THE SWIMSUIT ISSUE

My first choice for exercise is swimming. While my form isn’t great and my flip turn is laughable, it is an easy way for me to complete a decent 3-5 K workout.

But there are patches of time when swimming is not an option. As a gay man with lifelong body image issues, I have to be in the right frame of mind to get in the pool. Well, right frame of body, to be more precise. As everyone knows, the Speedo covers little. Any roll or ripple of flab is in full view. With its clinging waistline, gut imperfections are especially accentuated.

Even in the best of times, I am not one to saunter about the pool deck in that itsy bitsy teeny weeny garment that is first cousins with the thong. Before I can even begin thinking of my workout, all my energy is channeled in getting from changing room to pool as quickly as possible. Must submerge. Stat. I make a dash but those darn lifeguards insist on “No running”. Even a moderate speed walk warrants reproach. Indeed, lifeguards are merciless. I presume this is some form of sicko entertainment for them as they sit poolside, clad in an oversized red t-shirt and sensible shorts. Walk, you fleshy sad-sacks.

This is the true walk of shame.

If I waited to be fully flab-free, I would never swim. And without swimming, the flab would just grow. For me, no other exercise tones and trims as well. So, when the weight congregates a little too much at the belly, I desperately try to diet and do other workouts until I reach a bearable/bare-able state.

In most public pools, my angst is needless. Length swimming times are frequented by seniors who enjoy the side stroke and a dip in the hot tub. It doesn’t dawn on the men to suck in their gut. They flirt shamelessly with the female lifeguards and talk at length about the weather while standing poolside. In a way, I’m in awe of them.

It takes for guts to bare my gut when I am in a gay-freqented zone—Vancouver’s Aquacentre in the West End, for example. (I only dared swim there a couple of times before switching to the pool in the Kerrisdale area, a senior citizen haven.)

The stakes are exponentially higher when swimming in West Hollywood. During my WeHo visit, my natural inclination was to forgo swimming altogether or to drive an hour into the San Fernando Valley to find a pool primarily populated with octogenarians. But I told myself that, on this trip, I would immerse myself in West Hollywood. That meant I would swim in the old outdoor pool smack in the middle of West Hollywood Park.

Getting in the pool wasn’t so bad. I made sure I arrived a few minutes before the length swim time. That way I could get changed and slip into the pool with relatively few witnesses. The real issue came when the hour ended. An adult triathlon team workout followed the lap swim. These men gathered around the end of the pool where I had to make my exit. They stretched and chatted freely, waiting for the pool to clear. They became a human obstacle course that I desperately tried to race through as one arm covered what it could of my stomach. Every single one of these men could stand about in a Speedo with total pride. Every one of them had that V-cut just above the waistline.

Two dozen perfect specimens. My worst nightmare.

For four weeks I went regularly to that pool. I never cut my workout in an attempt to avoid the walk of shame. I would never see these people again. And, clearly, I needed the pool time more than they did. Still, every time I finished showering and drying off, I felt so relieved to get a shirt back on—a merciful shield from total vulnerability.

I am off to Whistler for a conference and I will swim three mornings at the fitness center. I still have five pounds I’d like to shed before squeezing back into my Speedo, but I’ll deal with it. This summer, I’ve had extra training.

STELLA? STEL-LLLAAA!

If my name were Stella, I’d have jetted to Jamaica.  But that might have been an expensive disaster, considering I don’t have a friend named Whoopi and I can’t be in the sun.  Still, I needed to find a place to get away for a few days in an attempt to get my groove back.

It wasn’t even that lofty a goal.  In truth, I just needed to go somewhere so I’d have an answer when I return to work and people ask, “Did you go anywhere?”  People look at me funny when I say, “Safeway.” 

I am one of the lucky ones with an extended summer vacation—about six weeks in total.  With my five-hour-a-day ferry commute, I had no desire to travel this summer.  I was gleeful every time I looked out my kitchen window and saw another ferry coming or going without me.  Besides, summer is the best time to be in my quiet community.  The jogs, the bike rides, the beach walks, the forest hikes...all with no mud!  (Oh, the rains will return soon enough.)

With work starting up again this week, I began surfing travel destinations when July had the nerve to make what felt like an early exit.  I considered many places.  Los Angeles.  San Francisco.  George Clooney’s Italian villa (Where did I put that invite?).  Portland.  Chicago.  Curacao.  Alas, I do not have the budget for excursions farther afield so I found a deal for three nights in Whistler and booked it.

I am not a fan of travel itineraries.  Instead, I believe vacations should pass without plans.  Wander and stumble into things.  It’s a lovely thought and wonderful things happen in movie versions.  Sing ABBA songs, meet someone on a train, decide to stay in a foreign land indefinitely...visa rules be damned. 

This is my roundabout way of saying I planned a few things.  I booked a tour and did some online research about library hours, rec center times and movie showings.  I also pulled out the current issue of Vancouver magazine which included recommended stops along Highway 99 from Horseshoe Bay to Pemberton (a stretch of road that includes Whistler).

First stop:  Galileo CoffeeCompany, a roadside establishment at blink-and-you-miss-it Britannia Beach.  They roast their own coffee and my latte was decent enough.  Truth:  my taste buds don’t pick up hints of rosemary, pine bark and Corn Flakes like some coffee connoisseurs.  I just like mine strong, not watery and mine was strong enough.  I glimpsed the lovely view of water and mountains, not unlike that which I see from home, and then hit the road again.

On my way into Whistler, I turned off at Function Junction on the outskirts of town for what became a trip highlight.  In a bland commercial business area, I stopped at Purebread, a bakery recommended by Vancouver magazine.  It is rare that I rave about food, but I knew upon stepping in the doorway that the place would be outstanding.  I ordered a fruit scone and a ciabatta loaf and moaned with pleasure as I devoured the scone on the final leg to the hotel. 

After checking in, I did what so many vacationers do:  I hit the library.  Yeah, I know how to have a good time.  I’d set a writing goal for the trip.  I tend to be a writer with ADHD, jumping back and forth from one thing to another.  Ooh, another book idea!  Hey!  That would make a great character!  I told myself no blogging, no internet distractions, no screenplay ideas.  I plopped myself in the library for a chunk of each day and fully outlined a novel idea that I’ve sat on for the past three years.  Mission accomplished!  I now have a clear vision of how I’ll be spending my looming ferry rides.  That alone made it a successful trip.

Of course, I am not at ease if I eat extra food AND forego workouts so fitness was another big part of the trip.  Whistler is better known for its physical activities than for its library.  I thought of canoeing or white water rafting, but opted instead for a tried and true workout.  Being in a place where I knew no one, I risked going to Meadow Park Sports Centre to swim laps at 6 a.m. two mornings.  Yes, I donned my Speedo—a boxer, not briefs style.  The lifeguard didn’t snicker or turn away to keep down her early breakfast croissant.  Despite eight months away from swimming, I managed to complete my basic three-kilometer workout both days.  On my other day in town, I went for an evening jog, zigzagging on a series of trails and somehow managing to find my way back without making the news as the focus of a Search and Rescue mission.  (Considering I have absolutely no sense of direction, my five minutes of unwanted fame will wait another day.)

My one tour was a 2 ½ -hour zipline adventure on my final evening.  There were two options:  the Bear course for beginners and the Eagle route, described as “[p]erfect if you’ve ziplined before or crave an adrenaline rush!”  In truth, I had no business flying with Eagles, but that’s what I signed up for.  A natural worrier, I fretted that I would fail an oral interview prior to the tour and be summarily dismissed from the pack of daredevils.  No middle-aged library goers allowed!  To my relief (?), they took my money, accepted my signed waiver and I was cleared for takeoff.  Having arrived early, I paced outside nearby shops, wondering what I’d gotten myself into and hoping that my four hours of fasting prior to departure would prevent an embarrassing hurl or underwear mishap.  Yeah, a little planning is sometimes essential.

Of course, I felt foolish when we officially convened and the group included a sixty-year-old woman with a bum knew and a woman my age who dressed for a safari and placed her helmet over the wide-brimmed hat that she refused to remove.  If we were eagles, we were the tame sort, raised in captivity, the kind that feasted on hand-fed kibble.  No danger that I’d start thinking about traversing Niagara Falls next summer.

I should tell you the course was insanely treacherous, I lost my voice for two days from screaming and I hurled three times (one less time than everyone else).  Adrenaline rush, indeed!  In truth, while fun and scenic, the adventure was only moderately scarier than my teacup ride at Disneyland.  But I did not know that when I signed up and showed up.  I am keeping those Adventurer bonus points. 

Still, the guides encouraged us to be “a little daring” on the final run.  In my head, I envisioned going upside down and letting go of the cord and dangling my arms over my head.  Usually, there is a huge discrepancy between what I imagine and what I actually do.  On this occasion, however, I followed my vision!  I have no one to back me up—we didn’t exchange email contacts at the end—but I have a clear memory of an exhilarating moment.  I celebrated by stocking up at Purebread—cranberry ginger raisin loaf, flourless chocolate gâteau, buckwheat sour cherry scone—on my way home.    

I didn’t go to Jamaica, I didn’t meet a hunky gay-in-disguise Taye Diggs, but I left Whistler having found a mini groove.  Good enough when you travel on a budget!