'Sippin On Some Sizzurp'

The first time I ever encountered Canada's national media was on a summer's night in Paris in 2003. I had won a world title and suddenly every reporter wanted to talk to me.

It was cool but very overwhelming, and I didn't know what to say, and what not to say.

I remember talking to Randy Starkman of The Toronto Star while eating all the Parisian delights I could find. I was also having a glass of bubbly and told him that too.

This freaked out our wonderful Media liaison who shot me a look of horror and said to never mention this again! It didn't make the morning press and I'm still not sure if  Randy just didn't hear me or decided it was not part of the bigger story. 

In the six years since, if reporters only knew how many times I was talking to them while sippin on some Spumante Bambino...

Goodbye Inside Track

I don't always love the media aspect of my job,  but I do it and always try to be honest and open about what is going on with me. I have been asked some fluff questions that are easy to answer and I have also been asked some very hard/annoying ones over and over and over...again, and I answer those too.

In all these years of courting the media, so to speak, I have the most fun when I sit down with Robin Brown of CBC radio's Inside Track. and Mark Crawley who makes everything happen behind the scenes. It is a pleasure to speak with someone who is interested in the human side of an athlete. And not just the person who performs. Robin's interviews allow the athletes who go on to expose a facet of themselves that their fans rarely get to see and  that other media don't tap into.

I have no idea what CBC is thinking and why they would let one of their most insightful and peerless programs dissolve. But I will miss the stories that Robin Brown tells every Sunday afternoon at 130 local time, and I am certainly not alone.

Click here to hear my final interview (June 7) on  The Inside Track.

Thanks for all the fun Robin & Mark!

Link: http://podcast.cbc.ca/mp3/insidetrack_20090607_16556.mp3

Ciao,

Perdita

Perdi & the Pumpkins

I am back in Champaign and ready for some more days of training. I am not sure what coach has planned but I’m guessing it’s going to be taxing followed by a much welcomed taper going into nationals.
I usually get really sad when I have to leave Toronto, in fact I have been known to cry upon leaving the BFs while driving a compact Chevy Cobalt back to Enterprise. (Indeed this unexpected display startled us both).

But this time was the complete opposite, I couldn’t wait for 4:20pm to come so I could just beat it! Such was my enthusiasm to train and continue the work I have been doing. Get me to Champaign-Urbana STAT!

But this trip wasn't with out some bizarre encounters.

Tickets to the Gun Show
I am platinum on American Airlines but I wonder why I put myself through all of their crap sometimes. I used the self-check in kiosk and had to wait forever to get my passport verified. I kept motioning for this one free agent to come over to help but she kept darting her eyes away like she didn’t notice me.

Like hell u don’t see me flailing these big guns around sister. NASA can see these biceps from space!

Finally she gives me some lack luster hand gesture to approach an agent beside her, because clearly she is just at her podium for style.

Arghh.

I finally get some assistance but that meant starting the whole process over and also paying $45 for two checked bags. 

This airline is a hot mess.

Michelle the agent gets me squared away and has me proceed to customs. Which I do in a rush because I am boarding in 20 minutes. With my two huge roller bags, a small wheelie and a duffle over my shoulder I get to customs and Officer Dale is waiting.

“Hi” I say in my most non threatening 'why-no-I-don’t-have-organic-crunchy-almond-butter-in-my-bag' sorta voice.

“Citizenship?”

Canadian.

“Oh not Jamaican?” asks the officer.

“Umm…no.”

Officer Dale asks if I am of African or West Indian descent

I mean what does this have to do with me getting some almond butter into the country without being fined.

I’m confused because I am both.

“My mom is St. Lucian” I tell him.

“Ha” he laughs “But you want to be Jamaican don’t you!”

This was a statement not a question and Mr. Officer was getting all excited in his swiveling chair. To this I say why does everyone assume that all West Indians hail from Jamaica.

His response “Because Jamaicans are running tings!”

WOW! Is this a joke?

I chuckle nervously while looking over at Booth #8 for help, pleading with my eyes. No one meets my bulging, blinking, twitching eyes.

Not sure what to say I babble that my mom was born in a small village that I have been to only twice in 28 years. And while I love my St. Lucian roots, he really should know I was born in Oshawa.

I wasn’t really sure where I was going with this story but his response to it was: “Why do you look so strong?”.

???????!!!! 

Now I'm just waiting for Ashton Kutcher and MTV cameras to tell me I am being Punk’d.

No Ashton.

Sensing that this is clearly a very loose exchange we are having,  I decide to play his game: “I eat people's children, which makes me lean”.

He doesn’t’ look up.  

And I instantly regret the sentence and yelp out “Just kidding!”. Realising that was a very stupid joke considering the present setting.

After a long seven minutes he lets me go and I hear him laughing as I leave.

Feast Your Eyes Fellas
Next up I approach the group of officers who are supposed to take my customs form. But before they do the three of them exclaim and make some delighted noises. The one refuses to take my form, throwing his hands back and cheesing he says he “doesn’t want a piece of me!”

At this point I’m thinking three things:
1. Is dude allowed to say that?!
2. What are they feeding the officials in this airport?!
3. Oh really. You think this is swole fellas? Come check me after some Tuesday afternoon cleans, pumpkins.

They take my declaration form and ask what sport I do for Canada. I respond and they let loose some ooohs and aaahhhs.

At this point I’m not sure if I should be flattered, troubled or just book my flights out of Kitchener the next time.

Glad to be home again,

Perdita