I reserve the right to lie on this blog. It’s my blog, and a lot of things that happen to me aren’t that entertaining or interesting, and if I’m going to become rich and famous as an amusing obstacle course race blogger it simply won’t do to to relate the boring stuff. I’m hardly the only one—I’ve always suspected that people who have incredibly “remarkable” stories usually don’t, and I know that most magazines will gladly sell a cover story for enough ad pages—and I’m only doing it for entertainment purposes rather than to try to sell you on anything (apart from said entertainment), so I don’t feel bad about it.
For example, a couple weeks ago I spotted a typo in the Ontario Traffic Manual. That document provides design guidance for roads, and it said that a certain type of sign in a certain type of situation should be posted every 20 meters—which seemed way too close together, so I emailed them, and they agreed that it should have been 200 meters, and that they’ll correct it in the next edition.
Now, as exciting as alerting someone to a minor error in their guidebook that will lead to an eventual correction might sound, I’ve decided that I need to jazz it up a bit. Thus, I’m declaring myself Savior of Canada. If you bike in Ontario—and who in Canada doesn’t?—my correction will literally save your life. You’re welcome.
Despite being the Savior of Canada, workouts don’t always go perfectly, and today’s was no exception. Now, in reality, what happened is this: I ate some junk food before bed last night, and it didn’t agree with my stomach, which made it really hard for me to fall asleep last night, so I got maybe three hours of sleep. So, when I got to the workout, I didn’t have full energy levels, and I crashed about halfway through. I made it through, but my rowing sprints were easily 6 seconds per 500 meters slower than my usual sprint pace.
Again, I’m already falling asleep, and that’s only 35% the sleep deprivation. So to be more non-reverent, let’s alter reality a bit.
It still starts with munching on a bit of junk food last night. See, there was a child desperately selling candy for her basketball team, and if I didn’t buy some they weren’t going to be able to go to the state tournament in Sacramende, so I did buy some, and then right afterword I got mugged, but I didn’t have any money on me, so in order to appease the mugger I agreed to devour all of the candy without even unwrapping it while also performing a one-man Argentine tango, thus giving the mugger his first ever smile. Then he punched me, so I punched him back and knocked him out, but that’s another tale.
Anyhow, the gastrointestinal distress interfered with my rest yesterday, although it seemed to subside nicely this morning. At least until I got to my workout class.
Unfortunately, workouts often involve some bending, and jumping, and stretching, and squeezing, and various other things that can shuffle the various winds loose from their pancreatic coils. Now, the Savior of Canada is well known for his control. He would never, ever, ever unleash rectal thunder on his adoring public. And so he practiced control.
Push-ups? No problem. Farmer walks? Easy-peasy. Tire flips? Downright joyful.
But no good thing can last. Eventually, the workout became more taxing, particularly to that network of sphincter muscles that are responsible for blocking the many tubes, channels, and passageways that might allow flatus to rumble forth unbidden—including, of course, that massive sphincter serving as rear gatekeeper for the whole works.
The first sign of danger came on the treadmill sprints, but I was able to shut the system down and power through. The aforementioned rowing, with the associated folding and unfolding, proved to be more difficult, and the strain clearly affected my performance. The various core exercises were even worse: How is one to perform a Russian Twist with a 14-pound medicine ball in your hands and the equivalent amount of methane in your belly? But the Savior of Canada found a way. He thought of the spirits of the Spartans and the Warriors and the Mudders and the Muckers and the Froggers and everything else that’s inspirational in the world, and he powered through, and he did it, all while referring to himself in the third person.
But success turned out to be his undoing. After the core work, he felt completely confident that his enemy had been vanquished—but the workout wasn’t quite finished. ‘Twas an innocuous shoulder raise that broke through the sphincter seal that had resisted toe-to-bars and bear crawls and squat jumps too. But it did, and with it…
The sound was something like if you took Bonnie Tyler in the midst of the climax of “Total Eclipse of the Heart” in one hand, and Bonnie Tyler in the midst of the climax of “Holding out for a Hero” in the other, and slapped their mouth-flaps together at a rapid 180 Hertz.
While the sound horrified people, the scent of the gallons of toxic tummy gas was what really caused the problem. It was like if you buried 300 pounds of meat loaf in a sulfur pit with Meat Loaf and let them marinate for 87 days (before adding Meat Loaf) and then 16 more seconds after adding Meat Loaf. We opened all of the windows, and evacuated, and purchased hazmat suits for all of the neighbors within 6 miles, but it wasn’t enough. Fortunately, I don’t know the names of the seven people who died, so they don’t matter. And in any event, the number of lives saved by the Savior of Canada justify a few trifling sacrifices.
It’s good to be a hero.