It’s time for AA – Autism Anonymous NO LONGER!

I ran today. More on that later…

…..

Hello, my name is Heather and my grandson is autistic--and I couldn’t be prouder. I am not proud just because he is my grandson.  I am not proud despite the fact he is autistic. I am not proud because he is high functioning. I am proud he is autistic. End of. It’s pretty, darn cool.

Autism isn’t a disease, disability or something you cure. I get annoyed when people want to “fix” this fascinating, wonderful, diverse and incredible way of thinking. Imagine how history would be altered if Albert Einstein, Bill Gates, Nicola Tesla, or Mozart were “cured” of their autistic traits?

L is hands down my favourite grandson (so far). He is sensitive, analytical, literal, and advanced beyond imagination. He will cry as he recounts going on holiday a year ago as he remembers what it felt like to miss the very dog he holds in his arms. He knows everything about Minecraft and French fries, routine and technology. He is amazing and incidentally has the best sense of direction and humour of any kid I have ever met—ever!

I have told this story many times, however I am telling it again, (deal with it). When he was three, L got a hold of my phone. He went to the app store, purchased a racing game (with my credit card), downloaded it, loaded it and played it, all while I was trying to figure out how to change the TV input from satellite to the DVD.

These minds deserve celebrating.

However, today, while trolling, I read a post by a friend (well, former friend) on Facebook who is a nurse who I believe has her Masters and possibly even a Ph.D. and who at one point was a nursing instructor in an accredited Ontario College. It showed a picture of a man, maybe in his early 20s sitting in a crouched position sucking his thumb. The caption read: Yes. As a matter of fact that is a grown man, at the ariport in the fetal position, sucking his thumb…Nice shoes though.

It got worse, with the ever-continuing comments:

 thought children eventually grew out of that

 true, but he wasn’t wearing diapers

maybe he was

smiley face.

NOT COOL. To me, he was obviously on the ASD spectrum (and it was obvious to many others who commented after I did)

I am assuming no malice was intended, I mean I have in fact been guilty of smiling at a “People of Walmart” photo or two…But, come on. YOU ARE A NURSE!

Sometimes when I get offended on Facebook, I simply disengage, but if it is something to do with cats, GMOs or autism, I simply lose my poop, and throw-up my opinions all over the internet. Can’t help myself. Today was no exception. However, I was polite (somewhat):

Devil’s advocate—could be ASD, could be stimming. I look at people differently now after having some experience with this.

I thought I showed exceptional restraint, right?

Last year, my grandson wasn’t able to attend an upcoming birthday party. A parent of another child was asking my daughter if L was going to this particular party. My daughter answered, “No.” The other parent’s response was devastating, “I’m not letting so-and-so go either. I won’t let him go that house. The older brother is autistic.”

NOT COOL.

When my daughter recounted the story, I was dumbfounded and asked what she said and she said, “Nothing.” She didn’t know what to say. I can tell you it was a good thing I wasn’t there. I don’t think I would have given a flying…monkeys (you know that isn’t the actual word I am thinking) and probably would have casually mentioned that L was autistic also…just to see the expression on her face.

I am starting to think we need to be proud and loud! No more keeping things quiet. Let’s celebrate and nurture the scientific and artistic minds that belong to those with autism. Let’s say “No” to Autism Anonymous.

……

Back to the running part…I haven’t been faithful with my runs, but I was so worked up, I actually wanted to run off some steam. And, to be honest, my faith in humanity has faltered in connection with a recent political development south of the border. I am also working on editing a book about how to deal with emotions, and apparently I am supposed to feel them and let flow through me instead of hang onto them. The only way anything was going to flow through me today was if I ran.

It went well until the final 200 meters from the house. I think I experienced what others refer to as a panic attack. My windpipe just closed up without warning or reason. I couldn’t breathe and I was gasping uncontrollably….and it wasn’t due to the speed of my running, trust me.

Then the concepts taught by one of my friends (and positive coach), Louise Aspden came to mind. This is totally my interpretation—but she advocates just trying to get to a slightly more positive place than where you are at the moment. You don’t have to leap straight to rainbows and unicorns all at once, just try to see something a little better and brighter by applying gratitude. I looked at the beautiful fall trees, stopped (obviously) until the panic attack subsided and breathed in the smell of the warm, fresh air and realized it felt really good to have run. There, just a little better.

Tomorrow is Remembrance Day. Wow, many people paid the ultimate sacrifice for freedom, and I cannot truly comprehend the magnitude of their valour. Really, I can’t. But, I am thankful. What a gift—and I don’t want to waste it.

It’s a new world and I believe a new type of warrior needs to be born—a warrior of love, compassion, and hope. A warrior who quietly but politely speaks up and says, “Not cool.” A warrior who does not accept traditional weaknesses as imperfections but as celebrations of humanity. A warrior who uplifts and exhalts rather than tears down. A warrior who cares for the elderly, the children, the poor, the vulnerable--even if that means not sneaking that picture in the airport. We’re all in the same trench, people! Wake up.

It’s time to be anonymous no longer.

Always look for the leopard print shoes

It's been a bad day. Don't get me wrong, not a devastating Armageddon, WW III or even terrible news at the doctor's office kind of bad day but a rotten day just the same. More of a stub your toe, ran out of toothpaste, forgot to get cat food, spilled tea on your new shirt, CRA wants to do a tax-audit, flat tire, speeding ticket, a virus erased all your financial records on your hard drive, Outlook locked you out of your email until you remember the name of your great grandmother's second grade teacher, your electricity is cut off because you forgot to pay the bill on time, the “check engine” light is flashing, your dog got sprayed by a skunk and the toilet overflowed and wrecked the ceiling drywall in the basement kind of day. This may be hyperbole, but sadly only slightly so. There were more ups and down in my day than a Canada Wonderland roller coaster.

Unfortunately this trend has also extended to my running. Instead of a bad day, it has been more of a bad year running-wise. Injury, a tumble on the ice, weather, distractions and flailing commitment has blown me off course. This was never more apparent than a couple of weeks ago. Tim Horton's must be right because apparently I “always have time for Tim Horton's”--especially slap dab in the middle of what was supposed to be a 16 km run.

Instead of completing the run, I bailed, trading in strides and sweat for a cozy steeped tea and bagel, sending Karen and Jan to go tell my ride to come back and pick me up at the fast food joint. Why do 16 when you can stop at 10 and drink tea?

It's funny how it sometimes seems easier to handle the large, catastrophic events in our life, yet the little, niggling irritants can throw us into a spiral of unbelievable discord. Luckily, the unexpected surprises are what can also pull us back up. It can be a just as small, and seemingly insignificant event to turn things around.

It was one such event that snapped me back into consciousness from my coma of sheer misery. While awaiting my grandson's dismissal from school, a parent waltzed by who caught my attention. I was sitting on the curb so I was at about knee level as she passed me.

Wrapped in sunglasses and full jihab, exposing only her face, this demure mother walked on. You might not have been able to see her face, but you certainly could see her soul. She wore it in her feet. From the top of her head to the bottom of her legs, she belonged to Allah, but from the ankle down she was all infidel, baby. Her leopard print, diamond-studded, 10 inch cork platform high heels rivalled anything the Bee Gees ever wore. There was more bling on her shoes than at a Eminem concert. Her bright red toe nails would make for a great poster board on the red light district of Amsterdam. I guess if that's all you are allowed to show, you might as well flaunt it. Although, technically, she was probably following the rules, I'm not sure the spirit of the law was being observed. Those feet were were so unexpected, so in contrast with the rest of her that it made me smile. I couldn't help it.

It is those unexpected, wonderful miracles that add the spice and texture to our lives. They can lift us from the worst pain and agony in a milli-second. All we need to do is notice them.

Lyndsay is running a marathon very soon in Prince Edward County and Karen and Jan are representing Team Fox at the New York City Marathon this year. (If you want to learn more, check out Karen's blog at http://karenhultslander.wordpress.com) Since I am not running far and certainly not racing this year, I want to send along a recommendation to Lyndsay, Karen and Jan—enjoy the unexpected that shows up. Find those surprising moments, the moments that can pick you up, knock you out of a daze and push you into sheer joy—find your version of the diamond-studded, leopard print, platform shoes in a jihab--and I'll be eagerly waiting to hear all about it!

He's the Bee's Knees

It’s less than three weeks until the Ottawa Marathon and I am low on both time and confidence; a potentially toxic mix of ingredients. An unexpected combination of illness, family emergencies and work commitments have put me behind in my scheduled training regiment and the ugly monster of self-doubt is raising its ugly head. I am currently in pursuit of a healthy dose of confidence. Let the search begin.

I can’t help but remember when my daughter, Charity, was little, she was approached by a vendor at a fair, “Want to race a frog, young lady?”

She couldn’t stop laughing. She thought he was nuts. She didn’t answer him but turned to me and said, “He’s crazy, I could easily beat a frog in a race.”

Confident, true. Misinformed, absolutely. Not the kind of confidence I am seeking.

Then there was the night I had to go to the banking machine and my family drove me into town. After making my deposit, I walked out to the parking lot and tugged on the car door. It was locked. How dare thye! I shot an evil glance toward the driver’s seat at my family. Only, it wasn’t my family. A stranger had hijacked our car. How dare he! He, he…he was giving me the dirtiest look ever. What nerve! I turned in anger and outrage, facing the parking lot… and saw my family in another car laughing hysterically at me. I turned back to the car I was trying to break into, “I’m soooo sorry…” I waved apologetically at the man in the driver’s seat as I ran to our car, hopefully before he had finished dialling 911 on his cell phone.

Embarrassingly confident, not the type that will serve me well. Then there is the kind of fair-weather confidence my neighbour, Heather, told me about.

When Heather plans her running route, she makes sure that near the end, she runs uphill past Fire Station #4. This is done by design, because, she told me, that no matter how tired, achy or miserable she might feel, she perks up. Fire Station #4 is exactly what she needs to temporarily boost her confidence. Her posture is perfect, her stide is strong and her lips are always smiling for those 200 meters. She imagines all the fit and feisty fireman inside staring out the windows commenting, "Wow, look at that runner. See how strong and fit she is." Although a great temporary motivator, I don't think even the thought of Station #4 could carry me 42.2 kilometers.

No, what I need is good old fashioned, humble, I know my limitations and I know my aspirations, true-to-reality, hard-work incudced, self confidence. The type I always saw in Walter Low.

Walter Low was a Chinese man who was born in Guiana. Eventually, he and his wife, Stella, ended up living in Canada for a time and became very good friends with my parents. As long as I can remember, there was always a Mr. & Mrs. Low.

They were incongruous, like reading the map in a candy box, biting into what you think is caramel candy and getting cherry. On the outside they looked Asian, but when they spoke, it was with an almost west Indian lilt, unexpected but endearing.

I have a theory. I believe that interested people are the most interesting and Mr. Low was both. Growing up and even into my adulthood, he would always ask about my newest adventures, whether it was writing, teaching, business or even this blog. My dad told me a couple of months ago that Walter had called him from California where he now lived to tell my father he was reading The Moose Pyjama Chronicles and interested in my running. This was a perfect example of how he was always keenly interested…and interesting.

As a young adult, I remember mentioning that my favourite author was Chiam Potock, someone most adults in my circle had never heard of. Not only did he hear of him, he owned and read all his books too. Mr. Low had so many interests. I knew that he went camping, read, kayaked, canoed, hiked and cycled just to name a few. Then, while in his 60s he began to jog and discovered his deep passion for running.  

Now if people came with ingredient labels, warnings and statements like grocery store items, Walter Low would read “Low Fat” (no pun intended) on his forehead. In fact, he could make Olive Oil look like a Jenny Craig poster child. The most striking feature of his slender build was his legs. The straight and clean lines of his skinny architecture only emphasized the protruding orbs of his knees.  I’m sure his knees were not any larger than normal, just the skinny legs seemed to emphasize the point. And those twiggy legs took him running, confidently, at the age of 60 and beyond.

Not only did he run. He ran races in lots of places – Toronto, Buffalo and California. When his daughter Mary ran her first marathon, he joined his at mile 12 and ran with her for a while for moral support. He loved races that had categories over the 60 year group. He loved it so much, he kept racing into his 70s and even 80s. In fact, he won his age group in a couple of races. (Rumour has it he might have been the only one over 80 years old to complete the races, but that doesn’t diminish the honour any less in my opinion.)

Now that’s true confidence. The kind I aspire to. The kind that will carry me over the finish line in Ottawa, the kind of positive energy to dig deep and move forward, knobby knees or not. In his amazing example, how could anyone not regain their confidence and joie de vive?

Last month, Mr. Low passed away in his home in California at the age of 93. If he could start running at 60, run races at 70 and win his category at 80, I have no excuses. I will be thinking of Walter when I humbly but confidently attempt my first marathon at the end of this month.  His example showed others that the best training for any type of race or challenge isn’t the regiment, but in how you live your life. And, he lived it well.

In memorandum
Walter James Low
18 August 1917 - 14 April 2011

The Real Victory

I have three vices: chocolate, chocolate and chocolate. So, when my niece, Terri Lynn suggests we sign up for the Port Dalhousie half marathon “Chocolate Race” last summer, I am in. My usual partner in crime, my neighbour Heather, doesn’t like running in the summer heat so I am on my own for this one.

But, no matter, chocolate is all the motivation I require. I dream about a car with Cadbury Fruit and Nut bars tied to the back, trailing behind in the wind, like a rabbit fur in the front of a dog race. I have three months to get up to par and I am prepared to do it, all in the name of the mighty coco bean.

I am half way through my training when I get the email from Terri Lynn, “I don’t know if I should run this race.”

I am stunned. What could possibly be more important than chocolate?

Apparently pregnancy is for some people.

Really? That’s more important than chocolate? Where are her priorities anyway? Chocolate…children…chocolate…children. At least I know where my loyalties lie.

I am not deterred, however, because I will be running for chocolate! My daughter, Charity and her 11 month old son accompany me to St. Catharines.

Half the fun of races is going and exploring places you might not normally. I have been to Niagara-on-the-Lake many times, but have never been to Port Dalhousie or ever ventured into St. Catharines, except for a highway break when travelling. Settling in to the hotel, we decide to go for dinner. We find a great little chain restaurant not far. I order something relatively healthy in hopes I’ll be okay for tomorrow’s race. I am worried because the farthest I’ve ever run is 15 km. Tomorrow I will run the greatest distance of my entire lifetime!

We leave the restaurant and I look for my car. I panic because I don’t see it. Then I calm down because I realize we came in my daughter’s car. Phew. So, I look for it, and can’t see it anywhere either. I start to walk up and down the aisles, anxiety rising in my throat.

Charity stands calmly just outside the restaurant door and picks up Logan. She is staring at me. Why is she so calm? Why isn’t she looking for the car? How will I get to the race tomorrow if we’ve misplaced our transportation?

“What are you doing?” she says.

Duh. The young can be so stupid, some times. “I’m looking for the car. Where’s your car?”

Charity blinds and starts walking away from me.

“What’s wrong with you? The car isn’t here. It’s gone. Where are you going?”

She rolls her eyes.

“We walked here, Mom. Our hotel is right there.” She laughs pointing.

“Oh, that’s right.” I think I need some pre-race chocolate to calm my nerves.

The next morning I feel slightly nauseous at the start line. What was I thinking? But Charity and little Logan are there to support me and I feel the love. I’m running for chocolate. What could be better?

I have made a pre-determined contract with myself that I will walk through all the water stations to give my calves a break. Other than that, I want to run the entire distance.

It is going well. But, it is hot, really hot. We wander through streets and trails, then into a residential area. The heat is horrible but I trundle forward. Then I spot him. An elderly, somewhat less-than-attractive man in his 70s standing in his driveway spraying runners with a garden hose. I am in love.

I can’t help myself. The words just come out before I have a chance to stop them. “Will you marry me?” I don’t even care that my ipod is getting wet.

“That’s okay, Lovey,” he says in a posh British accent. 

All goes to plan until about kilometre 19. I’m tired and really don’t feel like continuing.  I can’t be doing too badly though as I’m able to pass a perky young blond girl in a pony tail and orange sports top. But, then I see her in front of me. How can this be? I just passed her. I didn’t see her pass me. Just as I’m thinking I must have missed it, she passes me again. No, this isn’t good. I’m seeing double. Now there are two perky young blond girls with orange sports tops in front of me. I slow up and start to walk. This is really, really bad. I’m hallucinating. I’m just about to seek medical attention when I notice the shoes. They each have on a different brand of running shoes and they are now talking to each other. I take a good look at their faces; probably identical twins. There should be rules about things like this.

I’m walking now and would probably continue to walk all the way to the finish line if it isn’t for the severe stomach cramp that suddenly hits me. Now, they say that running can stimulate your digestive system. I’m here to say they are not wrong. I start running to avoid what has the potential to the most embarrassing moment of my adult life. I am no longer running for chocolate. I am running for the bathroom.

I pass the twins and sprint straight for the finish. I see Charity and Logan in the sidelines but I keep going. Right past Charity, right past the finish line, right past the bagels, right past the chocolate, right into the line-up inside the bathroom.

Line-up! This is one curve ball I wasn’t expecting to catch. I bend over, clutching my stomach. “Are you alright?” someone asks. I try to shake my head yes. I don’t want to talk. All I can think is hurry, hurry, hurry!

Now some people say my half marathon victory came when my foot stepped over the finish line. But, I’m here to tell you, the real victory came when I successfully stepped into the next free stall in the bathroom.

Tens and Twenties

Off to the race. Thousands and thousands of people.  An army of 10 km runners line up. Heather and I find our corral according to what we estimate our finishing time to be. Andrea is probably miles ahead of us and we’re not bothered. I look at Heather. I think she is going to be sick. I step away just in case. Then I look at the sea of people in front of us. If she does throw up, it would probably clear a path for us. I move closer.

Heather & Me BEFORE the 10 km race

Thousands of people waiting in their corrals

We start, crowds of people cheer, hang out of buildings, whistle, clap and scream. The energy is unlike anything I have experienced. I am in love and there is no turning back. It is that exact moment I turn off Elgin Street in this country’s capital city when I fall in love with running. With racing. With the collective energy.

Running along the canal, I notice a lot of people seem to be calling my name. At first, I think that I am imagining it, but I soon realize people are looking at me, “Go, Heather!” “Way to be, Heather!” “Looking good, Heather.” “You can do it Heather.”

How do they know me? I did make a television appearance back in 1995 for that cable show. I had no idea I was so popular. I guess my notoriety is broader than I thought. Then I hear, “Go, Ben.” “Good work, Corina.” I look beside me at whom I assume to be Ben and Corina. Well, no wonder they are calling to them, they have their names in large letters across their racing numbers…

Oh, wait. I look down at my racing number. H-E-A-T-H-E-R. I see.

We run up one side of the canal, cross over near Carleton University and back the other side, I feel like I am floating; all adrenaline and smiles.

After the race, we meet at our designated spot, tired, proud and filled with accomplishment. Well done. I had run a 10 km before when I was in my twenties. I had even placed, getting a trophy. I wonder exactly when that was? I hadn’t run any race since.

Andrea, Me & Heather AFTER the race

Sleep comes easy that night. Tom’s race is the next morning. I was looking forward to sleeping in a bit when Heather’s cell phone buzzes.  Six o’clock? I didn’t know there were 2 six o’clocks in the same day! It’s Andrea. The elite marathon runners are going by the hotel. Let’s go out a see them. Caught between the desire to sleep and the curiosity to witness human beings who can run 42.2 km, I hold a debate in my mind. Finally, curiosity wins and I go with Heather to watch the action.

It is simply amazing.  All types of people run by but several stand out:  a man pushing a boy in a wheel chair and another man running strong with one prosthetic leg.  For some cosmic reason, the site of this incredible runner sears into my brain. I wonder how many years he has been running. What’s his story?

Time to get Tom to his race.  We go to pack up the car and realize that when Heather and Tom, the American had made their alcoholic Costco run (see previous post), they hadn’t taken into account that we had yet to pack our stuff into the car.  All those years of playing Tetris really paid off for Heather because, somehow she squeezes everything and everybody into the vehicle.

Time to shuttle the American to his race.  All we need to do is cross a bridge to get from Gatineau to downtown Ottawa. How long could this possibly take? Five, ten minutes tops? Heather skilfully starts to navigate us on our way back towards a bridge.

Road block.

“We need to get by,” we explain urgently.

“Non, non, c’est impossible.”

“It’s impossible,” I translate for the American.

Roads are blocked because of the marathon. Which way should we go? We get a set of directions and try again.

Road block. The way to this bridge is now closed to automobiles. You need to try another one. Turn around.

Road block. Sorry, this bridge is closed. Try the previous one. Wasn’t that the one we just came from? Turn around again.

Road block. Turn around.

“Out! Just let me out, I’m getting motion sick.”

By now, Heather is frazzled from driving in circles in an unfamiliar town and Tom, the American is popping like a kernel of corn in hot oil. We are rats in a maze that had no exit, stuck in downtown Gatineau with no visible means of escape. Alcatraz has nothing on this town.

“I’ll walk.” He says.

“You can’t walk.” Heather protests.

"You're right. I don't have time. I'll run," the American replies

“How far to the start of race?” he asks a pleasant gate keeping volunteer who is guarding one of the myriad of road blocks.

“Ummm,” heavy French accent ensues, “may, ah, bee, 4 kilo-metres.”

“I’ll do it.”

By now, it’s about a half hour until his race starts. He’s runs off in the direction of the river yelling, “Meet me at the finish.”

Now what? We need to get to Ontario so we start to drive. Memory serves me correctly and we find a bridge down by a neighbouring town, Aylmer, that will take us over. So, off we go, making the 20 minute trek out looking for our break away.

Phew, on the bridge. What a sense of relief, like we are released hostages, going home for the first time in months, years maybe. Our troubles are over.

Until we try to find a parking spot. I think the closest spot is in Kanata. Heather manages to find a church parking lot. Do you think we’ll be towed? It’s Sunday. How will anybody know we’re not attending the service? The multiple cases of beer visible from the SUVs windows might be a first clue, I mention. At least parking here might lessen the likelihood of a break in. Maybe they hold AA meetings here and it all makes sense? We no longer have time to theorize and off we go. And go. And go some more. We’re probably parked at least 4 km from the finish line.

Despite his not so hectic training schedule and 4 km warm up to the starting line, Tom, the American,  finishes in fine form. All is well until we start walking towards the car. Well, the first 2 km are okay and then he asks, “Where did you park?”

Not too much farther, we assure.

Tom waving as he runs by in the Half Marathon

By the time he gets to the car, Tom has probably travelled close to 30 km by foot for his half marathon race.

“Might as well signed up for the full,” I smile.

He isn’t smiling back.

We’re all subdued on the drive back, Heather at the wheel and Tom restlessly trying to stretch his calves in the front seat.

Once home, I can’t help myself. I want to find my trophy. In the midst of basement boxes, old yearbooks, diplomas and piano recital certificates, I find it, “3^rd Place Overall,” it says. “1990”. Twenty years ago, almost to the day.  There were probably only 20 runners in that race, unlike the thousands I raced with in Ottawa, but nonetheless it is still the same, the love of running, racing and the collective energy. 10 kilometres, 20 years.

© 2011 Written by Heather Down

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