Last week was my annual “training camp” in Port Elgin. And what a glorious week it was. A week of twice-daily naps, thrice-daily workouts and countless daily meals. It would be all too easy to stay forever, training myself into blissful oblivion on the woodland trails, the shoreline roads and in the pristine waters of Lake Huron (a far cry from the E. coli-laced bilge water around here). Listen to me, 22 years old and already fantasizing about retirement…

Actually these days I can’t complain about work. As of June, I’m no longer gainfully funemployed. I model mercury cycling in lakes, which is a pretentious way to say that I play computer games about fish. It’s light years cooler than physics (my torturous undergrad), even cryophysics. Through the wonders of Skype and Dropbox, I’m able to work flexible hours from home—usually semi-clad in workout clothes. And you can too! Just send me the email addresses of 50 friends and your credit card info. Given my pseudo-pro training schedule and fondness for (read: addiction to) naps, it’s almost too good to be true.

I wouldn’t last a day in the cube farm. I’d be sneaking naps in the john, stealing lunches from the fridge, hitting the water cooler every five minutes and browsing Slowtwitch on company time. I’d always be bursting into the office late, sweaty and reeking of chlorine. My coworkers would whisper, “Why is he so skinny? He’s always eating. Look at the red rings around his eyes. I bet he’s a meth head.” Except they’d know I was a triathlete because I would flaunt it at every opportunity. I’d regale the office with race reports, unsolicited exercise advice, diet critiques and more. Oh they’d love me…

I planned on doing some work during my “training camp”. I explained to my boss that I needed the distraction of work or I would inevitably train too much. Confused look, awkward silence. But alas, my antique laptop fritzed out leaving me with no choice but to take the week off (and train too much).

In other news, I snagged a win at Huronia Olympic Triathlon, my first race in the Recharge with Milk Triathlon Series. I learned a valuable lesson: wet roads, race tires, carbon rims and cork brake pads are a treacherous combination. Whoever designed the course with umpteen sharp turns must have been unaware of triathletes’ notoriously abysmal bike handling skills.

After losing minutes to a quick swimmer, I was screaming through the turns, doing my best impression of the pros in the Tour de France. Then, with two guys in hot pursuit, my rear wheel locked and I started to fishtail. I careened onto the gravel shoulder, heading straight for the front door of a picturesque little cottage. Somehow I managed to stop, avoiding what would have been a very peculiar break and enter. My pro cycling fantasy came to a screeching halt and I took the remaining turns like an over-medicated grandma. While I suffered only frayed nerves, others were not so lucky; I noticed some road rash after the race. On the run, I hammered the first k to take the lead and then sat back and enjoyed myself.