20 March 2017
Olympian
So far, so familiar. In fact, many more recent host cities for the games have let their stadiums, tracks, velodromes and ski jumps crumble in far less time - not the testament to sustainability the IOC likes to trumpet.
And yet: As our guide pointed out on a recent tour of Montréal's Olympic stadium, this is one of the few venues built for games that has been in continuous athletic use ever since the flame was extinguished. $100M of tax money has just been sunk into an overhaul of the aquatic center, with $300M more to follow for the rest of the grounds in the next 20 years (apply a generous multiplier to future amounts to account for Québec's inevitable cost overruns.)
I suspect it would have cost less to just build a new pool from scratch, but at least the $100M investment has indeed produced a very nice and modern facility. So much so that, despite its out-of-the-way location in the city's east end, I have just signed up for an annual membership.
This comes at the expense of the YMCA, whose facility maintenance and swim lane availability have steadily declined over the last 3 years. I was generally unimpressed with the Y's business acumen and concern for customer service - perhaps the flipside of it operating as a charity. The final drop in the
Now, I am doing my laps where great athletes (and steroid-laden GDR swimmers) have won medals before. Even if I remain faithful to the non-compete clause, seeing the Olympic rings hanging over the pool makes elevates my workout: I am now the Olimpian!
# posted by Oli : 22:07
08 March 2015
Non-compete clause
Not everybody takes it quite as far as she did, with Rugby, but an antagonistic or at least competitive element is a main driver in most sports. Whether it is ice hockey, running or indeed swimming, most athletes are motivated by a strong desire to beat others at it.
I am not most athletes. I never was, and it is only in conversation with the inherently competitive people around me that I realize that I am more the exception than the rule. When I swim, I am perfectly happy to just do lap upon lap at steady pace, with my mind wandering elsewhere. I have swum the same distance in the same time for years. She, in the lane next to me, is going through a complex routine of different sets, styles, speeds, and pauses. She gets better all the time.
When we run, I can only do so at one speed, and as the season progresses, I simply go a bit further every time. Each spring, I start back at the same place. What's that talk about interval training? "It's like a car engine", she tried. "Your endurance is simply the size of your tank. But if you do intervals, you increase the power of your engine!" That may well be true. But why would I want that? It's not as if I had my eyes on the next Olympics.
I swim, or run, simply because I like it. Conversely, exercise that is not inherently pleasurable seems unbelievably dull and pointless. Performing a gym routine is akin to brushing teeth: You are told to do it to prevent adverse long-term consequences, so you do. But it is not satisfactory in any way - not to mention that people look much sillier lifting weights than toothbrushes. And no dentist has ever told me to change up my brushing routine just as I started getting the hang of it.
The other day, I sat down for lunch with my new work colleagues, following a change in job I had recently managed to obtain. When asked to explain why I had sought this new role, I did not hesitate to articulate how I felt that, after three years in my last position, my learning curve had started to flatten out and I was looking for a fresh challenge. I am glad to have found it, and was eagerly outlining the many new projects I looked forward to working on. "Change and progress are always good", I suggested, firmly in a business mindset and not questioning my own statement for a moment.
My new team seemed to agree. "It's good that we managed to keep you in the company", said one. "Or did they make you sign a non-compete clause?" enquired another. They hadn't. And such clauses are mostly unenforceable anyways, which is why lucky departing employees get paid not to compete.
If only they did that for my athletic endeavors. I wouldn't have to worry about a job anymore at all.
# posted by Oli : 17:48
12 December 2014
365 / 365
Last year's experiment with setting an athletic goal has gone rather well, so the temptation was there to have another go this year. Of course, a simple repeat of last year's quest to run 21km nonstop would have been rather dull - although it did get ticked off in 2014 as well.
Early in the year, a new challenge had to be found. I decided to think about it the way I often seek inspiration: I went swimming. And that's where it hit me: Why run around in the distance, when good things lie nearby? Like this pool at the YMCA I had just started using. I could come here more often.
Some mental math followed, and by the time that day's swim was done, an objective for 2014 was found. This year, I would swim one kilometer per day. On average, of course. But it still meant diving in frequenty, and keeping up the distance. A spreadsheet was created, and tracking started.
While I enjoy doing my laps, the new-found objective, and especially the steadily climbing target line on the time graph in my spreadsheet, certainly kept me motivated. Travel often saw me fall behind the required pace, while sunny summer weeks had me catching up quickly at parc Jean-Drapeau. Swimming out a lead over the "day of the year" line became quite satisfying. And this week, with just over 20 days in the year to go, I have reached my goal.
In 86 sessions, I've swam 365 kilometers. That's further than from Montréal to Québec or from Zurich to Milan. I prefer not to calculate how many laps it meant - but they certainly felt good.
Unlike running, which is a high impact sport and has left discernable pains in my knees in weeks of intense practice, I have yet to experience any negative effects of swimming, aside perhaps from a lingering scent of chlorine on my skin. It's relaxing, it allows me to think freely, and it is said to be good for me.
There will probably be a few more swims before the year is out, but I will allow myself a bit of a cookies-and-eggnog break for the holidays. A new year will be here soon, and with it a new challenge. I'll take the plunge!
N.B. Image for illustrative purposes only. Actual author may vary.
# posted by Oli : 22:31
01 June 2014
Frenzy
Here in Montréal, anyways. For the rest of Canada, the excitement of cheering their local NHL teams was over by mid-April, when the trees were still bare. The Montreal Canadiens, however, as the only team from north of the border, made it into this season's play-offs.
And once the séries start, the city's fever pitch rises as inevitably as the temperatures outside. Montréalais are fanatic about their team, la sainte flanelle, on an ordinary day. If the team reaches the play-offs, the crowd's enthusiasm takes on near-fanatical dimensions.
The Habs did everything to keep the excitement up. In the best-of-seven pairings, they quickly dispatched their first round opponent Tampa Bay (where home games are mostly attended by vacationing Canadian snow birds) 4-0, so as to advance to the greatest thing next to winning the actual cup: A play-off encounter with the Boston Bruins, Montréal's traditional arch rival from the original six.
It was then, at the very latest, that Habs-Mania took over. Lebanese grocery stores and French high street fashion boutiques started flying the famous tricolore. Bell and Vidéotron, two cable companies, fought out a highly entertaining ad battle over whose corporate colors looked more like the Canadiens'. Air Canada started offering game day fare sales on the Montréal-Boston route, extended every time it became clear that yet another game was required. Even my boss, a laid-back Australian not previously known as a hockey affictionado, started growing his "play-off beard".
Much to the chagrin of his wife, he was not going to shave it off quickly, for the Habs fought tooth and nail, err, fist and stick, to wrest a seventh game victory from the favored (and very physical) Bruins. The decisive game attracted a sell-out crowd of 17'500 people to the Boston Garden. And another sell-out crowd of 21'000 people to the Bell Center in Montréal, where the fans paid to watch their heroes on giant screens while sipping $12 beers from the team's owner.
Street corsos reminiscent of Rome after a soccer win by the squadra azzurra ensued after Boston was sent off to the golf course, and the next day the media started invoking that magical expression "ça sent la coupe" , realizing that now, only the New York Rangers stood between the Canadiens and their first Stanley Cup finals since 1993.
Alas, it was not to be: A first game injury to the Habs' goalie, the foundation on which their play-off run had been built, seemed to break the team's back and made them lose the two vital first home games. Although they managed to win two later games, energy and perseverance were ultimately insufficient. And so, last Thursday, the Rangers finally ended this year's Stanley Cup dreams.
Flags were rolled in, jerseys taken off, beards shaved. And the city suddenly noticed that in the meantime, summer had arrived. Some disappointment mixed with relief and justified pride. Or, as a devoted fan explained to me: "It was about time this ended. The sun is up so long these days that it was getting hard to see the screen on the terrasse!"
Labels: culture, Montreal, sport
# posted by Oli : 21:38
20 March 2014
YMCA
The iconic lyrics, straight from the Village People's queer 1978 disco hit, were top of my mind as I made my way up Rue Stanley in Montréal's center. I was looking for a change. Not in religion or sexual orientation, but in workout venue. With our offices soon moving to a gleaming new downtown tower, the university sports' complex that I have been using for the past five years will be too much of a detour for my evening swims. My annual pass there had come up for renewal, and with it the moment to find another pool.Young man there's no need to feel down
I said young man pick yourself off the ground
I said young man 'cause your in a new town
There's no need to be unhappy
Searching online and talking to friends soon alerted me to a network of excellent sports facilities dotted across the island, including one in close proximity to our future premises, not to mention my home. How could I have overlooked it for all this time?
It's all in the name - a four-letter acronym that I had associated with, other than a dance move, mainly the basic accommodation facilities I had graduated from with college. Add to that a whiff of missionary zeal, and you'll understand why I'd always turned up my nose at the Y, as it is mostly known these days.
But I was in for a surprise. Montréal's YMCA, which has been a hub of activity ever since it introduced North America to the movement in 1851, really has "many ways to have a good time", as the song puts it. Its downtown site is a multi-story complex with a 25m pool, various gyms, spinning studios, an exercise room and a running track. Countless classes are offered, from the basic (Yoga) to the exotic (Baladi) and the brutal (Aéro-Kickboxe). Unlike at CEPSUM, the classes are all included with the annual pass, giving me a chance to try Masters' Swimming and, at the insistence of the friend who referred me - something called Bootcamp, a savage combination of strength and endurance exercises which left me sore for longer, and in more places, than the Swiss Army's equivalent ever did.
Bootcamp's militarism betrays the spirit of tolerance and openness the Y displays these days. "Come as you are", runs their latest slogan, and looking at the diversity of members, they definitely mean it. The motto even seems to apply to the instructors - I am not always certain of just how qualified they are. But everybody seems to have a swell time.
While still supposedly striving to strengthen body, mind and soul (the three sides of the triangle in the movement's logo), I am glad to see my new workout facility to focus on the first two - there is a language school as well - and not try to shape the third. And unlike in the time of the Village People, women are just as welcome. Which is just as well, given the quantity of Tonus and Zumba classes.
So I have no excuses - many more sweaty evenings await me in the coming 12 months (forfait annuel ferme, you understand). There is just one move I won't do: Y-M-C-A!
That's when someone came up to me
and said young man take a walk up the street
There's a place there called the Y.M.C.A.
They can start you back on your way.
# posted by Oli : 22:09
05 October 2013
21km
Even before said snow had melted, I found myself on treadmills, and soon thereafter panting along the Lachine canal. I had originally started running during my half-year in Chile, where no pools were available to support my usual swimming regime. Ever since returning, though, my running shoes had only been in sporadic use.
No more. With the September 21 deadline of the Montréal Marathon slowly, but steadly approaching, I had to get going. My endurance and pace were nowhere near what it would take to complete the 21km in a respectable way, so an improvement in performance was clearly required. Any Google search, not to mention a question to a certain more athletic family member, would have produced a plethora of training programs. But that would have gotten me dangerously close to all the über-equipped wannabe Haile Gebrselassies with their compression pants, heart-rate monitors and GPS watches. I might have set myself an objective, but I wasn't going to go that far.
Instead, armed with Old Navy's finest athletic wear and a hydration belt, I started gradually extending my loops along the canal. As the temperatures rose and summer came, the kilometers started adding up and, much to my surprise, I became rather fond of my jogs by the water. Rumor has it that there may have even been the odd extra early wake-up, in order to squeeze in a little 15km before heading out to work. There was something satisfactory about getting to the office knowing that the day's exercise had already been done.
When travel put a dent into my newly adopted running routine, I started growing anxious. How would a week away impact my gradual progress? How much of a distance penalty would that period of inactivity put on? Yes, running was not a matter to be taken lightly.
And then the leaves started turning. Summer had come to a close, race day was near, and the furthest I had gone was only 18.5km! The pace was decent, but it came with a kilometer-long walking break in the middle. And unlike my training loops, the real race course would have a nasty little climb on the last 2km. I was feeling nervous, and when asked by my colleagues (they'd all been in that fatal goal setting session, remember), I started giving myself a bit of wiggle room by stating that in case of inclement weather, I'd really not go. After all, the real benefit was in the preparation, right?
Utter nonsense, of course. After a summer of running, it was all about the race. As if to test my resolve, race day started grey and rainy, but that did not discourage me from making it to the start line on the bridge high above the St-Laurent. Surrounded by 15'000 other racers, I eagerly awaited the starting shot. And then we were off - a massive swell of runners, single-minded in their objective. This human stream cought me, and it felt like it pushed me forward and onward through the rain and past one kilometer mark after the other. Before I knew it, I had passed the half-way point, and as the course left the twin islands in the river and returned to downtown Montréal, the rain stopped and crowds started appearing along the road. They cheered, shouted and held up placards eliciting sweaty smiles. When I reached my typical slow-down point around kilometer 15, I was encircled not just by plenty of other participants, but also by countless spectators in Montréal's old port. And who would want to be the one slowing down under such circumstances?
So I kept running. And running. And just a little bit more. And here's that final uphill stretch. And that wasn't so bad now, was it? And there are a hell of a lot of people watching on this last stretch. And why couldn't I have kept my mouth shut in that goal setting session? And... could this really be the finishing line down there?
My dad used to keep all his medals dangling from the heating pipes in our basement. Next week, on a brief stop in Switzerland, a new medal will join that collection. Goal achieved.
Labels: sport
# posted by Oli : 15:42
17 March 2013
Altitude
"Most resorts are lucky to have one bowl" said the headline on the poster at the lodge. And below a panoramic picture of the terrain including its seven skiable bowls, it proclaimed: "Vail isn't most resorts."Indeed it isn't. When I told my boss, an avid skier herself, about my plans to spend a few days in North America's second-largest ski area (with Whistler-Blackcomb already off my bucket list), she told me to expect beautiful runs and excellent infrastructure. But she also raised my expectations by pointing out that Vail, along with its Colorado neighbor Aspen, is considered über-posh.
Looking at the cost of our lift tickets and the rent for the chalet, I could definitely agree. At almost $100 a day, access to the resort's runs certainly doesn't come cheap. On the other hand, a day in Mt. Tremblant will set you back by the same amount, and the Laurentian Disney on Ice simply doesn't compare to the Rockies' vertical drop and fluffy powder.
Not even United's mishandling of our skis could dampen our anticipation when we hit the road from Denver. Through heavy traffic, it took us to over 3'400m of elevation and into Vail. Unlike most alpine ski towns, which are up some narrow valley and require you to drive up a curvy mountain road, Vail is a purpose-built town directly off Interstate 70, with the same faux charm that I have come to expect from Tremblant and Whistler. But that is where the similarities end.
Clearly, Vail offers "high-touch" skiing, right from the get-go. As you approach the gondola, a cheery attendant hoists your skis into the rack. While you soar upwards, you can update your Facebook status or check on your stock options, thanks to the free in-gondola wifi. At the top, brightly dressed staff hand out not just daily grooming reports, but granola bars, too. They are as free as the drinking water available everywhere - much appreciated by thirsty skiers at over 3'000m of elevation.
Runny noses are an inevitable part of any ski day, and even at Tremblant and Whistler I was pleased to see tissue paper dispensers at every lift. Vail, however, takes service to another level: When you walk into any of the lodges, smiling ladies greet you and hold out a box of Kleenex. Once your nose is taken care of, you can then browse lunch choices including salad bars, Asian wok and Mexican burritos, and help yourself to free chocolates sprinkled around the tables. And should you need to use the washrooms, you'll find them stocked with lotion, sunscreen, and scented candles.
Delighted as much by all these thoughtful touches as by the stellar snow conditions, I barely noticed just how often my credit card was swiped around the mountain. Looking at my statement now, the term "champagne powder" certainly takes on a whole new meaning.
Not that I'd have any regrets. The resort's nifty mobile app kindly tallied up 51'199 vertical feet for me, and I've enjoyed every one of them. It is safe to say that Vail takes skiing to a whole new altitude.
# posted by Oli : 20:55
17 September 2012
Triathlon
Is it a swim? Is it a road race? Or is it a run? As any triathlete will tell you, their polyvalent sport is the ultimate competition. And having been raised the son of one of these Ironmen, I've certainly had my fair chance to appreciate the challenges of the discipline. Or not. For all the prodding, encouragement, helpful advice and free-flow of equipment had a rather counterproductive effect: Throughout my youth, I preferred to defy the family’s head athlete by avoiding anything close to endurance sports, and seek refuge in fringe disciplines instead.Time and again, I was taken along to some race or another, but in a semi-intentional indifference towards efforts involved, I chiefly took these days as occasions to hang out in some random town, spending hours munching away at pastry breakfasts, pasta lunches and bratwurst dinners, while occasionally strolling back to the racetrack to see my dad come around by one means of locomotion or another. When the day was done and the finish line was reached, I was ready to ask if we could please go to the water park the next day.
It was somewhat of a surprise, then, that I found my name on the start list for a triathlon this year – even if merely as the swimmer in a relay team. And yet it seemed sensible, especially in comparison to the challenge the colleagues in their forties had thrown us 30-somethings. They wanted us to take them on in the bold, but nonsensical Spartan Races, which seem to consist of nothing but crop tops and mud-crawling. Not yet in our mid-life crises, we smugly decided to go for the real deal instead.
As I stripped down to my swimming trunks on race day, and faced the stormy gusts which made the waves in Montréal’s olympic rowing basin carry white crests, the idea suddenly seemed foolish. I found myself surrounded by a crowd of athletic, wetsuit-clad and distinctively serious-looking racers performing their warm-up routines. With the Ironman distance competitors long off, wasn’t this supposed to be the just-for-fun group?
Not if the behavior in the first few minutes of the race are anything to go by. As we jostled for position in the water, I was pushed, pulled, grabbed and kicked by my fellow sportsmen. Between dodging them and the waves, it was quite a departure from the pool I had practiced in. Mercifully, I eventually found my space and rhythm, and as I plowed my way towards the transition zone, I tried to recall when exactly I had last participated in an athletic competition. It may have been that 1995 ski school race, when I outdid a group of Dutch kids for the top spot.
This time around, I was satisfied to have beaten at least some of the über-athletes to the transition zone, where I passed the baton to the biker on our team. By the time he completed his laps and passed it off to the runner, I had showered, regained my composure and developed an appetite for bratwurst. That unfortunately went unfulfilled, but the taste of competition may yet be one I could grow fond of.
Labels: sport
# posted by Oli : 23:18
08 June 2012
Vélo Rallye
It was an assault in broad daylight - and by two colleagues from our brand marketing department, no less. "We're sure you are a cyclist", they cornered me as I entered the cafeteria. Clearly, they were up to no good. So I declined: "Oh no. I only ride my Bixi". Wrong answer. The two were looking for an additional team member in our company's Bixi Ralley squad, and I had just qualified.In the little village I grew up in, there has long been an annual family event called the Velorally. One fine day in May, friends and families get together in small teams, saddle their bikes and embark on a circuit course through the area's vales and dales. Along the way, they must stop at various posts, where fun and quirky challenges have to be tackled. The team earning the most points in these challenges, regardless of how fast they were on the circuit, is eventually proclaimed the winner, once the entire village has gathered in the schoolyard with grilled sausages and beer. The Velorally was a highlight in the town's calendar, and one of the few times yours truly joyfully got out his bike.
This year, and without any involvement on my part, the very same concept has arrived in Montréal. Appropriately corporatized, it now involves company teams raising money for a good cause. And because city dwellers cannot be expected to own their own bikes, the Rallye Montréal Inc. uses the ubiquitous Bixi bikes. For my employer, this was a welcome opportunity to raise brand awareness in our home town, and so five of us gathered one sunny afternoon in the old port. Sporting bright purple jerseys, emblazoned with our logo, we were ready to defend the company's renown.
My team mates were all serious cyclists, and their legs had visibly pedaled a lot further than mine ever will. I, however, was the only one who had been on a Bixi before, and mastery of the 20kg, three-speed, urban-proof contraption turned out to be instrumental in navigating the city's bike paths, potholes and motorized traffic along our 20km circuit. In the various challenges, from playing Twister to memorizing trivia off toilet paper rolls, each of us found opportunities to excel (and otherwise) - it felt like I was right back in our little village race. In the end, as we all gathered back in the
Once again, the Velorally made for a merry day in May. And as for our corporate reputation - well, let's just say there is now a new metric for 2013 performance improvement.
# posted by Oli : 22:08
02 February 2011
UdM
When I first spent time in Montréal, many moons ago, it was under the pretext of a French immersion. To lend credibility to this claim, I attended classes at the Faculté de l'éducation permanente at Université de Montréal, the largest of Montréal's four universities. The month-long course gave me not just a handy degree and a student ID valid for three years (!), but also provided free access to CEPSUM, the university's sports complex. When I returned to Montréal to live here, I was happy to learn that CEPSUM's pool had just been renovated, and have been a regular user since.Whenever I come to CEPSUM, I feel a bit out of place (even more so than yours truly should at any fitness facility). Straight from the office, dressed in shirt and slacks and looking ever so slightly older than the 60'000 university students who get free access to the complex, I don't quite blend in with the others.
Not that those kids would all look the same. Today, CEPSUM hosted the annual open day for prospective students, and after doing my laps I was lured into the big forum by a charming girl handing me a documentation kit in a nice gift bag (whether she thought that I was a future student or the parent of one will remain her secret). As I roamed among the different stands presenting the various programs offered, it dawned upon me just how big the university really is. From Anthropologie to Urbanisme, virtually every subject can be studied. And as if to confirm every conceivable stereotype, each booth drew its typical crowd:
Black shirts and slim jackets for Architecture, broad shoulders for Kinésiologie, colorful scarves and the latest couture for Littératures de langue française, rugged jeans and flannel shirts for Géographie, turtlenecks and horn-rimmed glasses for Cinéma, and of course the inevitable poor shaves and red eyes for Informatique - I could not hide a smirk, given the scene.
No less interesting than what they wore was which stands the students decided to visit. Long lines formed for Criminologie and Médecine, both offering excellent job perspectives thanks to the Italian mafia in town. A good number of youngsters talked to the representatives for Histoire and Communication - this was the group I would probably best have fitted in with a few years ago, even their sense of fashion seemed palatable. A fistful of particularly daring candidates ventured out to the stalls for Etudes allemandes and that fascinating program with the catchy name Mathématiques, statistique et actuariat. And one lost soul even made it to Théologie et sciences des réligions. Among the abundance of options, which extended to social services, the university radio station and the elite sports team, there was only one booth which remained completely abandoned, both by staff and students. The lone banner for this exotic and entirely revolting subject read: Etudes anglaises.
Labels: education, fashion, sport
# posted by Oli : 22:10
12 October 2010
Run for power
One of the first scenes, in the first episode of TV's polit-drama "The West Wing", shows the US President's spokeswoman, C.J. Cregg, exercising on a treadmill - at 4 o'clock in the morning. "The hour between 4 and 5 belongs to me alone", she pants while running. "This is when I can focus and be myself".When I watched the show (highly recommended!) in the months before the last US presidential election, I found this particular scene way over the top. Yes, a president's spokewoman must be busy, but surely she would not be getting up an hour early simply to spend it on a treadmill?
Today, I know that I was wrong and the show's creators were right on the mark. While Canadians have cheerfully stuffed their turkeys, I have once again taken the opportunity to spend a 4 day weekend in the US capital, which positively glowed in the soft autumn sunlight and wonderful temperatures around 25C. Conditions, in other words, that prodded the local population to run.
From dawn till dusk, anywhere I went, people of all ages were running past me. Students in Georgetown, diplomats at Dupont Circle, power brokers on the Mall, dog owners on the path along the Potomac - everybody zipped about in a very respectable pace, and sporting gear that makes you believe that they were serious about running. An impression confirmed by a local friend, who's slender despite being from Berne and therefore going about things at a more leisurely speed.
Clearly, Washingtonians are serious about running. Much like they seem to be serious about most things they do. Despite this being a weekend, people of my generation always made a respectable, purposeful impression. Immaculately dressed (anywhere between preppy and business casual, think Banana Republic meets Club Monaco), tapping away on their smartphones and carrying files and folders instead of Wal-Mart bags. On average, they also appeared to be much healthier and more athletic than the typical American - which made them very easy to distinguish from the throngs of tourists queuing up for security screening at the countless attractions.
"Work hard, play hard" is the tune of the town. After it is done with their rigourous exercise routine and merciless work days, the D.C. crowd (especially the subset with corporate credit cards) likes to eat well and have a good time until the wee hours. After enjoying culinary delights around Dupont Circle, my friend took me to the nightlife areas of Adams Morgan and U Street, where I was treated to great live Jazz.
And when it's time to get away from it all, the capital's residents head out to pittoresque Annapolis in the Cheasapeake Bay, where the well-a-do keep their boats and yachts. My visit coincided with the US Boat Show, an excellent opportunity to transport that D.C. competitive spirit ("mine's bigger than yours") onto the waters - the craftsmanship going into these boats were as exquisit as their price tags.
So while the US economy runs up record deficits, the population of its capital seems to merrily run down the soles of their sneakers. As I head back to socialist, but more laid-back Montréal, I can't help but wonder: Are those people all training to eventually run for office?
Labels: politics, sport, travel, USA
# posted by Oli : 00:34
18 March 2010
Commercial break
I am not a religious person. But if you live ten minutes' walk from the cathetral of the dominant local cult, you can only resist for so long. And last week, my friend and I finally heard the calling. It went like this: "Go Habs Go!" - And so we went to see the hockey game!Both of us had been to countless Swiss league hockey games before, and we would consider ourselves a decently loyal and knowledgeable audience. But what we experienced at le Centre Bell was far beyond our considerable expectations. Just like for any other game le Canadien has ever played there, the stadium (the largest in the NHL) was sold out to its 21'273 seats, and the fans of the opposing team could not have amounted to more than a handful. Impressed and enthused, we stopped at the "Habs Zone" gift shop to obtain the obligatory devotionals (ka-ching!) before even making our way high up to the third rank, where I had been able to secure seats on the opening (and sell-out) day for the season last September.
Settling in, it dawned upon us that we were in for an evangelizing experience organized very much top-down. Whereas in Europe, fans stil take it upon themselves to create most of the game's atmosphere by waiving flags, chanting songs or displaying gigantic homemade posters (a specialty of the fanatic fans of my friend's home team), none of this happens at the Bell Center. Here, between gigantic video screens, interactive billboards and elaborately planned, brand-exclusive retail zones, a ruthless commercial machine provides carefully planned entertainment for the masses. And generates the uplift necessary to keep the $44 mio. of salary mass on the ice going. To that end, there are even artificial "commercial breaks" during a game period, so that the TV stations can quickly squeeze in a few clips, while hawkers tout $10 cans of beer at the venue.
Not that anybody seems to mind. When, to the Rolling Stones' "Sympathy for the Devil", the glorious Montreal players are introduced and intermixed with scenes from the club's illustrious past, people get exstatic. The Habs, as they are affectionately known, have celebrated their centennial in 2009; The club is actually older than the NHL itself and has won the Stanley Cup a record 24 times. No other team even comes close. The current roster are household names, and even the finer restaurants in town will have TVs in their dining hall, for when a game is on, nothing else matters.
With a dominance and following like this, the actual performance is secondary. Indeed, in the two matches we saw, the team's display against Tampa Bay and Edmonton was rather lackluster and certainly a far cry from the NHL's finest moments. Fortunately, the opposing forces were not much more inspired either, leading to two more wins for the Habs and enabling the current streak of six victories. As for the two new Swiss Habs converts, we have vowed to faithfully return. Playoffs, here we come!
Labels: Canada, leisure, sport
# posted by Oli : 20:13
10 March 2010
Disney sur glace
Back to you, Quebec! Not only I have returned to la belle province, one of my closest and most faithful Swiss friends has also decided to pay me a second visit in my new home, having already made the trip last summer.The theme for this visit of his was supposed to be “winter in Québec”, and when we planned it last summer I had boldly proclaimed that even in early March, the land would still be deep-frozen and miserably cold. In saying so, I trusted into the white horror stories my local acquaintances had shared with me.
Of course, it turned out rather differently, with a mild and snow-less winter (hello, Washington D.C.!) giving way to beautiful spring days with temperatures reaching 5-9C. This, along with a substantial snow canon deployment, meant perfect conditions for skiing!
My expectations, low as the Laurentides mountains, were easily surpassed by an excellently groomed network of ski runs, surprisingly varied steep passages, and a smooth access and queuing experience when compared to the alps. And even my friend, a true native of a Swiss alpine village, was very pleased by what he found – both of us were skiing overseas for the first time, and have vowed to do it again. Amazingly, the view from the top (“Le grand Manitou”) at an elevation of 875m offers a gorgeous 360 degree panorama, as there are no higher peaks anywhere near.
What most took us by surprise, however, was the complete artificiality of the little pedestrian village of Tremblant at the foot of the mountain. Developed from scratch in the early 1990s by Intrawest (of Whistler fame), it is a picture-perfect little Disney sur glace, where good mood perennially rules and the town mascot exchanges high-fives with my friend. From the grande place des voyageurs (the grandest name for a parking lot I’ve ever heard) a gondola carries visitors up towards the village to the base of the mountain, while a small ski run across the village lets users ski all the way back down to their cars again. Lined along the village’s cobble-stoned streets are a variety of bars, restaurants, boutiques, cafés and souvenir stores, all with a village monopoly on their particular niche and prices 25-50% above the outside world. As you merrily roam around on the mountain and in the little village, forgetting your worries and outside life with the sun in your face, your credit card gets a workout at least as rigorous as your skiing. Under the circumstances, it’s quite an achievement for Intrawest to still face foreclosure. Ah, les joies d’hiver…
# posted by Oli : 18:01
06 February 2010
Anticipation
How do you measure anticipation? For the approaching Vancouver Olympic Games, a thermometer may not be the appropriate tool, as it would remain firmly below zero even with the opening ceremony a mere six days away. Clearly, things must be heating up by now - or so we are made to believe. But realistically, here in Montréal, some 3'700km from the Olympic Flame, people don't seem to have warmed much to the event. The section at the Bay department store where the official Olympic clothing line is sold was not exactly bustling with activity when I checked it out a few days ago, and media coverage so far was rather muted - with a short outburst of excitement when Canada's roster for the hockey tournament was announced.Apart from that, the francophones seem to care, if at all, about the degree of recognition and application of the official language of the Olympic Movement, le français. There is a bigwig, going by the grandiose title of "Grand Témoin de la Francophonie aux Jeux Olympiques d’hiver de Vancouver", who is supposed to enforce the proper use of language during the event. He even got to meet with Canada's Governor General. Of course, the role is too politically sensitive to be assigned to just any fierce separatist Québecois, who would probably raise many a ruckus. So instead, a grandstanding but ultimately harmless retired politician from a certain neutral country was picked. (Apparently, they have run out of jobs at the UN...)
In ROC (Rest Of Canada, should you wonder) however, exicitement about the upcoming sports fest seems to be mounting, the farther west, the more. In Vancouver, they use a countdown clock, which obviously jives with the Swiss mindset as well. When I took a picture of it on my visit in early 2008, little did I know that I would live in the host country by the time the games open. And when I moved to this country, little did I know that I'd spend a grand total of three days in Canada while the games are on. The rest of the time will see me in places where they know winter sports from hearsay at best.
And yet I am merry - in anticipation of red rose service, afternoon tea, dim sum and Cathay Delight. Or, as Olympians would say: Being there is everything.
Labels: Canada, language, sport
# posted by Oli : 17:27
14 January 2010
Freezing point
So here we are in the middle of January, supposedly the coldest month of the year. According to statistics, Montreal's average daily temperature in January is -8.9C, with an average daily minimum of -12.4C. In a typical January, temperatures stay below freezing on 23.2 days and a nearly half a meter of snow falls.
This is well documented, so I was prepared for the worst. After a record-breakingly mild November and a tolerable December, I returned to Canada with woolen turtlenecks and down-filled jackets, then snagged gloves and a tuque on sale. Last Sunday, grey and windy, offered the opportunity to put my gear to the test, and I went for a walk on Mt. Royal. Getting ready felt a bit like Neil Armstrong preparing to step outside his lunar lander, but much like in his case, the equipment did not fail me. As I made my way across the snowy landscape, I noticed how much the park had changed since my last visit in fall: It now felt like a winter resort, complete with cross-country ski tracks, ice rinks, tobogganing hills and snowshoeing trails, all heavily used.
Clearly, Canadians are not easily deterred by icy conditions, and I even saw several joggers inhaling the cold air while doing their laps (today, a co-worker proudly told me about his nightly 5km run, which he only skips when it drops below -20C). As for my equipment, it performed admirably, but a slight oversight on my part meant that an express order of woolen long unterwear was dispatched the same night. And when my mobile phone rang, its battery ran empty in the same short while it took my fingers to nearly freeze stiff!
While the cold is everything I expected it to be, what really takes me by surprise are the frequent and unpredictable hot spills. Or, as the radio host puts it, "today temperatures rise to a balmy 2 below". From my bedroom window, of course, this still looks and feels exactly the same as the -15C the night before, and so I occasionally find myself stepping outside, well, overdressed!
# posted by Oli : 21:24
09 December 2009
Jump
It was an unexpected sight, and yet one that was instantly attractive. Shortly after having bought a pass to the vast CEPSUM sports complex I use for swimming, I decided to explore the available facilities a bit. Walking through endless corridors, filled with a sweaty odors emanating from young sporty students, I came past a variety of torture chambers with assorted instruments (treadmills, free weights, climbing walls, Jane Fonda-esque drill sergeants…) before I spotted them: Two full-size, professional trampolines, of the very same kind that I used to compete on, way back in my teenage years as a member of the TV Wislig team. In the long time since then, however, I had not set a foot on any such trampoline, as they are almost impossible to find in regular gyms or open-air sports courts. Seeing them there at CEPSUM, I knew that this would change at last.As it turned out, you have to attend a trampoline course in order to be accredited as a certified athlete, which then enables you to use the facility at your leisure. Learning that the instructor in that particular course was actually a friend of a friend, I could no longer restrain myself and enrolled for the winter session. And so, one day in September, there I was at that gym, surrounded by nine – decidedly more athletic – students eager to try out this outer-fringe discipline. Cautiously making my first few shy jumps under the auspices of this group, I kept repeating to myself that it was merely a coincidence that most of the other participants were high board divers, ballet dancers or gymnasts…
Typing this post now, three months later, I have survived nine of the ten sessions without injury, and am already a proud holder of an “accreditation aux activités specialisées”. After a rough start, at which my body painfully reminded me of the 11 year hiatus in jumping, I have gradually been achieving my overall objective, which unlike the one of my course mates, consisted mainly of having fun re-learning the basic skills I once posessed. And as a pleasant side effect, I can now name many more body parts and postures in French! Although of course I prefer not to comprehend that “double salto” thing in any language…
# posted by Oli : 19:16
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