Alright peoples of the internet ... well, all eight of you (and specifically the three of you not directly related and thus have a blood requirement to support me ... ) who regularly visit this blog because you have run out of productive things to do at work and your boss has stepped out of the office for a moment ...

Here’s your big chance. Okay. Well. Here’s A chance.

So, my coach sent me this link to an application for the Young Participants Session at the International Olympic Academy.

And yes. I know what you are thinking. "Hey, Bartleman, which part of 'young' didn't you understand?"

Because, that's exactly what I was thinking.

But hey, turns out that the definitive line between 'young' and 'old' is age 35. Or at least, that's what them Olympic guys over there say. Oh, and also the International Olympic Weightlifitng people. Apparently I can't start my Masters category weightlifting career until I am 35. In case you were wondering what the next step in my athletic career was going to be after skeleton.

So there you have it. You can call me 'old' in three years. But even then, only if you can beat me in a foot race.

So, then the next thing I was thinking was, seriously, come on, who wants to go on an all-expenses paid trip to Greece in the middle of the summer to be part of an international meeting of Olympic-inspired minds? I mean, all those airport security lines, and annoying identifcation lanyards (and who knows if they will even laminate them properly), and trying to decide what clothing to bring for a warm climate ... I mean who really wants to go through the hassle?

Oh. Wait. That's right. I DO.

But here's the problem. No, not the problem of being old. We already established that I'm officially 'not old' yet. Remember?

No, the problem is, well, we need to convince the Canadian Olympic Committee that they should take me with them to Greece. And well, that probably means we need to convince them that I am not mentally ill, or domestically dangerous, or an alcoholic ... well, essentially we need to convince them that I am civilized and generally respectable member of society, from a nice, normal family, who would be an upstanding representation of Canada at an international event.

You see the problem right?

So ... uhhh ... I guess, maybe, I could give them a mental picture of the adorable little girl (that's me ... just run with it, okay?) with the big Olympic dream. Or I could show them how, when you search the word 'Olympics' on my blog, there are plenty of results, which highlight my interest in the Olympic movement. Or maybe I could help them see that I uphold the values of health and sport, and that I share them with the community. Or tell them that I believe that the Olympic journey isn't a one-man show and that I really appreciate all the people involved? Oh, maybe I could tell them I speak French too.

That stuff all sounds pretty respectable and upstanding, right?

Hey. Well, look at that. Seems as though, if you ignore a few less-than-spectacular moments of my existence, we can make me look pretty good on paper.

And, of course, we all know that I am just plain adorable.

So, listen, peoples of the internet ... I think we could really pull this thing off if I had, you know, a few ... third-party validation. Like, maybe some of could write something in the comments section about how qualified I am for the free trip to Greece to represent Canada as an ambassador for the Olympic movement?

And maybe leave out those stories you all have of those, uhhhh, less-than-spectacular moments of my existence?

Skeleton is kinda a disjointed sport - you spend all day every day for five months either at a track, sliding down a track, walking a track, sitting on the side of a track, watching video of yourself sliding down a track, travelling to a track, or travelling to a country where there is a track.

And then, for the other seven months, the only ice you get near is floating in the cold tub you sit in after your sprint sessions and gym workouts.

So after seven months of sprinting up hills in the blazing sun, all of the sudden you find yourself standing at the top of the track once again, and your brain is kinda like "Wait ... you want me to do what?"

I made Rob Derman take this picture

We got back on the ice this week in Calgary, where I have four weeks of pre-season training before our first team selection race.

It always (by always, I mean the four times I have had to pick up sliding again after the off-season) seems to take me a few trips down the track for the switch to flip and for me to realize it's on-ice season again. Up until I am done my first run, the idea of getting back on my sled always seems a bit surreal, because I can't remember exactly what it's like. But, it turns out that sliding is kinda like riding a bike. Except there are no wheels. Or brakes. Or gears. Or little pockets on the back of your spandex where you can store snacks.

This year, I started the season off using on a completely different type of sled, just to see what it was like, and whether it would suit my driving style (which I would call "My-coach-is-going-to-yell-at-me-again-for-using-toes").

Okay. Fine. I was hoping that the anal-retentive German engineering of the new sled would jive with my anal-retentive German-wanna-be-ness, and all of the sudden I'd be this prodigy slider that might even manage to make it to the top of the outrun for once.

Which totally didn't happen. In case you were wondering.

But it was definately a good mental exercise. Taking your first run after seven months, on a new sled, with runners you have never tried and a saddle that doesn't fit perfectly, starts you off with the same number of questions, and a similar amount of marginal terror as your first time down a new track. And leaves you with about an equal number of bruises. Including that ever-painful one on the ego.

Regardless, it only takes that first day back on the ice for me to stop saying "Wait ... you want me to do what?" and to start running off the truck yelling "How many minutes left in the session? Three? Oh hells yeah, I'm going again!"

Okay, so for the past four years I have been doing my summer season dryland training all over the place - at the Squamish Athletic Club (shout out to Dom, the owner, who has been my workout procrastination wingman for almost to two years now), at the PacSport gym in Whistler, on random hills and in random back alleys around town (creeping locals out since 2006 ... ), in my living room and front yard (creeping my cats and neighbours out since 2007)...

But on September 1, Canadian Sport Centre Pacific took over the gym that was built at the Whistler Athlete's Village for the Olympics, and this is officially my new workout base.

I have two ... no, three words ... BOO. FREAKIN'. YAH.

Look at this place! This is a certifiably OCD, secretly-slightly-lazy, externally-motivated-but-easily-inspired-by-even-the-hint-of-Olympic-propoganda athlete's dream!

I giggle everytime I even think of doing a workout now.

And then I feel slightly tired, because there is no way I am getting out of anything, anytime, ever again.

No power lifting at the local gyms? There's three platforms and stacks of rubber plates. And no signs that say "Do not drop the weights."

Raining outside? There's an indoor rubber track for starts in spikes.

Spin bike broken? Use one of the other thirty.

Too quiet? Plug your iPod into the speaker system.

Still raining outside? Crank the high-speed treadmill up to 20 and run hills ... up ... or down.

Keep tripping on the stairs trying to do box jumps without boxes? Plenty of varying height boxes to crack your shins on here.

The lone chin-up bar is always taken? All five of the squat racks and four pulleys have bars at the top.

Coach isn't there so you can slack? Coaches office door opens right into the gym.

Nowhere to ice bath? Cold tubs are around the corner from the change rooms.

Can't change in the foyer because there is a kid's camp going on? Change room is right around the corner from the cold tubs.

Trust me. I've tried every last excuse. So now, all I'm left with is complaining WHILE I work out.

Hard times, I'm telling you ...

Yesterday evening I dragged my skelly teammate Lanette out to the Percy Perry Stadium, about an hour and half from my house so that we could lace up our spikes and race in an All-Comers track meet. All-Comers meets are held all over North America, and are recreational competitions where anyone can run, jump, walk or throw in any event that they please, regardless of experience, qualifiication, ability, skill, lack of skill, mental or physical impairment, sobriety level, spike ownership, spandex ownership or the ill-advised donning of spandex.

So ... they let us in.

We signed up for the 100 metre sprint and long jump - two events I haven't done since way back in my college track and field days, up in Alaska where we had to train out side in snow, wearing bunny boots and snowsuits, running uphill both ways around the track ...

Since I have actually been training to be fast, I was marginally prepared to run a 100 metre, regardless of it being a distance event as far as skeleton athletes are concerned (if I have to run more than 30 metres at the top of any iced skeleton track before getting on my sled, I need a water break and I have to pace myself ... ).

After almost eating track as I tripped my way out of the blocks, I managed to cross the line in 13.88. Okay, so I am no Ussain Bolt ... or Shelly-Ann Frazer or a high school provincial 100-metre finals qualifier ... but my goal was to keep it under 14 seconds, and considering my advanced age and decrepit physical state, I was, well, not totally embarrassed.

Also, I beat Lanette, which is all that really mattered.

Afterward, we headed over to long jump for kicks and giggles. The only goal over there was to not get too much sand in my mouth. And maybe to jump farther than the four-foot tall nine-year-old girl. And to get a good picture from one of the SIX jumps we had to execute, so I'd have a cool photo for this blog entry.

Something like this:

See, I took this one of Lanette on my first try. Okay fine, so she's a little blurry. But at least SHE IS IN THE AIR. We could pass it off as artsy ...

And sure, maybe you have to get the feel of a camera that isn't yours ...

Or maybe you change your angle a little and it messes up the timing again.

Or maybe you panic and push the button too early ...

Okay, well at least I am in the air ...

So, it's Lanette's fault that there isn't a cool picture of me jumping almost as far as the four-foot tall nine-year-old girl.

...

Okay, so after a brief absence from cyberspace, I am back.

What's that you ask? Why haven't I been supplying you with your regular dose of cynical, indiscrimate, irrevent and unapologetic sarcasm for the past two months? How 'bout I just go ahead and summarize?

Two continents, six countries, 12 flights, eight airports, an obscene amount of airport security screenings, one thorough pat down, seven customs interrogations, $850 of overweight baggage fees, three lost bags (twice), eight hotels, one burnt carpet, a noticeable amount of burnt hair, one destroyed hair straightener, two launched websites, one rebranded real estate company, two speeches, one existential crisis, one dirndl-wearing, refusing-to-go-to-church Christmas with the in-laws, one subsequent existential crisis, two cases of jet lag, 62 training runs, seven Europa Cup races, one call up to compete in my first Intercontinental Cup circuit race, seven extremely challenging days, an ill-advised amount of alcoholic beverages, and one final existential crisis.

But mostly, I've just been sitting around watching Brett Michael's Rock of Love and the occasional episode of Tool Academy ...

On commercial breaks, however, I did manage to accumulate eight trophies, three medals, one second-place overall Europa Cup title, a 31st-place world ranking and a fifth-place Intercontinental Cup debut.

So, could we maybe call it even?