One of the Best Three

Warren Haggard got up at 5:30 am, the morning after the snowstorm which had dumped 15 cm of powder snow on his beloved rink. A rink which had been devastated by the previous week's thaw, where plus Saltshaker temperatures had caused it to melt and water ran off the carefully groomed surface in torrents.

So he started shovelling. Shovelling slushy snow which weighed so much that he was soon puffing like Charlie Sheen, chain-smoking and rambling, in his interview on ABC's 20-20. Wheezing and sweating, with a few well-chosen curses thrown in for good measure, he kept at it, lifting scoopfuls over the already formidable banks which served as "boards" for his little-used ice palace.

Detouring into the house for an quick injection of Red Bull, he made a slight tactical error of boasting about his feat to his wife Merle, who, roused from sleep, grumbled, "What about that leaky tap? And the caulking around the bathtub? And my breakfast?" Warren retreated quickly.

He'd had little success attracting his grandson to share his passion for hockey, as the boy was inclined more to academics. "He sure didn't get that from me!" thought Warren, whose inclinations tended towards ABS - Anything But School. When pushed to get into the great outdoors, his grandson Eggbert had been quick to comment, "Papa, I'm 4 years old and I can print and write my name. I can write easy sentences in French and English. I can count bilingually from 1 to 100. Nana says you still can't do that!" "Point well taken, Eggbert"

So Warren, after he'd iced the rink for the 700th time that winter, and proudly observed the pristine surface gloss, wondered what he was going to do with it. "Pros would be lucky to skate on it" he muttered.

The annual NHL Alumni game - an outdoor affair - was scheduled for the next day. Every year, the Oldtimers would come to the Town of Ohville, and following a precedent set by Paul Henderson and Ron Ellis, choose a charity which would benefit from the hundreds which would watch their fluid motion exploits.

This year, household names from earlier years - forward line combos such as the Production Line, the Maginot Line and the Straight Not Gay Line, as well as defence pairings like the Neanderthals, the Concussers and the Turnbuckle Twins were scheduled to whip whoever and whatever Ohville might manage to put before then as a team.

"Sacrificial offering" thought Warren.

An alarm bell rang in the sports halls of town. "This ice is disastrous!" yelled the president of Rotary, who had assumed the responsibility for the outdoor venue. We've shovelled and flooded and the more we do the worse it gets!" "We'll going to have to cancel" he moaned. "Does anyone know where we might be able to relocate?" he pleaded. Dull silence. Finally, a new member offered, "I know this odd duck out in the Back 40. Warren Something-or-Other. He has a rink which he treats better than his family. Almost as good as his truck. I understand that his ice is in pretty good shape"

A delegation of made the trip to check out the feasibility of Warren's rink. They were impressed. Would you mind 1000 people trampling thru your wife's rose bushes in order to watch the game?" "No problem for me. Don't mention that to Merle though"

That afternoon, Warren watched with pride as the first of the NHLers hit the ice, stopped, started, spun, kicked and generally abused it. "Feels good! No boards, so we"ll play like we did as kids - no raising, no slapshots!" was the consensus.

The game took place in front of 946 Ohville fans, who cheered lustily for the All Star group of Firefighters and Police, who lost 13 - 2 to the effortless pros, who played like they did when they were 10 year olds, laughing, encouraging, carefree. "I'd forgotten how much I loved this game!" said one elated former pro. "I'll drink to that!" exclaimed Billy 'Skid' Row, currently fighting a very public DUI charge. When the NHLers were leaving for a reception downtown, a former Canadien, Claude Hopper, whose skating had benefitted enormously by his exposure on Battle of the Blades, said, "That's one of the best 3 outdoor rinks I've ever been on!"

Warren was careful not to ask him how many he'd skated on.

Storm Aftermath

The next-day aftermath of the best snowfall of the year is seen in these photos taken on a cross country ski tour of Win Nordic yesterday, February 3 2011.

The snowbanks surrounding Sebbies Rink are beginning to rival the height of actual hockey boards - although pucks are much easier to lose!

The 800 metre trail which constitutes Win Nordic enjoyed a much-needed revival with the 30 cm dumping of fresh powder snow, and they now offer great classic skiing.

Now all we need is for grandson Sebastian, and his sister Skarlytt, even though only 4 and 2 years old respectively, to learn to love the great out-of-doors and the sports pleasures associated with it!

Then they will some day be able to venture forth and exhaust themselves like their grandfather will no doubt be doing this weekend at Deep River's Silver Spoon Ski Fest in the 15k Classic Ski Race!

2011 Silver Spoon Cross Country Race

Just prior to the Mono Nordic Cross Country Ski Race yesterday in Orangeville, I took the time to strip down and have my photo taken with a number of other contestants.

Wheras a number of the younger competitors elicited 'oooohhs' and 'awwws' from the female contingent during the photo op, y'er obedient nibs noted few.

As a matter of fact, one lady commented as she was turning on her Salomen heels to leave, "Fer Chrissakes, put it back on!"

Nevertheless, the day was a success, as I managed to elude the ultimate humiliation of being whupped in the 5k mass start race - this time by a number of 10 year old boys.

Two factors came into play. First, I'd failed to register on time, so I had no bib number and, although taking part, would have been an automatic DNF.

Secondly, I was so engrossed in gossipping with my pal Dr Dave about hockey, the Laffs and Phil Kessels' abysmal last place selection in the NHL All Star Classic, that I'd failed to note the race start.

So, thanking the Lord for small mercies, I subsequently blasted out of the start some 15 minutes later, only to suffer anaerobia once around the corner and out of sight.

Nevertheless, putting persistence to the fore, at the finish, Emily Norris and I played, "After you, Alphonse" until clearly frustrated, she blew by me within 15 metres of the line, muttering, "Out of the way, old man!"

Another successful race, one which no doubt will put me in good stead for next week's 15k Silver Spoon Classic in Deep River!

Auto Racing Is Boring

My wife says, "If you think I'm going to spend 10 seconds watching cars go round in circles, lap after mindless lap, then think again, Old Man!"
Attendance at all levels of racing is dropping to record lows, from black-eyed Bernie Ecclestone's F1 to John Casale's nearly vacant Flamboro Speedway.
Joyce has a point. Even the most ardent of supporters have a siesta halfway through NASCAR's Coca Cola 600, some 4 hours, 400 laps and 20 yellow-flagged cautions later, before racing finally breaks out in the final 50 laps.
If you're going to be there at the finish, what's the point of racing for the first 350 laps when all you have to do is follow the leader, who will no doubt burn out his engine eventually, trying to prove how macho he is?
It's about as exciting as watching cars drive by on Hwy 401. Maybe a little less.
Whether it's NASCAR, Formula 1, IZOD Indy Cars or Flamboro Thunder cars, racing has to be set up for either the family or, more importantly, women.
In the good old bad old days, Pinecrest Speedway had a Powder Puff Division, women only, racing their husband's or boyfriend's cars. It was a ball! Some of them would be lapped 5 times in a 6 lap race. Others would throw the fear of the Lord in anybody that came near them, such as the Starter, light poles, the pit gate, the grassy infield or fellow competitors. Lorainne 'Never Lift' Hallahan comes to mind.
Racetrack owners seem to believe that faster cars are more exciting. Ain't so. That nice looking cars provide a more professional look and make a better field. Not true. That throwing a lot of yellows makes it more interesting. Nope. Pinecrest might have thrown a yellow if a driver was hanging out of a burning car unconscious. Might not, too. Depends if he was any good or not.
Tough competition is OK, but if the babe in the 18th row doesn't know that the guy driving the #5 car looks like Brad Pitt, it all goes for nought.
There has to be family stuff going on.
"Ladies and gents, let me introduce the marching band from Orillia Secondary School. They will entertain you with 1 lap of the track - probably doing it faster than Mary Lou May just did in the Powder Puff race heh! heh! heh! - with all the tunes that won them second place in the CNE competition 2 weeks ago. Let's hear it for the Orillia Marching Band!
After that, folks, please take a walk through our massive tent outside, which shows all manner of foods grown locally and which are for sale. Better get over there quick before the supply of hot hot hot dogs, crispy french fries and cold cold Coca Cola is sold out!
There's also singing groups, a fiddle contest and a bunch of old guys showing off their restored antique cars!
And did I tell you that our race winners from last week will be there to chat and sign autographs?
Enjoy the intermission, folks, we'll be bringing you the Feature race shortly!"
Auto racing boring? Not in this scenario!

This Soup Should be Canned

Colin Campbell is a great guy - or, at least so says Bob McCown of The Fan 590. McCown says, "Campbell is honest, personable, hardworking and always available to sports media"

He said nothing about Campbell's being competent.

People tend to honour and preserve what they are. After all, it's taken them 50, 60 - maybe even 70! - years to figure out why they're hanging around here on planet earth, so right, wrong or indifferent, they're going protect their hard won identity.

So when Campbell, as NHL disciplinarian, is put on the spot to make a judgment, say, as in Matt Cooke's cowardly, blindside hit on Marc Savard, his instincts will probably say, "This SOB Cooke should get 30 games and $50k fine!" Then he'll think, "I don't want a grievance from the Player's Union though - nobody's ever been handed such a penalty. And there's no specific rule that you can't make a blindside hit - even though Cooke raced almost from his own blue line to nail Savard, one of the smallest players in the NHL. And I want to keep the sports ink-stained wretches and broadcasters on side, so I'd better be able to give them credible reasons. And I'm reporting to Daly who's a politician, and who will challenge anything I propose beyond a slap on the wrist, and I don't want to get a 'Satisfactory Minus' on my appraisal in case Bettman starts asking questions. I think I'll just go with the flow - just like the referees did the nite of the game and say I have no grounds for a suspension or fine."

So Cooke (and any goon with similar intentions) escapes scot-free to blindside again at will. As long as they don't hit them in the head with the end-to-end rush with which they impale their helpless victim on the boards and glass.

So much for one superstar-in-the-making. Like Steve Moore after the courage-challenged hit-from-behind by Bertuzzi, I suspect that Savard will never be back. Or if he is, he'll be a shadow of his former self.

Let Campbell apply to join McCown on the Fan. See how the buddy concept works then.

It says here that before the NHL becomes an even greater laughing stock, this Soup should be canned.

Speechless

I had just finished a delivery to Waterloo and was returning to Hwy 401 via a 2 lane road which was backed up with bumper-to-bumper traffic, all behind a heavily overloaded pickup truck which was wending its way at a top speed of 60 kph.

Eventually, with cars passing this mobile chicane and turning off onto other roads in frustration, I was able to get close enough to read the license plate OLD.BERT

"Old Bert!" I exclaimed, that's my brother-in-law, the millionaire farmer!"

I watched as he slowed, then stopped in front of an impressive home in Westmount, where a refrigerator stood alongside a paved driveway. I thought it looked pretty good for a fridge to be scrapped and sent to recycle, but stranger things have happened on Bert's Monday morning salvage hunt for items for which he would be paid at the scrap dealer.

Bert had a problem with this one. It was too big to fit in the remaining room in the truck, and too heavy for him to hoist. He gave his pal Jack, who rode shotgun, a knowing look and Jack immediately passed a sledgehammer through the open window.

With two mighty blows the door went flying, hinges torn asunder. Going to the back of the unit, he took more swings at the compressor unit, and refrigerant suddenly exploded wildly from a ruptured hose.

Turning to Jack he smiled, "Looks like this is one unit we won't have to pay to have an environmental vacuum!"

With the compressor motor and the door removed, Bert was able to lift the items into the truck and tie them into place with an old electrical cord.

As he was about to leave, he turned and was surprised to note a person staring at him from the driveway, a look of astonishment on his face. With his snappy blue coveralls, he looked like an installation or maintenance person. He had a dollie. The label on his uniform said "Sears".

"Sir" he said, "I just went up the driveway a couple of minutes ago to dispose of the cardboard and wooden skid and was returning to pick up this brand new state of the art fridge, for which our customer has just paid $3,000. Do you have any suggestions as to what I can tell him?"

For the first time in the 44 years I have known him, in spite of a notorious fluency which matches that of Trudeau, Clinton or Obama, Bert stood staring open mouthed, uncomprehending and speechless.

Tri2Win takes on the Classics

Never to be confused with the Canadian National Cross Country Ski Team's Ivan Babikov (left) or Devon Kershaw (right) I nevertheless continue to train for the upcoming 12k Colpoy's Loppet in Wiarton January 25 and Deep River's 15k Silver Spoon on February 7. Both are classic races. Today, following 15 cm of powder snow being meticulously groomed by Ross Martin of the Mono Nordic Ski Club in Orangeville, I did 6 loops of 1.5k each, persevering until the start of 'Don's Downer' - a steep uphill for cardio heroes only - where I took the Kid's Cutoff and returned to the viaduct over the pond. The Toko Red wax on my Peltonen skating skis gripped like a Tim Horton bearhug and flew like a puck slapped by superstar Cory Hodgson of the Canadian Juniors, the glide allowing at least some recovery between the constant demands of the course.

My target in both events is simple: Do better than last year. Considering I missed the wax in both races by a factor of 9, and was either entertaining or recovering from a cold, this humble target should be achievable.

Should conditions remain powdery, I will continue to warm up on Win Nordic, the 750m track which winds around our property, proceeding past Sebbie's Rink, through the still-weedy garden, by the frozen compost and under the maple tree, the crucial branch draped with a red bow as a warning to, "Keep your head down, dude!"

Like all of you, there's too much on the plate this early into the new year - purchasing a new truck for PTM Courier, upgrading the Pine Rock Cottage Vacations website and continuing to winterize the cottage in order to fill it with clients. And like you, I'll muddle thru with varying degrees of success in all these endeavours.

Happy 2009!