Around this time last year I started the mix tape. The original goal was to post a new mix weekly, but sporadically seems to suit me better. I can’t be confined by a calendar. This week is the best yet. (Like every good reality TV show, I’m going to make this promise every week). Continue reading
Posted in Mixed Tapes, Running Tids & Bits
Tagged animals, celebrity, Garmin, long run, marathon, Olympics, race director, running, winter
I am hobbling around like an old lady in need of a walker. My legs, which appear to be on strike, are no longer responding to commands from my brain.
Me, if I had glasses, a perm, and a walker. In other words, future me.
After a long run I’m often found lounging about with my running mates, an over-priced Italian-sized cup of hot chocolate, extra hot, skim milk and light whip in my hand. My mates lean towards coffee, a substance I do not drink. As the only person in North America to have never consumed a cup of coffee, let alone an over-priced Italian cup of Americano beans, I am unfamiliar with its effects on the body. Discussing, as we are apt to do, the humidity-induced PB dream-crushing fatigue someone mentioned that despite being tired, the caffeine left him wired.
Not one to let an opportunity to rhyme pass me by, I proclaimed him tired and wired, and a new catch phrase was born. How do you feel after a 30K training run and an infusion of caffeine?
Tired and wired.
Title Reference: Beastie Boys – Intergalactic. 1998.
I didn’t run a spring marathon. And I’m not running a spring 50K. Life caught me off-guard and messed with my training and I’m still recovering. By recovering I mean I’m slow and undertrained and lacking race confidence. I feel like an imposter, surrounded by runners with enviable race accomplishments. PBs, BQs, awards. I need to make up an excuse to exit conversations when talk turns to the spring race results. In response to direct questions I mumble unintelligible words broken up with excessive coughing.
A new training cycle has begun and I still haven’t selected a fall marathon. Or booked a tune-up. I have a vague plan, but remain uncommitted. Last year at this time I was registered in a 30K tune-up run, a 1/2 marathon tune-up run, and two marathons. This year I’m registered in (d) none of the above. I’m running without direction. On the road to nowhere.
I run marathons, therefore I should find a marathon to run?
Title Reference: Rush – Marathon. From the album Power Windows. 1985.
Posted in My Amazing Races, Running Tids & Bits
Bad memories of race morning port-a-loo lines:
Thank you to Jack for forwarding this gem.
Title Reference: Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers – The Wait. 1981.
I have never run in High Park, Toronto’s urban jewel. Until today. The only access by running shoe is along city streets with endless stop signs and red lights that interrupt my groove. Which is the reason I never run in High Park. I don’t like my groove to be interrupted by my need to law-abide.
But I am in a long run rut, always following some variation of my regular route of trails and cemeteries. So today, today I tried something new. New = 161 hectares of High Park hills. There is something surreal about trudging along in the middle of a city while yak, bison, and llamas graze nearby. Real ones. With the real smell of “fertilizer” punctuating the air. And a helpful sign explaining what they do with all the poo, although I was running much too fast to read the details. If you know what they do with the poo please tell me. I’m eager to learn. Only the llama seemed mildly interested in me. The bison only seemed interested in eating. And, I imagine, pooping.
In a rash decision to off-road I found myself in ankle deep muck (no snow this year, lucky for us global warming is just a myth) as I tried to “run” up a vertical mudslide. At the top I popped out of the bushes huffing and puffing and covered in mud like some sort of crazy person, scaring a kindly old man witless. Fortunately for me I did not have to stop to perform CPR. That really would have messed up my pacing.
I love a hilly long run. And by love I mean love to hate. Next week though, back to the dead people.
Title Reference: Steve Winwood – High Life. From the album Back in the High Life. 1986.
During the winter I spend a lot of time grave running. The trails are often too icy and I like to avoid cars. When you live in a car-filled city there are few car-free options. Cemeteries are one pleasant exception. Today’s long run took an interesting turn when I found myself locked in a cemetery. The cemetery, you see, closes just before sunset. I was still in the cemetery when security locked it for the evening. I knew closing time was approaching but I assumed, wrongly it seems, that security would do a sweep of the roads before sealing the gates. I did not see security and they did not see me. Or they did see me and watched amused as I contemplated my tricky situation. As many of you know, I have a complicated history with this particular cemetery. I did not wish to be in there after sunset. So I did what I needed to do. I scaled the fence crossing my fingers that my pitifully weak arms wouldn’t give out as I tried to clear the spikey parts at the top. I thank the helpful drivers who honked encouragingly as I climbed out.
Title Reference: The Smiths – Cemetry Gates. From the album The Queen is Dead. 1986,
Posted in Running Tids & Bits
I claim to be all slow twitch muscle, but maybe my fast twitchers just need a boost of motivation. A rat ran across my foot during a long run two weeks ago and Bolt would have had trouble running the next 100 metres with me.
Title Reference: Bruce Cockburn – Wondering Where the Lion Are. From the album Dancing in the Dragon’s Jaws. 1979.
Posted in Running Tids & Bits
Tagged exercise, fitness, fun run, long run, running, sport psychology
For 143 days in 1980 Terry Fox lived out of a Ford Econoline Van while he ran across Canada on his Marathon of Hope. When Fox was forced to end the journey early due to the return of his cancer the van just sort of disappeared. Not out of the limelight for long, the van had made its way to the heavy metal band Removal and spent years on tour across North America. The whereabouts unbeknownst to most of Terry’s fans, the van found more glory and fame in the music world.
In 2006 Douglas Coupland’s book Terry inspired the rediscovery of the Van of Hope. Terry’s brother, who lived with him in the van during the Marathon of Hope, asked Coupland to look for leads on the whereabouts of the van, but it was a random encounter with a painter that led them to the street in East Vancouver on which the van was parked. Still with the band, the head-banging owner was aware of the van’s pedigree and had, in the past, taken the van to local Terry Fox runs. Although showing signs of age, with the original interior intact the van was in remarkable condition for a vehicle having spent years on the road. One can only imagine what that van had been through. The bandmates never even changed the orange shag carpeting. Pause for the collective ewww. The former owner claims they were reluctant to make any alterations to the vehicle, believing they might upset Terry’s good karma that kept the Econoline going mile after mile.
Once found, the owner agreed to sell the van to the Terry Fox Foundation for a nominal fee. Ford Canada sponsored the restoration of this piece of Canadian history. Workers spent 1000 hours dismantling and reassembling every van piece in preparation for a cross-country fundraising Tour of Hope in summer 2008. Upon seeing the van again, Terry’s brother Darrell reminisced “I just thought, this was where he slept and ate and perspired and there was a lot of emotions there that just came back.” Reportedly that van was extremely stinky. A smell so sickly it was newsworthy. Don’t judge, the man ran a marathon a day then relaxed in the Econoline while the shag carpeting soaked up all that sticky perspiration.
If you were alive in 1980 (in Canada) you remember Terry Fox and that van. As brother Darrell (it you remember the 80s you just thought “and my other brother Darrell”) reminds us, the van “protected [Terry] from the madness outside when chaos ruled the day as interest in his story picked up.” The van has become a symbol for the power message of possibility sent by Terry. Young as I was, I remember being enthralled by news reports with images of Terry on the run and always in the background was that ever-faithful van. That reconditioned van is now routinely parked on a street about 250 metres from my home. I often pass it by on the start of my long runs and you know, I’ve got to agree with that rock band, good vibrations radiate from every last patch of rust. I always think about rubbing its bumper for luck, but worry what the neighbours will think.
If, like me, you haven’t participated in a Terry Fox Run since you were a kid, on Sunday September 13th 2009 considering doing so once again. It’s good karma.
Terry Fox and his faithful Econoline
Title Reference: the Who – Magic Bus. From the album Magic Bus – The Who on Tour. 1968.
As part of my summer survival plan I’m attempting to run at the crack of dawn. Or my version of the crack of dawn, which happens about two hours after sunrise. I’m enjoying the solitude of runs relatively free of hazards such as traffic, giant strollers, and teetering kids on bikes. More unexpected was the active wildlife. In retrospect it’s not surprising that the woodland (or in this case, the urbanite) critters hustle and bustle before the car-revving, trail stomping humans take over; but the first time a bunny hopped in my path and stared me down I very nearly went into cardiac arrest. I’m a bit jumpy before I’m fully awake. Fully awake doesn’t happen until about three hours after I’m finished a morning run. This tidbit is important, so file it away.
On a typical evening run I’m greeted by raggedy looking squirrels and a flock of pigeons and that’s about it for the animal kingdom. Early rising has not only gotten me the worm, but the fox, rabbit, raccoon, rat, and several mice. It’s nice to encounter “wild” life beyond a few overly exuberant dogs. Much as I love dogs and all their fluffy cuteness, my most memorable (read: heart stopping) animal encounters always seem to involve untrustworthy canines. Like the one last January in Banff National Park. To fully appreciate that moment I need to take you back to the day before the run.
In an effort to keep luggage to a minimum, I decided to run indoors (so I could leave my bulky winter running gear at home), on a treadmill, during the trip. We all know how that went. Time for Plan B. Lucky for us, our trip coincided with the Chinook winds and the weather was gloriously warm. I decided to test my resolve in the great outdoors, subbing in my winter play gear (i.e. the clothes I wear under my ski suit) for running gear. The thing about my winter play gear – it is functional castoffs from the Lululemon warehouse sale. The clothes were meant for wearing beneath a layer of outer clothing. Translation, do not look directly at the exceptionally ugly clothes. My pants are best described as sinus infection green, complete with an eerie glow. This tidbit is important, so file it away.
The night before my outdoor run I went out for dinner at a tourist trap fondue restaurant called the Grizzly House. Picture a poorly ventilated room filled with tables of people cooking all varieties of meat, the most popular of which seemed to be local flavours of venison, elk, bison, beef, and wild boar. The smell of flesh wafted into every nook and granny. Translation, we stunk. Knowing I had a run in the morning I decided not to shower that night, saving the environment from wasteful water use (fine, being lazy) by waiting until post-run the next day. Consequently I went to bed, and woke up the next morning, smelling like meat. This tidbit is important, so file it away.
The next morning, as planned, I go on my run. Dressed in my snazzy neon green pants, hair reeking of animal, I head out on the trails of Banff National Park. The ranger, or whatever those parks people are called, plotted a route with me and in keeping with the plan I headed northbound on the scenic trail. Upon entering the wooded area another runner came dashing out, jingling all the way. Head to toe she was covered in wee little bells. How odd, I thought. Now the night before I noticed that my route, masterfully developed with the aid of the ranger, took me near a dead end road. This road, I was informed earlier that same day by my dogsled guide, had been the scene of recent elk herd sightings. Eager to see postcard-worthy Canadian wildlife I modified my course, the route advised by the knowledgeable ranger, to take me out to the elk feeding grounds. As I’m running down the desolate road (the jingle lady at the start of my run was my sole human sighting) I see a dog out on the frozen pond. As I run toward the puppy, and the puppy crosses the pond headed in my direction, I start to wonder where the irresponsible owners were to be found. Poor thing, I thought, he’s been abandoned or run away. As I continue to approach the dog and vice versa, closing in at about 100 metres, my brain finally awakens. I am, and have been for some time, running directly toward a wolf. A wolf likely at that very spot in search of the elk that drew me there.
At this moment I should remind you that I smell like a delicious wolf smorgasboard. Elk, venison, bison, beef, boar - I am a kabob running directly into the mouth of the beast. So I do exactly what one should never ever do when approaching a wolf in the wild. I turned tail and ran as fast as my little legs would go, head bobbing back to see if I was being chased. My second thought, the one that followed Oh. My. God. I Smell Like Meat, was – and I’m a little ashamed to admit this – I Can’t Die in These Pants. The wolf just watched me curiously as I sprinted (relative term, one leap and I’d be down) away. I firmly believe that my horrifying phlegm coloured pants, combined with the confusing array of smells, gave the appearance of rancid meat. Also once, at Canada’s Wonderland during a live-action show, a pirate grabbed me from the audience (seriously picked me up off my seat) but decided I was too skinny to cannabolize. I’m not, it seems, worth the kill. The wolf agreed, deciding not to risk food poisoning for a taste of my weirdly green, oddly smelling, relatively meatless stick legs.
It is easy to think that I was spooked and over-reacted out there in the lonely woods. Husband, for one, was skeptical. It didn’t help that the preceding days I left him notes like “gone to the waterfalls, if not back by 4 fell in” or “gone for a hike, if not back by 2 eaten by bear”. He was, you see, at a conference and I was left to explore Banff on my own. Seeing the doubt in his eyes, the next morning I drove him out to Wolf Pond (not the official name). Against all odds, the wolf was back …with a friend/lover/friend with benefits (who can tell anymore). That’s right, two wolves. Which is practically a pack. So it’s fair to say a pack of wolves. Husband’s eyes saucered a little as I jumped up and down shouting “that’s him, that’s him”. Finally, he believed. For all I know the other wolf, perhaps the entire pack, was there during my run, stalking me from afar. It took me 15 minutes to realize the wolf was a wolf, so it’s not a leap to think an entire family might have been – without me noticing – watching me with their hungry, but puzzled, eyes. I suspect I’m ridiculously easy prey. It is fortunate that I’m not terribly appetizing.
We snapped some photographic evidence, which I later presented to the ranger who confirmed that I am not an urban scaredy cat terrorized by a lost puppy, but indeed I had the fortune of not one, not two, but three wolf viewings. There are few wolves remaining in Banff, in twelve years the ranger had yet to see one in the wild, and I stumbled across one -which is almost two, which is almost a pack- on my little 8K jaunt. Lucky me?
Title Reference: Duran Duran – Hungry like the Wolf. From the album Rio. 1982.
My Running Shorts, noun: brief stories about life on the run.
