GRANFONDO NIAGARA FALLS

According to my cycling companion, John MacQuarrie, who claims to know such things: “Niagara Falls is every new bride’s second biggest disappointment!”

GranFondo means, literally, a big ride.  It’s the label used by GranFondo Canada for its organized rides, the most notable being the Vancouver-Whistler GranFondo which attracted 4,000 cyclists this year.  The 2013 Niagara Falls event was the inaugural edition.

As is the case every year, the Over the Hill Gang chose an out-of-province event to train for and to keep us motivated.  Building on last year’s excellent experience with the Louis Garneau GranFondo in Québec, we settled on Niagara Falls.  Four of us flew from Charlottetown to Toronto and rented a van for the drive to our destination; the fifth chose to drive.

We arrived mid-morning, drove through the seedy back door of the city and checked into the luxurious (NOT!) Days Inn.  It was a cold, misty, miserable day as we walked down to register, past the Ripley’s Believe-it-or-Not Museum, the Upside-Down House, and the Criminals Hall of Fame Wax Museum.  I wanted to visit each one, but the boys would hear nothing of it.  For those of you who haven’t been there, Niagara Falls’ downtown core is incredibly tacky, except for the falls themselves and a few nice public parks.

 

GranFondo Niagara Falls was set up in the luxurious Crowne Plaza.  “How come we never get to stay in anything above two-star?”, I thought to myself.  It was plain from the start that this was a first-class event, organized by people who knew cycling and who knew what they were doing. 

After a hearty lunch at Kelsey’s we reassembled our bikes and chatted across adjoining balconies with a group of drunks from Sarnia who had gotten kicked out of a baseball tournament for alleged bad behaviour.  This naturally confirmed our belief that our choice of hotel was the right one!  We hoped they wouldn’t keep us awake all night.

 

After feasting on our obligatory pre-race pasta meal at Mama Mia’s, a decent restaurant surrounded by discount t-shirt shops, we retired for the night.  The alarm went off at 4:45 on Saturday morning!  We walked groggily to the all-night Denny’s, past a couple of Head Shops and a guy who’d passed out sitting in a chair on the sidewalk.  Half the people in the restaurant were on their way to bed after a long, hard night, while the rest were like us: preparing to endure four hours of pain.  Alas, I’ll take tired legs and a sore butt over a hangover any day!

Since the ride was scheduled to start at the ungodly hour of 6:45, we had to ride down to the marshalling area from our hotel in total darkness.  At the sound of the starting gun, thousands of wheels rolled forward, and we were soon speeding along the Niagara Parkway, headed for Niagara-on-the-Lake, our intrepid leader, Ira, on the front, making sure we stayed with a group of riders just fast enough to challenge us.

 

The Parkway is a beautiful stretch of road, and like the entire route, it had been closed to all traffic except cyclists.  What a treat is was to have the whole road to ourselves, with police controlling traffic at every intersection, directing us at every turn.  While it’s tempting to look at the scenery, to ride safely in a large group, one must focus intently on wheels, Spandexed butts, and the road in front, hoping like hell that riders on the left and right will hold their lines.  As we climbed up a hill on our way back from Niagara-on-the-Lake we came across a pool of blood in the middle of the road, no doubt the result of a nasty crash where someone was not so lucky.

 

The five of us eventually teamed up with a group of from ten to twenty riders, some of them very good at riding in a group, some less so.  All of the riders were younger than us and no doubt assumed we would peter out eventually.  I’m sure they chuckled to themselves when we each took a turn at the front of the line, thinking: “Those old guys won’t be around long!”  It’s the same in every ride we do though: eventually, other riders begin to understand that we’re disciplined and careful, and tougher than we look!

We stopped for the first time at the 83-km mark, still feeling pretty good, and filled up with some fluids and a bite or two to keep us going to the end.  Next, we rode through Short Hills Provincial Park and suffered a bit on our way up Effingham Hill (I have another name for it!)  Back out on the highway, we wheeled through the 840-metre long Thorold Tunnel which runs under the Welland Canal and back toward the finish line in Niagara Falls.

I took a long pull up front and ‘buried’ myself, not remembering that we were about to hit another nasty little hill, topped off by a 14% grade over the last 200 metres or so.  Big mistake!  But, I made it to the top and caught up to John and Richard before the pace line re-formed.  As soon as we got back on the Niagara Parkway, all hell broke loose as riders started to smell the finish line.

The last twelve kilometres or so were fast: 35 km/hr +.  There was a lot of jockeying for position, especially when we got inside the city limits.  It was kind of exciting, actually, even for an old guy like me.  Guys would pass us, and we’d pass them again! 

Russ, whom we’d not seen since the last hill, caught up to the three of us, and we just ‘gave her’ as we sped toward the finish line at over 40 km/hr.  Together, we passed a bunch of guys and one cute hard-body with a braided blond pigtail in the last kilometre.  The four of us crossed at the same time, 3 hours, 50 minutes and 30 seconds, an average speed of 33.4 km/hr according to my computer.  Ira came across the finish line a few minutes later. 

For results, see: http://niagarafalls.granfondocanada.com/news/ride-results

The photo below was taken by the event organizer who met riders at the finish line; unfortunately, Ira had not yet arrived.

 

We parked our bikes, strode gingerly up to event area, and demolished plates of vegetable jambalaya, and as much as we could drink.  A local band called The MadHatters came out on stage and started to play some damn good tunes.  Feeling grubby and stiff, and needing a shower, we straddled our loyal mounts and rode back up the hill to the Days Inn.

Next thing we knew, Ira was knocking on the door with the exciting news: we were the fastest team and had to hurry back to the events area to pick up our awards!  Holy jeezus!  We’re the fastest team!  Us five old guys!  What’s that all about?  After picking up our very nice Thule daypacks we parked our tender butts on the grass and listened to Barney Bentall and Jim Cuddy belt out many of their best-know hits.  It was a great concert.

I lay on the warm grass of Queen Victoria Park, looking up at a gorgeous blue sky, feeling the music vibrate through the ground under me, endorphins coursing through my body, enjoying the best rush there is.  I could see the American Falls just off to my right and feel the rumble of the Horseshoe Falls, less than a five-minute walk away.  I was surrounded by good friends; felt good about what we’d accomplished together; and was thankful we’d chosen to train for and participate in a first-class event.

 

After leaving the Park, we had just enough time for a bowl of soup before driving to Hamilton to link up with Ira and Richard’s friend, Mike.  After drinks at his house we feasted on a proper post-ride meal at Montana’s Cook House and enjoyed Mike’s well-told tales about cycling, and life in Poland before he emigrated to Canada thirty years ago.  By the end of the meal we were more than ready for some well-earned sleep.

One day later, I look back on a great day, one that offered everything I could ask for: companionship, challenge, exhilaration, relaxation, and satisfaction.  In six days’ time, Ira, Russ, John and I will pick up where we left off in Girona, Spain, where we’ll spend a week cycling together: a fitting end to a great summer!

THEM NEW PHONES

THEM NEW PHONES

Elva and I picked up our new IPhone 4s this week and are in the process of weaning ourselves away from the familiar land line we’ve known since we were kids.  Her number before the dial phones were introduced was 132 ring 2, and mine was 8.  Her family, living as they did in the ‘sticks’, was on a party line while ours was on a private line.  Families in the village of Wellington were the first to get phones in the early 1900s, and customers willing to pay a little more got their own private lines.

When the time came for me to register for university classes at UNB in the fall of 1971, the lady behind the counter asked me for my phone number.  I told her: “8".  She looked at me kind of strange and asked: “8 what?”.  “8 Wellington”, I answered, trying to make her feel as stupid as I could.

 

I wondered as I was setting up the mysterious and wonderful IPhone 4 what the older generation I grew up with might have thought of “them new phones”.  I imagined myself at Rufus MacLure’s barber shop on a Saturday morning in 1963.  Rufe is giving Clayton Barlow a trim and Steve ‘Ro’ MacNeill just walked in the door.  Émile Clovis is sitting in his customary corner chewing on a fig of Hickey & Nicholson’s twist and Sylvère Perry is talking politics, as usual.  George Bishop is hitching his horse to the rail beside Arsenault & Gaudet’s store.

 

Astute observer that he is, Rufe decides he’d better get the conversation on a different track before Syl and Steve get into it over who’s more crooked: the Tories or the Grits.  So out of the blue he says.  “Tillie was telling me about them new phones, IPhones, I think she calls them.  They say those things can do just about anything.”

 

“What’s an eye-phone?”, asks Steve.  “Is it some new gadget Dr. Reid uses to examine your eyes?”  “No”, says Rufe, “it’s a telephone, for God’s sake!”  “What’s wrong with the telephones we have now?”, asks Syl.  They’re a hell of a lot better than what we had in the War.  Those damn things never worked right.”

 

“Well”, says Rufe, “Tillie says Edmund Fidèle just bought a new one for the store and was showing it off the other day to some customers.  It’s not connected to anything and you can carry it in your pocket wherever you go.  You can even see the person on the other end of the phone if you set it up right.  They call that ‘Facetime’.  And it has maps on it so you can see where you’re going.”

 

“What in hang would I need a map for?”, says George Bishop.  “I’ve never been past Miscouche with the horse, and when I need to go any farther, I take the train or the bus.  That’d be no good to me!”

 

“Tillie says you can even get mail on your IPhone”, says Rufe.  “What kind of mail?”, asks Clayton.  “They’re called ‘email’.”  “Well”, says Clayton, “I bet Fidèle at the Post Office won’t like that too much.  People gettin’ their mail off their phone.  If that email catches on, pretty soon Harold and Hilda won’t have any mail to deliver out in the country.”

 

“Who makes them there IPhones?”, asks Syl.  “Tillie says it’s a company called ‘Apple’”, Rufe replies.  “The apples are no good this year”, pipes up Émile Clovis.  “My August apples are full of worms”.  “Not that kind of apple, for Christ’s sake Émile”, growls Steve.  “Why don’t you get the batteries changed in that old hearing aid of yours?”

 

“Tillie says the women won’t be buying any of the new phones because they don’t want Delima to lose her job at the telephone office”, Rufe continues.  “Like hell”, roars Steve.  “That’ll be the day the women don’t want the latest thing around here.  Our lane is too long to get the wires up to the house, but if them new phones don’t need to be hooked up to anythin’, I bet Kathleen will be wantin’ one.”

 

“How in hell are you going to charge up the battery, Steve?”, asks Syl, with that snarky look that tells everybody he’s got one up on somebody.  “You ain’t even got the ‘lectricity up there!”  Syl slaps his knee, and even Émile Clovis is in on the joke.  He has a good laugh at Steve Ro’s expense, and sends a well-aimed gob of black tobacco juice toward the spitoon.

 

On and on it goes until the men eventually tired of this subject and turn to the more familiar topic of the summer weather and how it was affecting the crops.  I sit in the corner and wonder how these new phones will change things for my generation.  I can’t wait to get home, and start working on Mom to see if I can get my own IPhone.

 

Elva and I fall somewhere between old-fashioned and new adopters, probably closer to the latter.  We were the first family in Wellington to buy a family minivan in 1987, but we were slow off the mark when it came time to buying a flat-screen TV.  As for cellphones, I’ve only had one for work since 2006, and Elva’s had hers for about five years.

 

I remember reading an article ten years or so ago about the advent of computers – how they’d affect our lives, and the lives of our parents’ and our children’s generations.  The feeling was that, for our parents, computers would be nothing more than a curiosity.  For our generation, they would become a tool, a means to an end.  For our children, they would become a way of life, an essential element of almost everything they’d do.

 

Today, we’re presented with an infinity of choice when it comes to computing and communication devices: desktops, laptops, tablets, and smartphones.  We’re expected by our family, friends and co-workers to be ‘on’ all the time, 24 / 7.  As our dependence on these gadgets increases, we spend more and more time looking at screens, and less and less time talking to one another.

 

But, they’re not all bad.  I wouldn’t trade Skype time with my children and grandchildren for a phone call.  I love my wireless printer.  I like being able to do my banking over the internet, so much so that I haven’t been face-to-face with a teller in God knows how long. 

Soon, we won’t even know what a ‘teller’ was!  It’s another of those old-time occupations destined to disappear.  Just like the telephone operator who answered: “Number please?”, when I turned the crank on the old phone in Wellington. 

 

 

That old phone hangs on my son, Clément’s, wall in Edmonton.  It’s a shame he missed out on the conversation in Rufus MacLure’s barber shop that Saturday morning in 1963.  The old crank phone would mean so much more to him if he had.

THE BIG ONE!

 

Last Sunday, Ira Birt, Rus Melanson, Kent Wood and I headed east on Route 4 toward Pooles Corner, intending to cross over on Baldwin Road to the 48 Road, and back into town.  The other members of our group, the Over the Hill Gang – John MacQuarrie and Richard Birt – were absent; fortunately for them.  I was on my third pull, feeling strong, when my front wheel slipped off the edge of the pavement.  The shoulder was quite wet and soggy, and I lost the front wheel right away.  The bike flipped and I slid along the pavement, falling on my left side.  Imagine jumping out of a car moving at 35 km./hr. and you’ll get the general idea!
 

As I came to a stop, I saw Rus flying through the air out of the corner of my eye.  He landed heavily and rolled in the middle of the road, coming to a stop on his right side.  I got up, cursing at myself for being so stupid, and ran over to where Rus was lying.  He was unconscious, and having trouble breathing.  Blood was dripping from a cut on his left cheek, just below the eye.

 

We looked back to see that a fire truck had been following us just as the crash happened.  Ira and I went up the road to make sure no traffic was coming while Kent, a certified first responder, stayed with Rus.  The fireman called an ambulance and the RCMP, and I knelt beside Rus, hoping like hell he wasn’t badly hurt.  Kent thought Rus had the wind knocked out of him.  Sure enough, after too many long minutes of laboured breathing, he started to come around and began responding to us.

 

Kent made sure Rus’ spine was OK, and asked him where he was hurting before we let him get up into a sitting position.  By this time the ambulance had arrived and the EMTs took over.  Another fire truck from the Cardigan Fire Department and an RCMP cruiser pulled up and did their bit to control traffic and take down the details of the crash.  Because Ira didn’t give the right answer to a question he was asked and because his helmet was cracked, it was thought best to take him to the Montague Hospital; so a second ambulance was called.

 

I called Elva to come get me.  Ira did the same with his wife, Liz.  I stayed on the scene with the Cardigan Fire Chief, waiting for Elva to arrive so that we could load Rus’ bike and mine into the car.  The Chief was a nice guy and very concerned about our well-being.  I knew I was in pretty bad shape from the fall but, at that point, the combination of adrenaline and shock prevented me from feeling much pain; that would come later.

 

Elva arrived and, not long after, Liz.  We piled the bikes into our vehicles, headed for the Montague Hospital.  Kent had decided to ride back into town by himself.  He was the only one who stayed upright, so his bike was OK.  When we got to the Emergency Department, Rus was lying on a bed with an ice pack on his left shoulder, a large cut on his cheek and a smile on his face.  The sight of him brought tears to my eyes, as I’d been so worried about him.

 

Ira had been checked out for a possible concussion and had been told he was OK.  Rus was taken away to have his shoulder and cheek X-rayed.  We talked over what had happened and waited for Rus’ wife, Sandy, to arrive.  When she did, I gave her a hug and told her I was sorry; that the crash had been my fault. 

 

We watched as the young nurse bandaged Rus’ skinned knuckles and spread a bit of Polysporin on my knee and ankle.  We left the hospital, the three of us thankful for being vertical at least, and our wives drove us back to Charlottetown.  Elva and I dropped Rus’ bike off at his house and I headed home, anxious to get out of my blood-soaked gear.

 

It wasn’t a pretty sight when I stood under the shower head and inventoried the many scrapes and bruises on my old carcass.  There were patches of skin missing from my left elbow, knee, calf, and ankle, plus my right thumb.  I had pain in my ribcage on the left side, probably a cracked rib.  But the worst was my left upper thigh.  There, the road rash covered an area about ten by fifteen centimetres.  All of the scrapes were leaking quite profusely but, fortunately, none was very deep.  I cleaned them as best I could and tried to get comfortable lying on my side on the couch.  I knew I was in for a rough night.

 

Monday morning, I had to haul myself out of bed and prepare for a full day’s work, with six cases to prepare for that afternoon and a desk-full of decisions to review and sign.  I soon noticed pain in my left hip, my left knee and the inside of my lower left leg.  My road rash was hurting like hell and the wound on my upper thigh leaked through my dress pants all day.  I had to keep pulling the pant leg away to keep it from sticking to the skin.  That evening, Elva got me some dressing material from the drugstore which I taped over the wound to keep it from leaking onto my pants.

 

As I write this account, I’m one week removed from the crash.  I’m still haunted by the image of my good friend and riding mate struggling for breath.  It scared the shit out of me.  I’m in some pain but my body is healing normally.  My bike was toast; the frame cracked, and the handlebars twisted.  Danny MacQueen, worker of miracles, managed to find me a slightly used S-Works frame and had the bike back to me on Thursday afternoon.

 

I didn’t think I’d be ready to ride, but the sight of the bike was a temptation too great to resist.  I had to give it a try; like a stiff drink of rum to cure a hangover I guess!  So off I went, out to Pownal and back on Friday morning, to get the bugs out.  I was a bit nervous starting out but was glad to be back in the saddle again.

 

Elva and spent Father’s Day weekend in Saint John with my daughter, Sylvie, her husband, Ghislain, and our two grand-children, Samuel and Natalie.  I’d hoped to get out with Ghislain to follow up on our excellent ride a couple of weekends ago.  We did 62 km. together up west while Sylvie and Elva were attending grand-nephew Grady Gibbs’ baby shower, and sister-in-law Rose’s 60^th birthday celebration.  The day after, I participated in the Ride for Heart, finishing the 72-km. route with the first three riders.  Needless to say, I was getting into pretty good riding shape, and Elva and I had started going to hot yoga classes again.

 

I managed get in a 65 km. ride with Ghislain today.  Sylvie took this picture before we headed out.  He kicked my ass on the hilly roads around Saint John, but that’s OK.  At least I can still turn the pedals!

 

 

I know OTHG went out for a ride yesterday, minus Rus who is under doctor’s orders to stay off the bike for a couple of weeks.  We had a pretty bad crash two years ago after riding about 35,000 km. together incident-free.  I don’t know if it’s the law of averages catching up with us or if our reflexes are getting a bit slower as we age; I suspect it’s a bit of both.  Hopefully, we can overcome this setback and get back together again soon.

 

To her credit and to my great relief, Elva told me to get back on the bike as soon as I could.  I took her advice but, as for riding in a pace line with my buddies, that’s a hurdle that may prove harder to clear.  After all, this one was my fault...

ON GUNS AND SQUIRRELS!

　

I have a confession to make. As a youngster, I enjoyed blasting away at helpless little animals and birds: to demonstrate my skills as a marksman, to impress my friends and, just maybe, for the sheer pleasure of the kill.

I somehow convinced my long-suffering mother to buy me a BB gun when I was about nine years old. I argued that my friends had them; that they weren’t dangerous; that I’d be very careful; and that I’d saved up the money to buy one. So, after enduring my incessant whining, she eventually relented. I picked up the gun at the Post Office one day, bought some BBs at the Co-op, and ran home to practice shooting at cans and bottles in the back yard.

A couple of years after that, I convinced Mom to let me buy a pellet gun with money I’d saved up from my paper route. I had over thirty Journal-Pioneer customers and was paid the princely sum of one-half cent per paper; that’s about a dollar per week, plus tips. I was a good saver!

The pellet gun was far more powerful than the BB gun, and it got me into trouble the first day I had it. For some stupid reason, I aimed at our oil tank filter and hit it on my first shot. Furnace oil dripped onto the ground and I knew I was in big trouble. How would I explain this one to Mom?

I ran to the store and told her I’d made a hole in the oil tank filter. "But it wasn’t my fault! I aimed at the hinge on the garage door and struck it dead on. The pellet ricocheted off the hinge and came straight back and hit the oil tank filter. Honest to God, Mom!", I pleaded. Fortunately for me, she bought my story and no more was said about it. I’d learned my lesson.

The pellet gun and I were inseparable. I took it with me on my many trips to the woods and, especially, when I went to check my rabbit snares. I hoped I could kill a rabbit with the pellet gun, but it just wasn’t powerful enough. I needed a .22 rifle for that.

Cousin Aubrey, four years older than me, had one. He often took it with him when we went to the woods, which was practically every day after school and on Saturdays in the fall. One day, we were walking back to the village through George Bishop’s field. It was my turn to carry the gun.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spied a partridge standing at the edge of the woods. I whispered: "Partridge!", a signal for the others to stop in their tracks while I took aim. I lifted the gun to my cheek, peered down the v-notch sight, and ligned up my shot. Bang! Flutter of wings; feathers flying in all directions! "I got him!", I cried, "And right through the head too!"

Sure enough, the poor animal was mortally wounded. I picked him up and my proud feet hardly struck the ground as I walked home to show Mom. She was both surprised and impressed, and that roasted partridge was the tastiest fowl I’d ever eaten.

For my thirteenth birthday, I got my own .22 rifle. Today, it’s hard to imagine letting a thirteen-year-old have his own rifle, powerful enough to kill another person. But, I suppose Mom figured I could be into worse things than hunting and spending my spare time trudging through Fidèle Gallant’s woods. After the rifle came the .410 shotgun.

While I ate all the rabbits, ducks and partridges I shot, I didn’t eat the squirrels. Oh no! Those I shot for sport, for the pure pleasure of seeing them fall out of the tree. I had dozens of squirrel tails nailed to the wall in our garage. Not that they were easy to kill, hiding as they did in the tops of fir and spruce trees, but I was a pretty good shot.

Fast-forward to 2010. Elva and I live in Sherwood in a comfortable house with a nice yard where we’ve raised our three children. I hear the occasional pitter-patter of little feet, thinking a bird is scurrying back and forth across our roof or in one of the gutters. One morning though, the racket sounds like it’s coming from just above the ceiling of our family room.

I call the pest control guy and he talls me: "You’ve got squirrels, buddy. And it sounds to me like they’re building a nest around your bathtub. Buddy, if I answered every squirrel call I get, I wouldn’t have time for anything else. Here’s what you do..."

So off I went to Home Hardware to get some rat traps. "Put a slice of apple about the size of a Toonie on the trigger and spread a bit of peanut butter on it", the pest control guy had told me. "And make sure you attach the trap to something solid with a wire or a nail. ‘Cause them squirrels can drag a trap right with them if they ain’t dead!"

I placed three traps in the yard where I thought the squirrels might come across them. While setting the third one, I heard the second one snap. "Damn", I thought. "I didn’t set it right." But set it right I had. I had my first squirrel, dead as a doornail!

Twenty-nine squirrels later, we left our home on Ash Drive and settled into our condo in downtown Charlottetown, comfortable in the thought we’d left the yard work, the bugs and the four-legged critters behind for someone else to look after. And so we had ... until last Super Bowl Sunday when I heard the tell-tale pitter-patter of little feet above my head once again!

My cycling buddies, regaled often by stories of my varmint-trapping prowess, snorted: "It’s good enough for you! It took a while, but word spread from Sherwood to downtown that you were a squirrel hater, and the locals decided to get their revenge!" Four of the buggers have met their maker since I got the traps out again...

A few weeks ago, a friend sent me this endearing photo of a male squirrel in considerable distress, perhaps thinking it would tug at my heart strings and weaken my resolve. It didn’t.

If you’re wondering, my hunting days are over, and have been since my early twenties. Our three children were raised without the presence of guns and none of them owns one. I have friends who hunt for game, and I respect their right and desire to do so, but I’ve lost the urge myself. I don’t believe in owning a gun for self-protection. I hope the time never comes when I’ll feel I have to; I’d rather move.

As for the dear little squirrels, they’re free to come and go as they please, just as long as they don’t take a notion to move in with us!

WHAT IS TIME?

 

Ten days ago I had cataract surgery on my bad eye; the fifth surgery on  my eyes in the last eleven months and, hopefully, the last.  My opthalmologist tells me my retinas will need monitoring but, for now, everything is good.  With my bionic eye, I can see right through womens’ clothes, which isn’t always a good thing, by the way!  I've observed that people my age look way better with their clothes on.

Five short months from tomorrow, I’ll be flying to Toronto after my last official day of work to cycle in a Gran Fondo with my good buddies, the Over the Hill Gang.  It’s hard to believe.  It got me thinking about the subject of time and what it means to us at various stages in our lives. 

 

The drawing below illustrates what physicists call the ‘arrow of time’.  I don’t pretend to understand it, but it’s a nice picture!

 

 

Wikipedia defines ‘time’ as a dimension in which events can be ordered from the past through the present and into the future.  Time is also the measure of durations of events and the intervals between them. 

 

A physicist by the name of Sean Carroll explains the relationship between the passage of time and something called entropy.  ‘Entropy’ is defined as a measure of the degradation of an object or system, sort of a gradual decline into disorder. 

 

Here are two other definitions of time: “Time is what clocks measure”, and “Time is what keeps everything from happening at once.”  But, I don’t think anyone knows what time really is; just what effect it has.

We know that time has passed when a clean house gradually gets dirty.  We know that time is irreversible; like not being able to turn an omelet back into an egg once it’s become an omelet.  Time is a measure of the way we humans age.  At this stage in my own life, I call it ‘furniture disease’; that’s when your chest falls into your drawers!

In my case, time has meant different things at different times in my life.  When I was younger, I couldn’t wait to grow up: to get real skates instead of bob-skates; to move from la petite école to la grande école; to graduate from high school.  As a young adult, I couldn’t wait to land my first real job, to have children, and to see them grow up. 

But then things happened that reminded me time can go by too fast: my Mom left us too suddenly; my children grew up too fast; I didn’t get to spend enough quality time with my best friend, the mother of my children; the interesting jobs ended too soon and forced me to move on to something else.

I’m surrounded by people my age who can’t wait to retire; they’re counting the days.  I ask them: “Do you realize that you’re wishing your life away?”  I work with colleagues who are in poor health and can’t seem to get their heads around the idea that quality time spent doing something you like is worth far more than the money you make doing something you don’t.  I tell them that’s why I’m pulling the plug in five months’ time.  They look at me strangely.

As I prepare to enter the third phase of my life, le troisième âge, I do so with a great deal of enthusiasm and anticipation.  Despite a bunch of eye surgeries and two carpal tunnel releases in the last eleven months, my old carcass is holding up quite well.  I like to think of myself as a well-maintained old car; the body’s got a few dents and scratches, but the motor’s good!

Within my extended circle of friends are a couple who are battling very serious illnesses.  I wonder how they define time, or if they even think about it.  Maybe they don’t want to...

I’m at that stage in life when I’d like time to slow down, so that I can savour every moment.  I’m well over my materialistic phase and into the experiential.  I can’t wait to see the world and to knock a few more items off my bucket list.  I figure I’ve got at least fifteen good years left and I can’t wait to get started.  Ah shit!  There I go again!

REMEMBERIN’ STOMPIN’ TOM

One day in 1969 when I was in my last year of high school, Mom asked me if I’d heard this ‘crazy’ song called Bud the Spud by a guy who used to live ‘Up West’.  She said they’d been playing it all day on CJRW in Summerside and that I should listen to it.  In those days, we teenagers listened to Honky Tonk Women by the Rolling Stones, Suspicious Minds by Elvis, and the Beatles’ Come Together.  I really had no interest in a hick cowboy from Skinner’s Pond.

Eventually, I heard the song and laughed my way through it, too embarrassed to admit to any of my friends that I kind of liked it.  And when I saw Stompin’ Tom Connors on the Tommy Hunter Show one night I was hooked.  I’d never seen anybody dress like him, talk like him, or sing like him; not on TV anyway!  I thought: “This guy’s nuts, but there’s something about him!”

So I thought I’d share a few stories about my favorite Canadian troubadour.  The first takes me back to orientation week at the University of Prince Edward Island in September 1970.  I was a country kid living in the big city of Charlottetown for the first time, and more than a bit overwhelmed by the experience.  Knowing that Stompin’ Tom was headlining the Saturday evening bash was somehow reassuring.

The day before the big party, I noticed a couple of strange-looking hippies driving around campus in an old van with California license plates.  They both had long hair and beards, and wore beaded headbands.  Saturday night came around and, next thing we knew, the two hippies are on stage, opening for Stompin’ Tom.  Seals and Crofts, no less!  Those of my vintage may remember them for their million-selling album, Summer Breeze, and another pretty good song they wrote called Diamond Girl.  They might have been good but we couldn’t wait for them to get the hell off the stage!

The next time I saw Stompin’ Tom was in Fredericton where I attended UNB and he played in the Lord Beaverbrook Arena.  I got myself in a party mood with the rest of the Island contingent and we got as close to the front as we could.  Tom came out with his Mason jar of ‘shine’ and his stompin’ board and soon had the place in a frenzy.

He told his joke about the drunk guy who staggered out of the Horseshoe Tavern in Toronto, leaned on the open front window of a taxi and asked the driver: “Hey buddy, ya’ got enough room in yer’ cab for a pizza and a 2-4 a’ beer?”  “Sure”, says the cabby.  “Blahhhhh! goes the guy”, Tom said, “Threw up all over the seat!”  And he had an answer for the heckler in the crowd at UNB: “Buddy!” says Tom.  “The last time I saw a mouth that big it had a hook in it!”

I watched Stompin’ Tom on TV every chance I got and I listened to his music, learning the words to Tillsonburg, Sudbury Saturday Night, The Ketchup Song, Muk Tuk Annie, The Coal Boat Song, Margie’s Cargo, The Hockey Song,The Mule-Skinner Blues, and one of my favourites, Big Joe Mufferaw.

One day just a few years ago I was walking to a meeting in Gatineau just across the Ottawa River from Parliament Hill and I noticed a sign on a high-rise Québec provincial government building: “Édifice Joseph-Montferrand”.  As I walked along, I mumbled to myself: “Joseph Montferrand; Jos Montferrand; Joe Mufferaw.  No!  It can’t be!”  So I looked it up on the internet and, sure enough, the guy Stompin’ Tom wrote about was a legendary logger, strongman and hero of the working people who lived along the Ottawa River in the early 1800s.

My last Stompin’ Tom story goes back to the Canada Games in Corner Brook in 1999.  My son, Clément, was a member of the PEI hockey team playing against Newfoundland and Labrador.  One of the parents, our ‘spiritual leader’, Sandra Ellis, decided she’d barge into the TSN broadcast booth and ask them to play Bud the Spud every time our boys scored a goal.  They did!  To the opposing team’s great consternation!  Our boys won 6-3 and the PEI team was featured on the daily TSN broadcast.

I bought Stompin’ Tom’s first book, Before the Fame as soon as it came out.  I was fascinated, finding his life far more interesting than I’d ever imagined.  A friend of mine believes there are two kinds of people in this world: victims and survivors.  Stompin’ Tom is the epitome of survival.  Those who haven’t read the book should do so.  If you don’t find it inspiring, you’re beyond hope! 

One of my favourite stories is about the pick-up line he used to lure his future bride, Lena Walsh.  It seems he was returning to the stage from having a few beers in the second-floor lounge at J.R.’s Place, a famous watering hole in Charlottetown where Stompin’ Tom often played   He's shown in the picture below with the proprietor, Johnny Reid.  He met the barmaid, Lena, coming up the stairs with a tray-full of beer.  They stopped, their eyes met, and he asked her: “Are those real or did you get them outa’ the Simpsons catalogue?”  Not my kind of line, but it worked for him!

Like many, I was saddened by the news of Stompin’ Tom’s death and I’ve read the many tributes in his honour over the past week.  Last evening I viewed his memorial service in Peterborough on TV, the town that added the brand “Stompin’” to his name.  I watched proudly as prominent Canadians like Adrienne Clarkson and Ken Dryden told how much he meant to them and to Canada, and it made me proud to be Canadian.  I listened to a wonderful poem by Island MP Gail Shea and watched intently as Tom Connors, Jr. offered a heartfelt tribute on the family’s behalf.

It reminded me once again that our country’s real leaders are not the pretenders on Parliament Hill, the Bay Street financiers, the Calgary oilmen, or the overpaid NHL brats our kids look up to.  No, the real leaders are those who inspire us with their courage, their sincerity and their love of country.  They understand what it means to be Canadian, and they teach us by their example.

Stompin’ Tom wasn’t perfect by any measure, and he didn’t pretend to be.  He didn’t have the best voice and he didn’t write the kind of lyrics that will elevate him to the pantheon of great performing artists.  But he was an original, true to his style, and true to his fans.  You either liked him or you didn’t.  He had a voice that made Johnny Cash sound like a soprano, and I loved it.

I’ll miss you Stompin’ Tom…

LANCE’S ADMISSION – WHAT DOES IT MEAN?

I didn’t watch much of Oprah’s interview with Lance Armstrong this week.  He finally admitted what all of us already knew.  So what?

What does it mean when the man who won the toughest sporting event in the world seven times in a row admits he couldn’t have done it without doping?

Why did he admit it?  Why now?  Is he remorseful?  Or is he trying to limit the damage from the many pending lawsuits filed against him?  Does he want to kindle interest in a book and a movie about his life as a way of getting out of the financial hole he’s dug for himself?

I think the answers can be found in the questions.  You just have to look at the way celebrities conduct themselves these days to understand where this is going.

I started cycling about thirty years ago, by myself, and to keep in shape for cross-country skiing.  Over the years, it’s become my favourite form of exercise and a wonderful pastime.  In a good year I pedal 5,000 kilometres, and I plan to stay in the saddle for as long as I can stay up on two wheels.

Since 2004, I’ve spent many pleasant hours cycling along Island roads with my buddies, the Over the Hill Gang.  We’ve gone from North Cape to East Point together, around the Cabot Trail, and on century (100-mile) rides all over the Maritimes, in Maine, and in Québec. 

In 2006, Russ Melanson, Gerry Ridgeway, Richard Birt, Ira Birt and I travelled to France to climb Mont Ventoux, a 1,600-metre high monster that’s been included in the Tour fourteen times.  It features an average gradient of almost 8% over 22 kilometres and is a brutal test; not for the faint of heart (or lung!). 

We took a couple of breaks on the way up, one in front of the Tom Simpson memorial, just short of the summit.  Simpson died of a heart attack on Ventoux in the 1967 Tour de France.  The autopsy showed he had alcohol and amphetamine in his system.

Elva and I visited France in the summer of 2005.  Quite by accident, we happened to be staying in a small town in the Pyrénées called Saint-Lary the very day the Tour de France cyclists rode up the Pla d’Adet, a climb that reminds me of North Mountain on the Cabot Trail.  We saw Lance ride by right in front of us, wearing the leader's yellow jersey

That year’s tour, the last of Armstrong’s seven wins, took place over a twenty-three day period, with two rest days.  The riders covered almost 3,600 kilometers in that time, an average of 171 kilometres per day, at an average speed of over 41 kilometers per hour.  These guys are machines, whether doped up or not!  We’ve since learned that all three men who stood on the podium in 2005, Armstrong, Ivan Basso and Jan Ulrich, were doping.

The organization that runs cycling, the Union cycliste internationale has declared that no one won the seven Tours from 1999 to 2005.  Of the 180 riders who raced each of those years, so many were doping that it would be impossible to find even three who were clean!

The only one who seemed to be above the rest was Lance; until now.  What happened?  The simple answer is: like all the rest he got caught!  That he managed to escape for so long is simply a reflection of his vast resources and the network that protected him.

Why did he do it?  Lance’s team, the US Postal Service, decided they would do whatever it took to win the Tour.  And they did, seven times.  Armstrong was the leader of the eight-rider team and every other rider and team support member catered to him; including the doctor.  It’s suspected that all of his teammates who rode in the Tour were doping.  It was expected of them.

So, if everybody was doping, why did Lance win seven times in a row?  We don’t really know the answer to this question.  It may be that Lance, doped or not, was the best of the lot.  Or, as many now suspect, he may have been on something better than the others, provided to him by the best team doctor in the business.

I’ll never forget where I was when Ben Johnson beat the snot out of Carl Lewis in Seoul, South Korea, in the 1988 Summer Olympics.  He shattered the world record for the 100 metres in 9.79 seconds!  It was one of my proudest moments as a Canadian.  And I’ll never forget where I was when I learned he was on the steroid Winstrol.  No wonder he ran like a racehorse!

Poor Ben was disgraced; but only because he got caught.  His doctor wasn’t as good at hiding the doping as other runners’ were.  It is a fact that only one of the top five runners in that race never tested positive for a banned substance.  Maybe, just maybe, they were all doping in that race.  Maybe, in a distorted way, our Ben won fair and square.

Contrast these so-called athletes with, in my opinion, the greatest athlete Canada ever produced, Terry Fox.  He ran from St. John’s to west of Thunder Bay on one leg, covering a distance averaging almost a marathon a day, in all kinds of weather, and in great pain.  He ran 5,373 kilometres in 143 days and stopped only when he could go no further. 

Contrast the Terry Fox Foundation with Livestrong.  Which are you prouder of?  The answer for me is quite clear.

Unfortunately, we'll never know whether Lance Armstrong was the best professional cyclist of his era.  Not even he knows the answer to that question.  From what I know of the man, that must be the toughest question he faces.

Is he sorry because he cheated, or is he sorry because he got caught?  Time and Lance’s actions will provide us with a better answer.  I’m willing to give the man a chance at redemption.  Everybody deserves that.