The Problem With Pittsford

Recently a woman was shot in Pittsford. Yes, that Pittsford. I can't recall a shooting there since that homicide some years ago when that elderly woman was gunned down during a robbery. Those are the only ones I remember since moving here in 1989.

I should've seen it coming though. The strange omens have been there. Like the premise of a bad Sci-Fi Channel movie or the plot of a mediocre Steven King novel, Pittsford must be built upon an Indian burial ground.

The first sign was when I got done swimming at the Nazareth Pool and walked into the men's locker room and was approached by a man as I was removing my jammers.

"Hey, do you want to see something strange?"

"Umm, you've got to realize that an ass-whoopin' often follows that line in a locker room."

He laughed, "No, not like that, look here."

He held up a pair of circa 1970 threadbare swim trunks torn completely from stem to stern. The only thing that would retain any of the wearer's dignity was a thin and see-through mesh.

"I caught it on the lane line and it ripped it wide open. Damn thing attacked me. Had to get up and leave before they called security on me."

Stage one complete: Inanimate objects attack. Break to commercial for Sham-Wow.

Later that week I was driving home through Pittsford when I saw a mailman running down a driveway looking over his shoulder. I was waiting for a ferocious, drooling Pit Bull traveling at Mach I speed but what appeared flapping and running down the driveway in black-feathered barbarism was two enormous turkeys. Yeah, that's right, turkeys. And not like the jive-turkeys of the 70's...honest to goodness Meleagris Gallopavo; Wild Turkey...not the drinking variety either. I had a moment of wondering if I was seeing this or if I should check myself into the psychiatric center when I looked in my rear-view mirror and saw a woman laughing so hard as to compromise her continence. The Tom caught the mailman and began nipping at his elbow. The mailman put on a burst of speed and opened up a slight gap. He was half-concerned and half-amused. The light turned green and I was denied seeing the outcome.

Break to commercial for Cash For Gold

I combed the newspaper headlines for days waiting for: Turkey Massacre or Postman Makes Tetrazzini of Attackers.

They might have to add to the postal service oath: Neither rain nor snow nor sleet nor dark of night nor Wild Freakin' Maniacal Turkeys shall stay these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.

So you see the signs were there all the time if you know what to look for. I'm going swimming in Webster for a few days until the craziness in Pittsford settles down.

Canary in a Coal Mine

The trail was muffled from the night's snow-globesque snow. The trees were coated with a thin layer of what looked like icing...it reminded me of those Iced Animal Crackers or cookies. I'm never sure which is which. An involved, scientific and hilarious analysis can be found here: http://www.fhsu.edu/biology/Eberle/AnimalCookies.html





I took the trail out past Victor Hills Golf Club. There was about two inches of fluff but the crust underneath made steering interesting. You didn't so much steer as lean your body the way you wanted to go.





A red fox stopped several hundred yards in front of me. He was in profile but turned his head at my approach. He allowed me until 50 yards until he trotted off down an embankment scarred by the tracks of four-wheelers. "When I was your age kid, they only had three wheels and didn't have this fancy electric start. You actually had to pull a cord. Threw my back out during the big frost of '85. Damned thing froze up! You kids got it easy I tells ya!"





In the area of Rte. 444 and Dryer Rd. I saw an old caboose. I don't suppose they are making any new cabooses and this wood-sheathed car probably hasn't caboosed in some time. It was red and suffered some graffiti but it looked friendly and even though a sign cautioned about not trespassing and even cited the proper New York State Penal Law code (140.05) it is only a violation (less than a misdemeanor) and the next time I'm near there I'm going to take a picture and maybe get closer than I should. I suppose that citing the proper law code will keep people away.





"Hey Gladys look at that wonderful caboose!"

"Well, thanks, I have been working out--"


"NO! Up there on the tracks! Let's go!"


"Oh dear, we shouldn't, look at that sign. They cited the proper law code."


"You are right. They mean business, huh? Oh well, hey look a round leaf."





My back is my over-training canary in a coal mine and today I woke up and good ol' tweety, well, let's just hope he rests in peace. I was hoping the ride would loosen up the tightness in my lower back and alleviate some of the pain but afterwards I was walking around like Fred Sanford, pictured below:

I had, after consulting various online, offline and inline self-proclaimed experts, determined that I should have a recovery week that was precisely 2/3 of my last training week in hours. This was arbitrary and I'm reminded of the quote in Candide (sorry for another quote from that piece...I'm moving on to a Hemingway and am continuing with a Stephen King so hopefully this will be the last one), "I had no need of a guide to learn ignorance."

In the future I'll just go by feel or listen to Kitima who said, "That seems like a lot for a recovery week." She was right and my lower back confirmed it...I stumble off to the shower and bid you all adieu for a bit.

Voltaire on Iron-douches and mega-training weeks

So I'm reading Voltaire's Candide. It sounds heavier than it is. If you have an afternoon and are feeling philosophical with a tinge of cynicism I say have at it.

One line struck me as being descriptive of certain Iron-distance competitors and their spectators: "Have they always been liars, cheats, traitors, brigands, weak, flighty, cowardly, envious, gluttonous, drunken, grasping, and vicious, bloody, backbiting, debauched, fanatical, hypocritical, and silly?"

Perhaps I'm still stinging from the umbrella jabs in the eyes at Ironman Lake Placid with nary an "excuse me".

The main thrust of Candide, revealed at the end, and please excuse this spoiler if you were just about to pick up your copy that the college bookstore wouldn't take back because of the excessive yellow highlighting, is that we need something to keep ourselves occupied physically in order to keep our minds off of the miserable human condition. We need to tend our gardens, so to speak, in Voltairease, so our brains don't wander and lock onto difficult and heavy philosophizing, causing cerebral implosion. Have you ever seen a bimbo or himbo watch Jeopardy?

Now I'm not quite as acerbic as Voltaire (I'm only 41 so give me some more life to live) to give an either "distracting inquietude" or a "lethargic disgust" choice on life but I do tend to my garden to lighten the load on the ol' thinkin' cap. My garden happens to be triathlon.

I find that a 20-hour training week does wonders for forgetting about mortality and possible after-lives. Will I come back in the next life as a dung beetle? During halves and full iron-distance races I'm reduced to just worrying about ingesting food and going as fast as I can to reach some sort of shelter. Sounds like Voltaire was on to something. I'm having an existential crisis right now so I'm going to jump on the trainer and do some intervals at FTP--that oughta cure me.