I know that, in general, I tend to sugarcoat how I really feel about things, but I'm going to go ahead and be straight with you here: I strongly dislike the recreational pastime of running.

Well. That's not completely true. I loathe it entirely. Like, on the same scale as pink, mushrooms and people who sugarcoat how they really feel about things.

Now, let's be clear, the recreational pastime of running is something totally different from focused, goal-oriented running. Want me to run across a field and shag a few fly balls? No problem. Want to enclose me in a squash court and make me chase the world's least bounciest ball for an hour or two? Sign me up. Want to challenge me to a race in stocking feet at midnight down the middle of empty side street? Take photos! Want me to put on spandex and go outside when it is -20 degrees celcius and push a 60-pound piece of steel across ice as fast as I can? Where's the release form?

If there is a line to cross, a ball to chase or any other parameters that constrain running to a finite, visually-perceptible framework, then the statement "I love to run!" would be entirely accurate.

But we don't live in that sensible, logical world, do we? (If we did, I wouldn't need nearly as much therapy ... )

When someone drives by with an "I love to run!" sticker on their bumper, they aren't picturing spikes and spankies. These sick and twisted people have visions of running so far, and for so long that the corresponding thoughts include chaffed nipples, anti-diarrhea medication, incontinence and dietary sustenance.

Let me say this, just for the record: if you are running for so long THAT YOU ARE MISSING MEALS, FALLING ASLEEP, OR VARIOUS BODY PARTS START BLEEDING OR FALLING OFF, maybe you should reconsider your hobbies.

And maybe you should stop calling ME crazy. I'm just saying.

OK. That said, every once in awhile, I try to cast logic and reason aside, and imagine that maybe, hidden behind the bleeding feet and rashes, is some worthwhile pursuit.

So, I put on running shoes, and snug, non-cotton underwear, and charge my iPod and set my run-tracking program, and I hit the pavement. I normally get about three kilometres (so, like 30 minutes or so) when I remember, oh, yeah. This sucks.

So. Last week, I told my new BFF Hadley (I only know, like, two people in my town, and I am mad at Kirsten right now, so Hadley is BFF by default) that I had successfully "gone for a run." By successful, I mean I didn't throw up, nor did my tracking program laugh at me and automatically change the workout type from "running" to "senior citizen."

So, Haddy suggested that we go running on the trails the next day.

And I was all like "Yeah ... how about no?"

And she was all like "No, come on! The trails are cool, and it's kinda zen to focus on jumping over logs and stuff."

And I was all like "Hmmm ... let me think about it. No."

And she was all like "No seriously, you're gonna love it, and I PROMISE the trails are all pretty flat, and it's not a hard run!"

And I was all like "Really? Well, maybe. Oh, wait. I changed my mind. No."

And she was all like "Put on your damn running shoes and snug, non-cotton underwear, and get your ass over here before I dress you in heels and pink and take you out dancing with me."

And I was all like "Okay. You win."

In conclusion, I present you with this pictorial juxtaposition.

Michelle's idea of "flat" ...

Hadley's idea of "flat" ...

And if Haddy STILL wants to insist that the trail run we did wasn't THAT steep, let me refer to SCIENCE, in the form of my Smart Tracker running program.

My previously mentioned successful solo run: 3.2 kilometers in 23 minutes with an elevation gain of 58 metres.

Our dual trail run completed on threat of pink: 4.2 kilometres in 60 minutes with an elevation gain of 204.6 metres.

So. The position of BFF returns to Kirsten.

Alright. So. After what has shaped up to be an interesting and unpredictable pre-season, along with a week of fastidious packing, I am ready to leave for Germany this week for my second tour on the Europa Cup circuit.

Now there are many things that, to put it subtly, make me FREAKIN' CRAZY (among them cell phone companies, shoe laces and people in general ... ), but there is one skeleton-related item that hovers up near the top of that list, and that item is traveling with skeleton equipment.

First of all, space is somewhat limited. My sled takes up one piece of checked luggage. Which means I have one other piece of luggage to fit runners, tools, helmet, race suits, spikes, boots, snowpants, jackets, sneakers and any other personal gear I may want, like say a few pairs of underwear.

But the kicker for us is really the weight. My sled alone weighs 30 kilograms, which is already 16 pounds past the 50 pound weight limit. Then there are my runners, which weigh four kilograms a set, and I normally travel with three pairs. Add in the critical gear of training spikes, race spikes, two suits and the prerequisite tools and trinkets and I am generally left standing at the check-in counter with two extremely overweight bags, facing one extremely unaccomodating checkin agent.

And THAT's what makes me crazy. It's not that I can only bring four t-shirts and a single pair of jeans for the next month. It's not that I have to buy shampoo over there to save on weight. It's not that I have to decide on one pair of shoes to bring. It's not that I have to carry on virtually all of my personal gear, making me the person you DON'T want to be stuck behind in the security line (because my 100 ml travel toiletry bottles? They are NOT in a handily accesible clear plastic bag).

It's the hassling.

"Ms. Bartleman, your bag seems to be overweight."

Yeah. You think?

"Well, can you maybe move some stuff around in your luggage to make it fit within in the weight limit?"

Yeah. Sure. Do you have a metal cutter behind your little counter there, so that I can hack my sled in two and put a piece in my other ALREADY OVERWEIGHT bag?

"This second piece of luggage is also overweight."

Yes. I am aware of this fact. ARE YOU RETARDED? Which part of "I have two overweight bags" didn't you understand when I walked up to the counter and said "I have two overweight bags" ... ? Listen lady, I have to drag this stupid piece of metal up a 20 degree inclined outrun covered in snow, wearing snow-filled spikes and spandex in minus 30 degree weather. I KNOW IT'S HEAVY, OKAY?

Listen, it's not like I am trying to pass off an 80-pound, table-sized piece of luggage as two ping-pong paddles or a box of packing peanuts. That part where I said "Hey, "I have two overweight bags" ... ? That was me indicating, in good faith, that I KNOW THAT I HAVE TWO OVERWEIGHT BAGS, and that I am planning to pay the appropriate fees to accomodate that fact.

So, are the disdaining looks and snarky comments REALLY necessary? Do you REALLY think that I packed my bags wondering where I could find some extra pieces of scrap metal to stash in my luggage for the sole purpose of pissing off the checkin agent? Do you think that I love paying hundreds of dollars in overweight baggage charges? Listen lady, if I could do my sport in nothing more than a speedo, I would. But both propriety and sheer common sense prevent me from doing so.

So, in the name of all that is good and helpful, will you please, PLEASE, just look at your little chart, charge me the overweight baggage fees, print out the "HEAVY" tags so that we are ALL aware of the general nature of my luggage, hand me my boarding pass, smile nicely, and let me be on my way?

Anyone want to hear what I think about cell phone rates?

I have a problem: I am incapable of deciding which yoghurt to buy.

You laugh, but I am not kidding. I cannot remember the last time I made a successful yoghurt purchase.

It's not like I don't like yoghurt. I find it very tasty indeed. And I have seen enough TV ads, or, at the very least, SNL spoofs, to know that there is some relationship between yoghurt and ... uhhh ... let's call it gastro-intestinal health. Which seems like an equally valid reason to consume said dairy product.

But I am incapable of making a decision regarding which yoghurt to buy.

I don't mean that I waffle for a few minutes in the yoghurt aisle before simply picking whatever is on sale.

I don't mean that I can't decide which fruit combination seems more appetizing.

I don't mean that I am not sure whether to buy a large tub, or individual servings.

I mean, that I am utterly and completely unable to leave a grocery store with a container of yoghurt in my possession.

Take today for example. I happened upon the yoghurt aisle, and thought, maybe I should give it a go. So I started with what was on sale. Mmmmm ... Creamy Danone, in individual servings. Yummy. But I don't need 12 containers ... Well, what about a tub? But this tub has too much sugar. And this tub is low-fat. But I want some fat. This tub is low in sugar, but that's because it's all additives. This tub is all-natural, but it's that weird fruit-on-the-bottom kind. Really, is it that hard to stir it though? But I really like the Creamy Danone. And look they have new flavours. But if I buy 12, then I won't be able to eat them all. And then they will approach their expiry date, and I will just be scared of them. Why do they have to have a box of 12? Why can't I buy them individually? Oh, well, what about the Lucerne individual servings that are sold seperately? Low-fat ... no-fat ... fruit-on-the-bottom ... but there's so much sugar. My dentist is going to yell at me. Why can't I just find, normal fat with less sugar? But not freaky fake sugar, whatever that is ... I just want the whole ingredients. I guess I could go with the hippie organic one. But it's expensive ...

And so on.

This yoghurt decision battle continues, unfailing, for no less than half an hour.

HALF AN HOUR. The minute I wander into any yoghurt aisle, I can guarantee that 30 minutes later, you will still find me standing there, with my eyes glazed over and no yoghurt in the shopping cart.

I cannot make a yoghurt decision.

Today was no different. By the time I had been standing there, reading ingredient labels for the better portion of an hour, I simply decided that my efforts, once again, were futile, and that it was an inescapable fact that I was doomed to leave the grocery store yoghurt-less.

So I went and bought some fuzzy socks instead.

They are delicious. And my dentist won't yell at me.

This here is my good ... nay, GREAT ... friend Peter Fox. A sliding buddy from Germany introduced us in January, and I have since spent a good part of every day for the past ... oohhhh ... 37 days or so ... letting him whisper sweet German nothings (and a few somethings) into my ear.

Some might consider it a tad offside, were I actually spending 14 hours a day hanging out with some dude who is not my husband. But seeing as my pal Pete here is a German hip-hop artist who merely keeps my ears entertained with the soothing sounds of Berlin slang, while expanding my vocabulary with useful phrases like "I slay my goldfish, bury him in the yard" and "It would be good if my brain fell out of the window" and "I am an engineer for excavator technology," it seems to me that this is nothing more than a medicinally treatable case of OCD.

That, and PROGRESS.

Yep. I did say German hip-hop. For once in my life, the music I love is socially acceptable ... or at the very least, cryptic enough that no can really form an opinion as quickly as if I were listening to, say Celine Dion, or something equally culturally shameful.

Me, the eternally musically-challenged ... loving German hip-hop. Who would have guessed?

Me, the grade-three kid humming The Kingston Trio's "Hang Down Your Head Tom Dooley" on the way home from school. Me, the tormented junior high schooler crooning Karen Carpenter's "It's Yesterday Once More" while teasing my bangs. Me, the mortified high school senior trying desperately to pretend that, yes, of course I know who Guns & Roses are, and, no, this Peter, Paul and Mary cassette tape in my yellow Sony Walkman most certainly does not belong to me.

You can't even begin to comprehend the lengths I have gone to throughout my life, to avoid answering questions like "What type of music do you listen to?" and "What's your favorite band?"

Seriously folks, we are talking about a person here who listens to CBC Radio 3 as music rehabilitation, so that in certain social situations they can replace phrases like "Man, I love ABBA" with "Man, Beast is my favourite Montreal indy band." (You are welcome Claire).

People. Listen to me. I actually redeem my iTunes gift certificates for Irish Rovers songs. Do you even know who the Irish Rovers are? Exactly.

And now look at me. I got the bass pumping and the volume cranked as I drive down the street jamming to a recently-released chart topper. The other day I had a discussion with a virtual stranger about my musical tastes, which did not involve stifled laughter on his part. More than once this past week I have let friends into my house, and not only did I not rush to turn off whatever I was listening to, I actually turned it up.

So THIS is what it is like to not be embarrassed by one's musical preferences. I think I will go celebrate by calling into the local radio station and dedicating some Celine Dion to my little sister.

OK, so as we were waiting for the awards ceremony in St.Moritz to start, rumours were floating around that they gave out designer handbags to the women. Sure enough, we could see the awards table from afar, with some bags sitting on top, next to a pile of what appeared to be puffy vests for the men.

And I was like, oh great, a purse, just what I always wanted. The guys get a wicked puffy vest, and I am going to get a purse? It's probably going to be pink too.

Now you should have seen Lanette ... she was eyeing those handbags like they were little puppies that she couldn't wait to pick up and cuddle. For her third-place finish, she got this (OK ... even I will admit it ... ) totally sweet, red handbag (notice how I can't bring myself to call it a purse ... )

I am pretty sure I could hear her giggling with delight from the podium ...

So then I go up to get my fifth place award. The FIBT official presents me with my medal (which honestly I was delighted to accept ... they are much easier to pack than three-foot high glass trophies ... ) and he hands me a small box and says "For you, a handmade Swiss wallet."

Okay, cool ... a wallet ... well at the very least it gets me out of having to explain to people that I am most certainly not carrying a purse.

But, honestly, I have this wicked wallet that I bought in Austria two years ago. I love my Porsche wallet. I have to love it, for years to come, because it cost most than any amount of cash I could possibly even fit in the wallet. So, really, what am I going to do with another wallet?

After the ceremony I try to convince a few of the guys that they want to trade their puffy vests for my wallet, but there are no takers.

And I am thinking, well, it was a very nice gesture by the race organizers, I guess I will tuck it away, or regift it, or who knows.

Until the next day, when we are walking around St.Moritz and Lanette spots my wallet in the window of one of the shops. With a price tag on it, that, well ... let's just say this wallet wasn't made in china.

So .... ummm ... good thing I didn't trade my awesome new wallet for some stupid puffy vest.