haystack. But more like finding a red sack with a tiny ID number in a sea of identical red sack’s with tiny ID numbers. Eventually I see the bag, empty its contents, stuff my wetsuit inside, and punt it into a separate pile. This eternal transition ends with a brief moment of clarity as I pass a rider in the process of changing a flat tire not even 10 feet onto the bike course! I am thankful not to be him. Though one day I could be, and when that day comes I hope to have learned not to react so emotionally to setbacks. Some people happen to people on purpose. This guy calmed me down, for now.

Speaking of emotional overreactions, I am now officially on the bike leg of my first Ironman 70.3 and I’m finding it difficult to stick to the game plan. A game plan that consists of taking the first 10 kilometers of the ride extremely easy; allowing my heart rate to drop and giving me a chance to settle in. The trouble is that most people appear to be adhering to the very opposite approach. Suddenly it feels like I am once again on a level playing field with everyone I worked so hard to out-swim. I want to react to each of these “attacks”; to every man and woman ripping past me on their ten thousand dollar speed machines. I want to start mashing through my hardest gears and follow them to where ever they are in such a hurry to go. But I don’t. Instead, I sit back and reassure myself that I’ll being meeting each one of them somewhere down the road. As the competitors begin to settle in, there is some chatter out on the course. I start screaming, “WANNA TRADE BIKES!?!” to those sporting the sweetest rides. Obviously, some of the people who zip past are never to been seen again: studs, thoroughbreds, stallions. Though many who made the early push I did come across, and overtake, a couple hours later.

Around the same time the adrenaline wears off and my heart rate drops, a morning chill sinks into my bones. I am donning a damp two-piece lyrca triathlon suit that the growling tornado-ready skies are not aiding to dry. I block out the biting cold and look forward to my first dose of nutrition. Allowing my heart rate to decrease before taking in calories will ensure they are put to the best possible use in my body. I love to eat, and I often find myself daydreaming about potential recovery meals while I train. So whenever it is “snack time” out on the course, I make an effort to really savour it. I have packed Fig Newtons, PowerBar gels, and a custom formulated energy/electrolyte mix called Infinit. Ahead I see the flashing lights from parked Calgary police cruisers dancing off the slick highway road. I have a brief Kamloops flashback but I know that these cars are only here to block oncoming traffic as there is a sharp left turning approaching.

As soon as I spot the volunteer waving a left turn signal I begin to slice across the road from right to left while simultaneously reaching behind my saddle for one of two bottles of my carefully concocted (and I mean VERY carefully – down to the calorie) Infinit beverage. I figure that slowing down for a turn is as good a time as any to take a quick hit. As I make my move, my bike rolls across a set of staggered rumble strips that line the road. I knew they were there, and I swear I’ve successfully rolled over them in B.C. These ones are different; Alberta-grade bone-jarring asphalt indentations that nearly rattle me off my wheels. For an instant I thought both tires had burst; they hadn’t, but something had violently shot past my outstretched arm. A brimming bottle of fluid can act as heavy artillery when such force is applied to it. A couple seconds later I hear a loud CLUNK – the bottle had launched high into the air, hit the pavement, and spun off the highway and into a soggy ditch. The remaining bottle was clinging for dear life in its respective bottle cage and is thankfully salvaged. But the fact remains that HALF of my nutrition was now missing less than an hour into a long day of exercise. I am in quite the mood.

I begrudgingly decide to stop and search for the precious calories. It is a frantic hunt. I scurry back down the road. Riders are yelling things like, “WHAT are you doing!?!” and “You’re doing fine. Don’t give up man!” All I keep thinking is, Kevin you are in a race and moving in the opposite direction! I didn’t see where the bottled had skidded off the road and if the chants and self-criticism weren’t enough to get me on my way, the mosquitoes are. I clip back into my pedals and continue to ride. My mind is racing.

The remainder of the 90 kilometer trek goes by in a flash. I become somewhat of a rolling chemist and do a complete mental overhaul of my nutrition plan in order to make the remaining supplies stretch. Nutrition is often considered the fourth discipline of triathlon and I was absolutely determined not to let it be the downfall of my first half-Iron race. I rationed everything I had on me and, to be honest, it may have been a blessing in disguise. I had planned for a humid day but on this gloomy August long weekend I would not end up perspiring and subsequently sacrificing anywhere near the amount of calories I had intended. Sometimes, getting what you want is not nearly as important as giving what you have. I finish the ride (which was actually closer to 96 km.) in 3 hours 6 minutes and leap off my bike feeling fresh for the half marathon run. The feeling would not last long.

As I sit and reflect upon the run leg of the race, I mind myself a little tongue-tied. Not because I can’t recall this portion of the race, but because of how difficult it was. It was tough, VERY tough - child labour comes to mind (as if I know what that’s like it). During the swim and bike segments of the race I felt very much “in the moment”. Fully aware of my surroundings and able to soak up all the sights and sounds. The hilly run course was filled with so much torment that these quiet observations were replaces with internal questions. Will this next stride be my last? I was locked in the mental "hurt box" for nearly the entire 1 hour 55 minute run and it shut out most pleasant thoughts; only permitting the angry ones to enter. During the first 10 kilometers I began breaking down my exertion into tiny segments and would count my foot strikes up to ten. After those ten came another ten, then another, then another. On the home stretch I would look ahead and single out a tall tree off in the distance. I fixated on it and as it grew closer and closer I would pretend it was reeling me in. This worked well and served as a welcome distraction.

Another distraction, and perhaps the only amusing experience of the entire run, came in the form of two men in lime green Borat-style banana hammock Speedos holding a chalkboard sign titled: PHONE NUMBERS? You could see professional athletes struggling to wipe the smile from their faces and get back into race mode. It was pure genius. Aside from that, I thought about two things. The first and foremost was FOOD. I found myself wondering what kind of post-race sandwiches they would serve. Turkey would be nice. This also tells me that I could have been missing those calories I left in a ditch about 60 miles back. The second thing I thought about, oddly enough, was a scene from The Dark Knight.

Near the end of that movie, while the Joker is reeking havoc, he insists to a Gotham cop; “In their last moments, people show you who they really are. So in a way, I know your friends better than you ever did.” As violent an example as this is, I saw some overlap in what I was doing. While I didn't feel dead out there (we'll save that for Ironman Canada), I did feel completely stripped down during those hours of running. Layers and layers of self were slowing peeled back and not much mattered anymore: the weather, the spectators, the flattened Fig Newton caked onto the back of my top - none of that stuff. All that mattered was that damn finish line and it took an internal argument with the very core of myself to make it there in full stride. How bad do you want it? It has been said that in life it is important to not necessarily be strong, but to feel strong. To measure yourself at least once. The measuring stick was certainly out on this day. But I suppose it's all a part of life on the run.

Final time: 5 hours 44 minutes.

The Chili's

I thought the first song I post on this blog should be one of my all-time favourite tracks.  

"I don't ever want to feel like I did that day".

DWP Basketball circa 2005

"Maybe these are my glory days, and I'm not even realizing it because they don't involve a ball."

— Stephen Cholsky

AA PROVINCIALS from Kevin Kokoska on Vimeo.

It begins...

If I am not for myself,
who will be for me?
If I am not for others,
what am I?
And if not now, 

when?