Okay, so as part of Olympic preparations, they have added kilometre-long stretches of these yellow cones in order to re-allocate the highway divisions into what is, presumably, the best lane formations for efficient traffic flow. Which, firstly, begs the question, if this setup is the most efficient way to route traffic back and forth to Whistler ... WHY DIDN'T YOU JUST PAINT THE LINES ON THE ROAD THAT WAY TO BEGIN WITH?

Secondly, these yellow cones look deceptively similar to those squishy orange plastic cones that are used regularly during construction. You know, those unending lines of cones littering highway lanes otherwise devoid of a shred of evidence that anything is under construction? You know, those rows of cushy, orange rubber that are just begging to be taken out, just because you know that their only raison d'être is to give the otherwise unemployed people who move them around something to do? Yeah, well these yellow cones look suspiciously like those orange ones. So much alike in fact, that I have been involved in more than one conversation in which the topic at hand was the pondering of what exactly the consequences might be to brushing up against one. Based on close inspection and thorough discussion, we, regular commuters on the Sea to Sky highway, have in general come to the conclusion that these yellow cones are less squishy and rubbery in substance, and more metally and bolted to ground. So, probably not a good idea to take one, let alone a few of them, out of commission for kicks and giggles.

Finally, based on the conclusion that these yellow cones pose a the possible threat of significant damage and destruction, the once luxury-sized width of North American lanes has suddenly become terrifyingly narrow.

Especially when you are trying to take a picture of them ...

Note: Dear concerned citizens of the Sea to Sky community. For the record, my camera was in a holder mounted to my windshield, it was turned on and settings were adjusted before the vehicle was set in motion, and there were no other motor vehicles, pedestrians or cycling traffic in the immediate area when said photograph was captured.

So, after years and years of hmmm-ing and haaa-ing about whether to dish out the dough, I suspect that the purchase of my third Apple product in the span of a single year officially makes me a proselytizing member of the Church of Mac.

They came by and tattooed an apple on my forehead last night.

Here's the happy family all together, me holding Rufus, with Kate and Leopold on the right (Get it? Kate and Leopold? Get it?!?):

And if you are thinking I am rolling in it, and are contemplating dropping by my crappy, run-down, mouldy, paint-peeling-off-the-inside-and-outside-walls place to see if I have anything good to pilfer, please, may I suggest you start with my 1997 Ford Escort Wagon (Aquarmarine Mist in colour), which I managed to do some body work on today using the cement pillar base of a parking lot lightpole.

Oh, and take the cats.

This summer BC Athlete Voice sent out an email inviting high performance BC athletes to write good luck notes to the provincial athletes headed to the Canada Summer Games. In return, they would send us a free t-shirt. I, of course, ignored the request for HIGH PERFORMANCE athletes to respond, and sent in my well wishes anyways, hoping they would mistake me for, well, someone important, and send me the t-shirt.

So, a little while back, I got a parcel in the mail and opened it to find, lo-and-behold, two ICEBREAKER shirts - one tank and one long sleeve top.

Now, as a winter spandex sport athlete, I am always on the prowl for good long johns. I had been itching to try Icebreaker for a while ... except that they are wool ... (pun intended ... get it? Itching ... wool ... GET IT?!) Now, I rarely wear wool anything, because I find it super irritating, so I didn't really want to drop a pretty penny on a pair of long johns that ended up being itchy. So I was totally stoked to get a free Icebreaker tee (and almost as stoked that BC Athlete Voice seems to think I qualify as high performamce, and sent me one to begin with.)

OK. So now that you are well-versed in my long and torrid history with sheep-based materials, here's the real story.

Turns out I LOVE my icebreaker stuff. I wear the long sleeve top under my training suits, and the tank to work out, as well as under my race suit. So last week, when I was at the Athlete Advance, I ran into the guy from BC Athlete Voice, who mistook me for a high performance athlete and sent me the shirts, and I told him how hooked I was on them.

A week later, I got an email from him, asking if I wanted to model some Icebreaker gear on the Shaw Cable show "Urban Rush" in exchange for some free gear.

You had me at free ...

My only stipulation was that they didn't force me to wear pink. Only because I didn't want to get barf all over it.

So I am in Calgary this week for some training and testing. And of course the usual car repairs. Because apparently my car finds HOME to be too convenient of a place to break down. I actually have a regular mechanic in a town that I don't live in.

Last year, alternator goes on a balmy January Calgary night leaving me to do jumping jacks on the side of a deserted road in order to stay warm waiting for the tow truck. Mechanic tells me brakes need to be done too. The next year I get the ball joints replaced at home. But Fiona decides the Squamish job isn't good enough, and sure enough the minute I get to Calgary the clunking starts again.

So. Yesterday I am driving down the highway, rocking out to some Coldplay and this guy passes me in the left lane. I think to myself "Geez, that is a loud freakin' truck." And as he pulls ahead and leaves me in his wake, I wonder why his loud freakingness doesn't go along with him. And then I think "Uh-oh."

Yup. Sure enough, the thundering noise is coming from somewhere between my back bumper and my front bumper. It seriously sounds like a 18-year-boy has pimped out my car while I had my back turned. But wait a minute. I have a brand new muffler. Huh. This can't be good.

So I pull into the shopping centre that I was headed to anyways, and while drowning my anger in a vat of Yogen Fruz, I first phone my Calgary mechanic. No dice, he can't get me in until tomorrow. But I have somewhere important to be this afternoon. As far on the other side of town as possible. And I kinda want to know if there is any potential that my car might blow up if I drive it anywhere other than directly to a repair shop.

So, courtesy of my BFF Rufus, I email my other, other mechanic in Germany (hey man, just covering my bases. I can break down in three provinces on two continents, and I am good to go ... ) to see if he could give me a guess on what might be wrong, as well as any insight into the possibility of fiery explosions.

So, I get a return email, speculating a possible ... ummm ... malfunction ... in my exhaust system, and telling me to take a quick peak under the car, since if it is really bad, I will have no trouble spotting it.

Oh. So, do you think it might be THIS COMPLETELY SEVERED EXHAUST PIPE that is causing some of the noise?

Turns out the answer is yes, the severed pipe was the problem.

Yesterday morning my friend Kirsten (pronounced Key-r-sten ... and if you can't remember that, then you are not really her friend) called me at 9 a.m. (which would normally be a risky thing for someone to do, waking me up at a ridiculous hour like nine in the morning, but seeing as trying to get a good night's rest in the fiery, flaming pits of hell that is my bedroom during this heatwave is about as productive as trying to build a snowman right now, she got away with it ... ) and asked if I wanted to join her and the girls for an impromptu trip to the little lake up the road from us.

Would I? WOULD I? Would I like chocolate chip cookies to be my main source of sustenance? Would I like 100 dollar bills to rain from the sky? Would I like to immerse myself in a vat of melted Swiss chocolate with no one to keep me company but Vin Diesel?

Yeah, I suppose I could carve a few minutes out of my schedule to submerge my whiny, overheated, sweat-soaked self in the cool, clear, glacial waters of Browning Lake. I'll bring chocolate chip cookies for lunch.

Oh, also, I have moved. My new address is:

Michelle Bartleman
The Person Floating in the Middle of Browning Lake
Murrin Provincial Park, B.C.
1T5 H0T

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