Choo Choo...(train to race, race to train)

I know she must be a special client when Logan, the chiropractor’s nine-year-old daughter brings over a magazine and two packets of candies.

“These are for you,” she politely says.

“What’s that dear?” the patient answers.

“It’s your favourite magazine and the ginger candies you like,” Logan persists.

I hadn’t eaten breakfast yet and the candies looked good. I wonder what I need to do to get on this preferential client list. I didn’t know chiropractic offices offered Club Class. It is obvious I am flying Economy.

It doesn’t surprise me, exactly, as Mildred (I would later learn her name), demands attention the second she enters the waiting room. I am not sure if it is her flashy, high tech New Balance running shoes or her fluorescent pink faux fur fuzzy hat so much as the confidence that sloughs off into the air with each step she takes. The incongruence between her high fashion ware and her white hair whispers to me that she is probably in her seventies. 

It isn’t long until she, Mildred, starts chatting up the man next to her. 

“These are ginger candies. I like ginger. I’ve used it for years.”

The man smiles politely and nodded.

“The doctor askeed me why I’m in such good shape.” She didn’t wait for the gentleman to jump into the conversation, “I told him I am fortunate.”

Ah, what a lovely thing to say, I think. It was the next part of the conversation that floors me.

“I’m ninety-four.”

After I picked my jaw off the floor I sneak another peak. Her skin could give Cindy Crawford a run for her money. Maybe Aveeno made a mistake in picking their next poster child! Move over Jennifer Anniston, here comes Mildred!

“I fold the napkins for dinner at the home.” She continues. “I get lots of compliments on them.”

The man beside her doesn’t know how to carry the conversation on.

“Well, you look fantastic,” I jump in. 

“Yes. I am fortunate. I believe life is what you make it. You know? Life is what you make it.”

With that exclamation, Mildred sprints into the next available exam room.

I learn from her kind nephew that Mildred Jardine has been coming for acupuncture/chiropractic care for years. She and her husband lived about four doors down from the office. After her husband passed a few years back her younger sister moved in and the two got along splendidly until her sister was tragically hit and killed by a bus about 5 years ago. Mildred then had to move out of town to a care home. Her nephew has been taking her into the chiropractor once a month ever since.

“She used to go more often, but this is all I can handle with work and everything.” He confesses. The journey each way is at least a 45 minute drive.

I only spent a few minutes with Mildred but I know I like her. I find out she lived a healthy, active life, ate well and did things like juicing and paid attention to herbs such as ginger.  She made me smile and feel good and that was exactly what I needed on the day I headed down to Hamilton to prepare for the Around the Bay race.

At the best of times this is a precarious race. History has repeatedly and consistently taught me that I run marathons at a faster pace even though marathons are 12.2 km longer than this 30 km jaunt. Maybe it is the distance that messes with my head or the crazy hills--some barely passible by mountain goats--that come in the final third of this gruelling test of mind and body.

I want to complete this race in less than 3 hours. Sounds easy enough, but this race beats me every year in one way or another. However, this time, I have a plan. I will start out slowly, conserve my energy but stay at a pace slightly faster than required. Then I can slow down for the final 10 km and still make my goal.

We’re all a little worried. And, by ‘little’, I mean ‘enormously, lose control of all bodily functions’ nervous. I had been sick, hadn’t put the required training in this horrible winter. Karen just came back from a vacation in Mexico, literally getting off the plane the night before travelling to Hamilton for the race. She had taken carb loading and taper week to a whole new level. She was convinced she would be sweating mojitos. And, Lyndsay had the worst condition of all. She had been throwing up the day before, thinking it was possible food poisoning from bad cold slaw from a restaurant. (I need to talk to her about eating anything remotely related to cabbage the week before a race).

My weakness--well, one of many weaknesses--is I have a tendency to bolt out of the gate too quickly. This especially becomes a problem when I attempt to stay with Karen. So, I make a solemn pledge to myself to stick to the plan. In the first few meters into the run, Karen looks back at me and says, in realization, “You’re not even going to try to run with me at the beginning?”

I shake my head shamefully as I hang back. I feel like I just murdered a puppy or turned my best friend into the police for rolling through a stop sign. How could I not even try?

No, stick to the plan. Stick to the plan. Stick to the plan. Lyndsay  kindly keeps me company.  The weather is amazing and I decide to take in the views and sunshine. I am so proud of myself for making a plan and sticking to it. What is it they say?:  If you fail to plan you plan to fail.

The idiot that said that didn’t bother to check the schedule for the Canadian National Railway. 

At approximately 9 km I blink. 

“Is this for real?” I hear myself say aloud.

Before me is a sea of probably a thousand runners all stopped as a very long train rattles across the road.

What I experience next is magical and the most memorable part of the whole race. Expecting anarchy; an angry mob throwing the vehicle off its tracks, I am amazed at what I see. 

I witness people smiling, laughing, dozens scattering into ditches and nearby brush to ‘take care of business’, groups clumping together, taking pictures of their smiling faces with the train in the background, friends chatting, strangers laughing, people hugging, drinking, eating, calling loved ones on their cell phones!

A few flat cars go by, making it look like the last of the train has gone by to those of us near the back of the pack, only to see more full-sized cars show up. The collective laughs at our folly!

It could have been a moment of disappointment, anger or resentment. Instead, the group chose to use these five minutes (Karen timed it) as a gift, a thing of beauty, a moment to do something important. I smile. Mildred was right, “Life is what you make it.”

I still try to achieve my goal of 3 hours, but I can’t quite make up the time before I am knocked back by the hilly terrain. Instead, I give every kid with an outstretched hand a high five. I notice the wonderful cheering squad of Keith, Jane and Linda at km 18 and the amazing sign Linda made for us, complete with sparkly letters and a map. I take the time to look across the bay, notice the beautiful homes, and the rolling--and not so rolling--hills. 

I run into Copps Coliseum four minutes after that 3 hour mark has passed. Eager not to have a repeat performance of last year (an unfortunate incident in the back seat of Karen's mom's car. Fortunately we had a bag handy) I pop two gravol pills and find my wonderful people.  Karen, Lyndsay and I laugh about the train, the day, the race.

I didn’t realize it at the time because I was so transfixed on my 3 hour goal, but all three of us actually had a personal best finishing time for this race despite the train (and lack of train-ing). We are so fortunate!

Life is what we make it and an unexpected, beautiful by-product of this happens to be we are fortunate. 

Thanks, Mildred. I guess after ninety four years you certainly know what you are talking about.

What a great day! A special shout out to Lyndsay for running with me, Karen for the endless rides, support and guidance, Jane, Keith (and Mitsee) for the wonderful hospitality…I think I left my pillow at your house, and to Linda for your enthusiasm and high quality signage!

How It All Began

As you know, last week I signed up for the Ottawa Marathon. Now, an average 44 year old woman just doesn’t go do that, at least not a sane one. Sometimes a little history is helpful to understand how I got to this point.

There are a few commonalities between my neighbour, Heather, who lives directly across the street and myself: our first name, our second name, 'Ann' without an e, and a Canadian east coast ancestry (that alone explains a lot). Neither of us has ever given birth, although I have 3 amazing kids, but that’s another post or two, or 100, and we are both overcoming an unnatural fear of babies. We’re scared they will break if we get too close to them.

Now for the differences−in many ways we are polar opposites: Heather is outgoing, friendly and an organizer. I generally fall a little left of shy until I get to know someone and live in perpetual chaos, adapting to a comfortable level of peace with it.

This may be a no-fault insurance province, but I’ll be darned if it’s no fault running. This current obsession is all Heather’s fault.

It started just over a year ago when Heather boldly declared “I’m going to run a half marathon.” I don’t remember if it was online, at a party or she simply decreed it from her front step, but I heard it, loud and clear. Heather’s going to run a half marathon.  By May.

Wow.

All I could think was “I couldn’t run a half marathon by May”. Actually, Heather couldn’t run one by May either. She just didn’t know it yet.

A weekend in Ottawa.  A race. Good company.

I wanted to weasel my way into the action. I had run a 10 km race once or twice a couple or 10, 15, maybe 20 years ago (who’s counting?). I could probably do it again. After all, we had a second hand treadmill in the basement, coincidentally, purchased from Heather a couple of years before.

I am not known for our speedy completion of work around the house and garden. This would probably be the perfect spot to mention the project-boat that remained out of the water and in my driveway so long that it became its own 'photo bubble' on Google Earth™. It is therefore no surprise that it took two years to move the treadmill from the garage to the basement; and still, only with the aid of my good neighbours.

So I cast the bait. I would do a 10 km race in Ottawa and Heather could run her half-marathon. She bit and the training began.

It was January and it was cold. Heather bought shoes, a new running outfit and tackled the great outdoors with some newfangled pod cast called Couch to 5 k or some such thing, featuring expert advice and a proven way to learn to run. I, on the other hand, felt that the out-of-doors in January in Canada was meant to be avoided so I hooked up the Wii I got for Christmas. Well, actually, one of my kids hooked up the Wii for me but that’s a mere technicality.

So our training log probably looked something like this:

     Training Log for January:

     Day 1:

     Heather: run 60 seconds, walk for 2 minutes for a total of 15 minutes

     Me: Make an avatar with blond hair and glasses. Woot! She looks so much like me.

     Day 2:

     Heather: Run 60 seconds, walk for 2 minutes for a total of 20 minutes

     Me: Learn to bowl sitting down. Cool.

     Day 3:

     Heather: Run 120 seconds, walk for 2 minutes for a total of 25 minutes

     Me: Catch imaginary hoola hoops with my head.  Who thinks up these games anyway?

            Get in a fight with John because he thinks I am the world’s worst Wii golfer ever.

You get the picture.

By the time February came along I learned how to turn on the treadmill. Now, for those of you who don’t know me, we are a household of two untrained feral Aussie/Border collie crosses and a curious but cautious cat many refer to as “Fattie”, “Cleo-fat-ra”, and one other name that I refuse to write. Her real name is Echo, as in Pan and Echo in Greek Mythology.

There is one other thing you need to know about Echo. Beside the fact that she has a slight problem with indoor cathood obesity, she is quite lovely.  To me.  And only me.

She hates most other human beings with a unique passion that is shown especially in her extra large green eyes. In fact, her eyes are almost too big for her head, giving her a bit of an alien-like quality.

She was a rescue from a lovely organization called Furry Friends for my daughter, Candice. It was a guilt purchase. We’ve all had them. Candice was going through a rough patch. Her cat, Caledore, had died not too long ago.

The death of any pet is monumental. But this was a coming of age for Candice. Caledore was a twenty-something year old cat suffering from cancer that was bleeding out her nose. It was time to put her down and Candice was going into the vet to be with cat during the process. Pretty tough stuff, especially for a 17 year old girl. She handled it like the pillar of strength she was, emerging from the room, all tears and resolve. We were allowed to take the body bury it in the country near our old house under Caledore’s favourite tree.  The only issue was it couldn’t be done for a couple of hours so we put the deceased in the back seat of the car.

In the meantime, our family sat around in the living room. Candice asked for the keys to the car. She wanted to hold her beloved pet one more time. I handed her the keys.

I was a progressive parent. If she wanted to see the dead body again, let her. Let her grieve her own way. Don’t give her hang ups about death… I’d let her take as long as she needed.

Wow, it’s been a while. Really, she’s still out there? What is wrong with that girl? What was taking her so long?

I went outside.  She was crying.  Hysterically.  Outside the car. Yanking on the car door.

“I locked the keys inside.” She said.

“What?”

“I locked the keys inside.” She said it again.

She locked my only set of car keys inside the car.

In June. On a very hot day.  With a dead cat decomposing in the back seat.

This took my grieving to a whole new level.

I tried every door. I got a coat hanger. I screamed into a pillow. Nothing would unlock this car. I looked in the window at the carcass sprawled openly on the back seat. What was I going to do?

I had CAA! I would call. They could fix this. My elation quickly plummeted to panic when I realized that they would see the cat and might call the Humane Society, thinking I had baked the cat in my car!

I called anyway. There was no other solution. They couldn’t come for 45 minutes. I paced. What will I tell them so I’m not sent to jail for animal cruelty? And, then it hit me. I’ll teach them to make me wait 45 minutes for service.

I could run up to them when they arrive and cry hysterically, “What took you so long? It’s too late. Because of you my cat has died in the heat.”

No, I couldn’t do that. That would be cruelty to humans.

They arrived. I rushed up to the attendant and blurt out the whole story before he could even get out of his car. I think I noticed a slight twitch on his mouth. The funny thing was, other than that, he didn’t seem the least bit interested or even surprised.

Because it was a moment of weakness, I promised Candice she could get another pet. So, enter Echo stage right, about 8 years ago.

I wasn’t really thinking ahead, though, because a few months later Candice moved away to go to college. Unfortunately, Echo didn’t pass the entrance exam and had to stay behind with me. I really believed she was the most loving cat ever.

Until the day I took her to the vet’s office. I was in the middle of describing what a terrific rescue she was when she morphed into the spawn of Satan. All claws, hiss and fur. I ended up being escorted out of the office as the veterinary staff began donning protective gear as if preparing for a nuclear holocaust.  They literally bagged Echo so only her head was sticking out, making her innocuous enough without the use of her legs or claws to administer her injections.

The second important thing you need to know about Echo is that she can appear out of nowhere when you least expect it, startling you half to death. If you have ever seen the movie Mr. Deeds, she is the butler.  It is even possible that she teleports, giving more credence to the theory that she may actually be alien. I can notice her lying in her basket, turn around and she will just appear in front of me, staring with her big eyes, making me jump off the floor with shock. 

The treadmill was a new addition to my repertoire of routines and became a curiosity for the plethora of beasts in the house, with the exception of my husband.

Every day, the two dogs, Hank, and Kanoock came down to the basement and watched, sometimes circling the machine waging their tales.  When they realized there was no food, belly rubbing or throwing of tennis balls involved, they soon lost interest and partook in their next favourite thing, sleeping. Echo seemed fascinated by the movement of the tread but generally kept a healthy distance settling , instead, on something warm like the satellite box, a computer or a heating vent. Until…

It must have been one of her teleporting moments because I didn’t see her coming.  I just caught a glimpse of the front paw stepping on the tread directly behind my right heel. And before I could stop it, the body followed.

Did you know cats can fly?

The experience was so ingrained in my psyche, I wrote a poem about it, if you consider a limerick a poem. It doesn’t have the word ‘Nantucket’ in it so I think it counts:

There once was a flying feline from Barrie

Whose treadmill experience was hairy

The poor little cat

Almost went splat

And now of the treadmill, she’s wary.

Luckily she wasn’t hurt and there wasn’t any permanent damage to the treadmill or myself. I vowed to keep closer watch on her, but my promise was not necessary. Echo has never attempted to step onto the moving treadmill since.

Last February came and went and Heather re-evaluated her half marathon goal. 10 km sounded good to her after all and we both signed up for the big race in Ottawa. Heather works as an assistant at a chiropractic clinic and we would be travelling to Ottawa with her bosses, a husband and wife chiropractic team, both experienced runners. 

May rolled around and I made it outside to train. Heather and I were both able to run 5 km without cardiac arrest or the assistance of oxygen tanks. We felt it was time for a practice race. A local fun run maybe? Fun Run, now there’s an oxymoron!

© 2011 Written by Heather Down and Illustrated by Jon Larter

The Race

They say each race starts with a single step, but not really. It starts with an internet connection, a nutter and a credit card.

I did it. I am committed. Or committable? Today is the day I signed up for the Ottawa Marathon. Although my family considers me mildly delusional, I am not so out of touch that I consider myself psychotic. It’s 18 weeks away and unlike that very lucky comedian, What’s Her Face, who made her largely popular writing smash hit Couch Potato to Ethiopian in 18 Weeks, I have more realistic goals. I simply want to finish.

Standing up.

Preferably breathing.

Goal time: to finish before they reopen the roads and I’m mowed over by a crazy diplomat from Kazakhstan with red licence plates.

Surely that’s not too much to ask?

Why? Why on earth would someone want to run 42 km?

This question just begs for a reasonable answer. Unfortunately, there isn’t one. There is no sane reason on heaven or earth to do this.

Some say it is the setting of goals and achievement while others claim it is to improve fitness. Get real.  We all know those people are liars. I mean really, come on, there is nothing in the arena of ‘fitness’ that includes pounding your poor body on pavement as fast as you can for 42 km. It’s all poppycock.

So I am going to be honest and reveal a deep, dark secret to only my closest friends. I mean, isn’t that what blogging and social networking is for? For revealing stuff that you really shouldn’t tell another living soul and usually information that other living souls really aren’t interested in hearing? Things that you would be too embarrassed to yell out in a crowd of strangers, yet you are strangely courageous enough to reveal in a forum most of the world can access?

My reason is ecclesiastical in nature:

Vanity.

Now anyone reading this who has seen me in person is now very, very confused and possibly some of you are even laughing. Just one look at my face, you will know I am not vain in the traditional sense. In fact, for all those poor neighbours who have had the misfortune of seeing me at 4:00 pm  still in my baggy moose and bear print brown cotton pyjama pants and uncombed hair will attest that what’s on the outside of me often is not my focus in life. However, I will be happy to bore any unsuspecting human or beast who will listen about my cholesterol, LDL, HDL and vitamin B12 blood test results at the drop of a hat.  Did you know my resting heart rate was 48 BPM by the way? Just saying...

So why vanity, you may ask? Well, you probably won’t ask, but I’ll ask it for you.

I just want to say "I did it". Just once in my life.

Will it make me fitter? Will it make me a better person? Will it teach me something about goal setting? Will anyone else care whether I completed the course?  Will it improve my self-esteem? Make me better at finishing other tasks in life?

Emphatically, no, no, no!

But, I can say “I completed a marathon.”

It’s not as though I haven’t accomplished other things in my life. I have a hand full of achievements I am very proud of: I’ve raised good kids,  written books, climbed the stairs in the CN Tower, run with the Olympic Torch and passed my motorcycle license test without falling off the bike or killing the tester standing in the parking lot. If you've seen me drive any motorized vehicle, you may even think this more than just a mere accomplishment, more miraculous in nature.

I remember as a kid sitting in the basement watching the Boston Marathon on T.V. thinking ‘that’s so cool. I wonder if I could ever do it?’. --The answer is obviously 'no' because you would have to qualify but I didn’t know that then.-- Then I would run two circles around the backyard, come in and eat a popsicle.

I will probably never run Boston, but there is a good chance, with proper rest and training I can complete a marathon.

Standing.

Even breathing maybe.

So, let the games begin. Please feel free to send me all the positive vibes you possibly can muster and follow my hopefully injury-free journey to the finish line. I am officially starting the quest today all in the name of vanity and pride!

They say pride goes before a fall. Let’s just hope the fall doesn’t come before the finish line!

Illustration created for The Moose Pyjama Chronicles by Jon Larter

copyright 2011 Heather Down