The Real Cost of Running

There are those who say that you can’t put a price on running. All you need is the open road and a pair of shoes. Those people obviously didn’t get my last VISA bill.

A few weeks ago I ran my second half marathon and I decided to foolishly calculate the expense of the excursion. After all, the entry fee was only $85.

Let’s start at the beginning. You can’t run naked. Or, at least you shouldn’t. Well, at least I shouldn’t, so let’s look at the basics.

Do not underestimate the value of a good undergarment. Being of the female persuasion, I require a sports bra. And, only Lulemon’s TaTa Tamer will do. Because, unfortunately my TaTa’s require a fair amount of taming. Actually, most days they require a crane or an antigravity chamber (what can I say, I’m 44) but in a pinch the Lululemon bra works for me. A cool $50. Luckily, my basic underwear seem to be working out so no added expense there.

Moving on to the socks. Apparently, when you run you require special socks. I’m not completely sure why that is but I’ve been made to believe it is a universal truth like gravity or inertia. Since most of my training was done in the winter I required socks made out of ‘Smart Wool’.  As opposed to what, I ask you? I’ve never seen Dumb Wool for sale and at $20/pair I want to see a copy of the IQ test they administered in order to choose only the intellectually superior sheep to make my socks.

Shoes. Most of us use them unless you are a barefoot runner in which case you will probably pay more for your runners that are made to look and feel like you are still in your bare feet. How’s that for great marketing? And, I’ve read that you should have 2 pairs of runners, because, like human beings they require recovery time. Seriously? They are a piece of clothing people, not a pet. Nevertheless, I have 2 (or more but who’s counting?) pairs at approximately $150/pair.

In the winter, layering is the key. You require a base layer, an insulating layer and an outer layer on the top half, each about $50 a pop. And, being in Canada it truly is necessary. The base layer needs to be something called moisture wicking which, in layman terms means it is made from some chemically altered petroleum based material that holds the smell of human sweat FOREVER. You can wash it, wash it again, hand wash it, soak it in baking soda for a week, then hang it out to dry for a month and it will still smell like a dirty gym bag. Or, you can buy special engineered detergent to do the job for $15. I have a conspiracy theory that both products are produced by the same corporate company, kind of like hackers and anti-virus software; one can't exist without the other.

Body Glide is required because chafing happens in the most inopportune places. I don’t know what’s in it, or how it works, but I love it. You just rub it on the places in danger and it prevents ugly, nasty, oozing chafing. It is the best $10 you’ll ever spend.

Okay, apparently staying hydrated is important in long distance running so you need a fuel belt. No, this has nothing to do with the price of crude oil, although runners often produce a lot of gas. It is a belt you wear that can hold your water bottle(s). Unless you are a camel, you will cave and pay the $50 for a decent one.

Gu, glorious Gu is a substance made of glucose polymers unfit for human consumption that, if eaten when not running could put even the heartiest of athletes into a diabetic coma for life. Runners eat these gels during long runs to keep their blood sugar up in hopes they don’t completely deplete the glycogen stores in their muscles. And, wait for it, some flavours have caffeine! Awesome, toxic and addictive.  My favourite flavour was chocolate outrage (rocket fuel) until I discovered that the caffeine sped up my digestive system (see previous post The Real Victory). Now, I stick to the mint chocolate because it doesn’t have caffeine and I am less likely to visit every porta potty en route. These little packets will run you about $2.00/pop and you’ll need about 2 or 3 on every long run.

If you run at night you should wear an outer layer with reflective materials and lights. That way, cars can see you right before they hit you. For lights, it’s red on the back and white on the front. A nice magnetic flasher can run you about $20.

I live in Canada. There is the moment when you realize you’ve got to stop whining and put on a toque and get on with it. A good hat, balaclava (see previous post Interlude), and gloves are all required and they run between $20 - $50. And, if you don’t want to fall on your butt on snowy days a pair of YakTrax will run you about $40.

If you run, you will want to use a GPS watch. It tells you how slow you are really going. A very depressing device, really, but a necessary evil if you want to keep track of your mileage.

Research shows that music can help an athlete run 20% faster. Ipod required at $150.

Now, I had to buy 2 stainless steel cooking pots @ $40/piece because of my training. During the week I went to a running clinic ($69.95 incidentally) and my family was left to their own devices to make supper. I’ve been working on encouraging them to use less water while cooking. Unfortunately, this water conservation backfired for boiling potatoes. I could smell the burn the second I entered the house after run club. Needless to say I was not pleased when I also saw the burn mark on the old laminate counter. I was just getting over the incident when I came home the next week and was met with the same odour.

Then I saw it. I look at the counter where the burn mark was last week and see a huge hole right through the entire laminate the size of quarter. Maybe I should also include the price of the new granite counter I’d like to get to replace the old counter in the running cost.

Like an old car, I require maintenance after so many miles. Ten visits to the chiropractor @ $35/shot and 4 visits to the RMT @ $60 (I get a deal).

I took a bus to the race. It was a great price, only $25. I needed a bag to carry all my stuff in and splurged on one for $50.

Let’s break it down

Sports Bra  $50

Socks  $20

Leggings:  $75

Outer leggings   $70

Moisture wick shirt  $50

Insulation layer:  $50

Outer layer  $80

Shoes (2 pair)  $300

Fuel Belt: $50

Lights (2)  $40

Hat  $30

Mitts  $40

Balaclava  $40

Body Glide  $10

Clinic  $70

Race Fee  $85

Gu  $20

Athletic Bag: $50

Bus Fee: $25

Yaktraks: $40

Stainless Steel Pots (2) $80

Chirpractic and RMT visits: $540

GPS Watch $200

IPod  $150

Total:   $2,165 and that doesn’t even include my granite countertop!

I have to say all this equipment really did help my running.  I never ran faster than after I opened my VISA bill!

'it Happens Around the Bay

On Christmas Day in 1894, Billy Carroll, the Hamilton Herald Newspaper and a cigar store owner, was the original sponsor of a 30 km run called Around the Bay. It is the oldest road race in North America; its inception 3 years before the Boston Marathon. Its early winner, Jack Caffery, went on to be the first Canadian to win the Boston Marathon. Hoping to make my mark in history, I too, sign up for the Around the Bay Race. And, it does not disappoint. In fact, it turns out to be a historical run for me too, but for a very different reason…

My friend, who is going to run with me, Betty Ann, drops out because of a hip injury. A team of highly skilled experts are trying to put her back together. Her right butt cheek is getting more attention than the upcoming nuptials of Prince William and Kate. Regretfully she trades in her running sessions for physio sessions. Consequently, I trade in my running buddy for a running bunny.

Unlike Bugs Bunny, a chocolate bunny or the Easter bunny, running bunnies are actually pace rabbits and in fact, they aren’t rabbits at all. They are people; kind volunteers who run the entire race wearing paper rabbit ears on their head and hold a sign with a designated time. These poor sods do all the hard work for you. They run the entire race at the pace required to finish at a particular time. And, Shannon, my impromptu running buddy, and I spot a very sporty 3:15 bunny. All I need to do is follow the ears and I will finish my race in 3 hours and 15 minutes. Perfect!

And, we’re off. All is going well. It’s a bright and sunny day, I’m feeling good and I manage to keep my favourite rabbit in my line of sight. Now, Hamilton is a steel town, so I’m sure it is not known for its air purity or sweet smells, but something doesn’t compute.  I look around for the farmer’s field that we must be passing. Nothing.  Just homes and road.  Another waft. No, I’m not imagining it. Then I spot it--or maybe it spots me, I’m not sure. Either way, it is horrifying!

When you run, there is a lot of jostling going on and toxins tend to ‘escape’. And, when it comes to wind, I can out perform some of the very best (ask my husband). Even our dog, Hank, will leave the room in disgust and he’s been caught with his head willingly in the cat’s litter box.

Running can produce hazardous emissions and leakage, but when the whole exhaust system falls out, Houston, we have a problem. And, I am running directly down wind of a problem who is also keeping pace with the 3:15 bunny.

Now this is not an uncommon situation. I’ve had some near misses myself (see previous post The Real Victory) and at first I am full of pity. That poor lady I think to myself. It is obvious, though, that she is completely aware of her misfortune as there is a Kleenex clinging to the offending portion of her running tights. So, I discreetly move to the left of the pack to avoid her tail wind (no pun intended).

Things are going relatively well for the next few minutes until I am again hit with the slap of pungency. I look up and see that she has migrated to my side of the pack. Even the tissue can’t take it anymore as it is now missing and the offensive stain is increasing in size, taking on a life form of its own. I dodge to the right.

Uggg! There it is again. Breathe through your mouth, breathe through your mouth I tell myself. I am finding my empathy waning. Compared to her, a dirty baby diaper smells like Chanel No 5.

I am getting just a little bit resentful. She’s laughing and chatting with runners around her as though nothing is at all unusual. I could understand if she was in the front, running for prize money or qualifying for Boston. This is obviously not the case, because she is going my pace, exactly my pace, only a few feet in front of me! I think I would have been happier if she publicly defecated in the ditch, at least then the malodour would be stationary and I could go past it, although I wouldn’t be surprised if it grew legs and chased me all the way to the finish line.

The other option is to pass her. However I don’t have the gas. At least not as much as she does…

So, for almost 20 km I become a lane changing, swerving freak, trying to avoid the nauseous smell that is taunting my stomach to empty its contents.

I put myself in her shoes (or pants) and I couldn’t do it. I am constantly asking Shannon if I have any remnants of gel stuck in my teeth which doesn’t even register on the embarrassment meter compared to this. If this happened to me I would be wrapped up in a fetal position in a porta potty somewhere crying like a baby or dragging my hind end on the grass like a dog with tape worms. I would have to leave the race, hide in the bushes, then walk back to the start line (at least I would be facing the runners) and wash my pants out in a Tim Horton’s toilet if need be.

In another Hamilton--Hamilton, Bermuda, there is a beautiful subterranean cavern called the Crystal Cave. I was fortunate enough to visit once and was awed by the spectacular stalactites and stalagmites, icicle-shaped rock formations hanging from the walls.

Back in Hamilton, Ontario, some stalactites and stalagmites of a totally different nature are forming in one cavern that I would not buy a ticket to see. Enough is enough. It is just too much to endure. I fall back and watch the 3:15 bunny ears hop away from me. Suddenly the air quality improves and I’m feeling at peace. I pass a grave yard. RIP, I think 'Run in Peace'.

The race ends in Copps Coliseum. And, although my chip time is 3:18, I am happy to sprint the last few meters. And, let me tell you, success never smelled so sweet!

I have never run this far before in my life, so the next day I proudly wear my shirt. I go to the grocery store and when I turn around to put my groceries in the cart, the lady behind me smiles and says, “Well, you certainly look good for your age.”

“Thank you.” How does she know my age anyway? I must be emitting a healthy glow from yesterday’s run.

Off to the Mazda dealer to get my car serviced. After paying for the oil change, I turn and the man behind me looks at me quizzically. “Really?” he asks. I guess he is impressed that I ran 30 km!

Into the bank. Leaving the teller, a teenager stares at me and mutters, “It’s possible.”

I am confused by all the attention I am getting. I go home and look in the mirror, the race crest on the front of my shirt. I take off the shirt to place it in the laundry basket when my eye catches the back. It simply reads, “Older than Boston.”

I need to have a word with the designer.

* A special thank you goes out to Shannon who came up with the stalactite and stalagmite metaphor!

All the King's Horses

I put my parents through a fair amount of grief in my youth. For example, in high school I backed into their car (while driving their other car) and changed majors in University more often than a teenage girl changes outfits before a first date.  Trying unsuccessfully to mask his frustration, I vividly remember a conversation with my Dad when he finally laid down the law, “You’re not Moses. You can’t spend 40 years wandering around in the wilderness of university.” He was paying the bill so I declared a major and stuck with it.

However, my parents have given me many gifts; my too large nose is from my Dad (thanks), my horrible eyesight is from my Mother (eternally grateful), and my propensity towards taking in every stray animal, beast and person is from the pair of them. But, the greatest gift they have given me, in my opinion, is their example of healthy, balanced living and a positive attitude towards aging. After all, health is the platform we stand on in order to achieve the energy and attitude required to do the things we love.

I spoke to my Dad yesterday. He and my mother are in their 80s. He’d just returned from his 3 km walk. He shovels snow, chops and stacks tons of wood, and mows acres of grass. He and my mother maintain three large properties, two in Ontario and one in Newfoundland. Whenever I feel like whining about my age I am reminded of what my Dad always says, “Getting older sure beats the alternative.”

After my first half marathon I joined a running group that rhymes with “Stunning Groom”. I was really, really nervous. After all, I am a middle aged 44 year old and sometimes I feel like I’m old. Would I be able to compete with the young ‘uns in this group?

Upon arrival, I was stunned by the gender diversity of the group: there were women, women and more women (and 3 men) not to mention the varied age groups: old, older, and oldest. To be fair this is a bit of exaggeration, there was at least one person under 30. But, most of all, I was shocked to see The Lady in Line (see previous post).

That really threw me for a loop. I didn’t know what to do. Should I make eye contact? Should I be friendly? Should I pretend not to notice her? No need. She looked at me, smiled and said, “Hello.” That was the night she transformed from The Lady in Line to Carole.

Over long runs, agonizing hills and crazy speed work, a few us formed a sort of cult colony; we took on rolls more defined than the polygamous Sister Wives on TLC. We had the perkier than percocet, get ‘er done motivator, Betty Ann, the organizer, Karen, the speed demon, Donna who, despite pronating like a penguin, could outrun the lot of us when she decided to turn it on, Ron, the token minority man, and myself, the crazy chronicler. And we all paid homage to our illustrious clinic leader and her husband, Sandra & Terry.

After an evening run we are back listing our litany of appointments for the next week. Being older, several of us require a team of highly skilled professionals larger than a Nascar pit crew to keep us in ‘running’ order. We are all boasting about who we have on board to put us back together. Humpty Dumpty didn’t have anything on us! Collectively we share our stories about our sore hips, dodgy knees, painful backs, tight hamstrings, and tense IT bands.

Since I have started running, I’ve become very fond of the services of a chiropractor. Upon visiting my chiropractor I found out that my right hip is resting an inch higher than my left. Funny, I walked into that visit a perfectly happy, well adjusted person, but walked out knowing that I am actually a gimpy, lopsided freak of nature. But, the chiropractor isn’t all bad news. I remember lying face down on the bench talking about my gait. He responded with, “It’s hard to change a gait. After all, you’ve been walking this way for 30…”

“40”, I corrected.

“…years.”

It felt almost as good when I mentioned that I’ve gained some weight since hitting 40 and he said, “No worries, you’re still tiny.”

(It should be noted that these things were said before I told him I was self-employed and did not have any health benefits to cover chiropractic visits.)

“I’m having a physio appointment this week,” says one.

“Massage and acupuncture,” says another.

My turn, my turn! “I have a chiropractic appointment scheduled for Wednesday and I’ve booked a massage for Thursday.”

“Hummmp.” I hear a grunt behind us.

I turn in the direction of the snort. An older gentleman is stretching nearby, overhearing our conversation. I can’t tell if he’s 60 or 80 years old, but he is definitely more senior than me and my posse.

“While you’re at it, why don’t you make an appointment with your paediatrician,” he growls and storms off.

Oh. Time for pause and I think to myself, "Suck it up Buttercup, age is relative!"

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Do you know someone older than yourself who you are particularly proud of for the way they choose to live healthily? Please leave a comment. I'm proud of my parents.

44 Year Old Kid

It’s less than a week before the Chilly Half Marathon in Burlington and all serious training is done. It is now ‘taper’ week where I get to sit back, relax, get lots of rest and eat well. Therein lies the rub. Because, I am at the movies and I have a craving for popcorn; you know that pre-popped grain coated with some type of toxic waste and copious amounts of sodium. Not exactly the most ideal pre-race snack.

So, I decide to compromise. I will get a very small bag and eat only moderate amounts of toxic waste and dangerous minerals. So, I ask the girl behind the concession counter to show me the smallest bag they sell.

“That’s it?” I was afraid she didn’t understand me, after all, she looked to be no more than twelve. “Your smallest bag?”

“Yes, this is the small size.”

Small? 

For an elephant, maybe. If you put the bag over my head, it would cover me down to my waist. This isn’t going well. Do they not sell human sized portions? I want a taste of popcorn, not a bubbling vat of it.

Now, I know what you are thinking. Why wouldn’t I just buy the small size and eat only what I want? The answer is simple. I can’t. I am completely incapable of leaving even one uneaten kernel in that trough of popcorn. If I start and it doesn’t run out, I am the energizer bunny. I just keep on going and going. I’m sure there is a 12 step program somewhere out there for me, I just haven’t found it out yet.

Then, I have a brainwave. Surely they don’t feed that much chemical ooze to children. There must be protection laws against it--child cruelty or some such thing.

“What does a children’s size look like?” Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

“It comes in this little box.”

So far, so good, perfect size.

“And, it comes with a small drink in a cartoon cup with a toy and kinder egg.”

Score! Plastic cup and chocolate. (Please see previous post to learn how I feel about chocolate)

“I’ll take it. But can I get water instead of the chemically engineered carbonated poison?”

Hmmm, obviously beyond her scope of comprehension. “Uhhh,”  long pause and confused look, “I can give you water,” she kindly obliges.

So, I turn around and walk into the theatre with my plastic cartoon cup with the character toy top, my iddy biddy popcorn pile and my kinder egg. Suddenly I realize that I look stupid. Well, more stupid.

This must be my initiation into being a dedicated runner. Why else would a 44 year old woman walk into a movie theatre eating a kid’s combo?

It gets better. When I get home I find out the kinder egg has a toy inside! Who knew? I certainly didn’t. It is an assemble-yourself go-fast car with miniature decals to apply. Only one problem, you need an engineering degree to put this thing together and fingers the size of ants to place the decals on. It ranks right up there with assembling an entire room of IKEA furniture.

After much frustration, I build the car. Now what? Too small to drive…

Actual Go-Fast Car I Put Together

Maybe I’m on to something. Who says you can’t be a kid at any age? I challenge you to follow suit. Take a few minutes today and pretend to be a kid. It’s kind of fun. Maybe that’s why I like running. For those brief moments (and I mean brief) while running when my right hip isn’t hurting or my left foot isn’t pronating or my low back isn’t writhing in pain…I feel young.

So I ask you, as an adult, have you ever bought a kid’s combo?

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

The American Can’t Gat-in-eau Satisfaction

The Marathon du Medoc in Bordeaux, France boasts 22 wine stations, 1 oyster station and sometimes a cognac station; no porta-potties and very few water stations. The participants are encouraged to run in funny costumes. I am not sure why; maybe to mask their tipsy demeanour. I saw a photo once of runners dressed up as clowns, brides, and ballerinas all tripping down the French countryside. I’ve never been to this event, but it doesn’t take much imagination to think it would be like a Halloween party on steroids.

It is my understanding that alcohol dehydrates the body. Apparently France didn’t get the memo. And, it appears that neither did Tom, my neighbour’s boss.

The four of us (Heather, her bosses Tom and Andrea, and myself) head out to this great nation’s capital, for the Ottawa race weekend. We women had decided on the 10 km race and Tom, a landed immigrant originally from Jersey, signed up with gusto for the half marathon.

Heather and I are taking this race rather seriously. Being new to the world of running, we aren’t taking any chances. We train within an inch of lives, as if we are about to be deployed into a war zone or worse, an IKEA bed and bath sale. In contrast, Tom, the American, has run to work 3 times in the last 2 months, feeling this has put him in top athletic form.

Our hotel is in Gatineau, just a short drive over the River to downtown Ottawa. Andrea spends the afternoon visiting a friend, however Heather and the American have several hours to kill before the 10 km race begins. Tom pipes up, “I heard they sell beer at Costco in Quebec.”

Now, to someone who lives in Ontario, beer in Costco is as likely as semi automated weapons being sold at the Principal’s office of an elementary school. It just isn’t possible. All alcohol is sold through licensed provincial facilities. However, just like the Marathon du Medoc, the French are a bit more relaxed about such things.

I’m not actually into beer or alcohol in general, however, I like Costco, so I go along for the ride. Once inside, it looks just like our local Costco except for one noticeable difference. Instead of bottled water, sports drinks and specialty teas in the back corner, there are mountains of beer cases and pyramids of wine bottles.

The American had found his Mother Ship. Not only is beer for sale in Costco, it is considerably cheaper than at home. Tom can stock up for the next two years! Heather and Tom quickly trade in their grocery-store style push carts for the large, flat bed furniture movers. They morph into human big rigs, pulling flatbed trailers. No motor, just the sheer engine force of their own bodies.

They begin loading their carts as if building a cache for the longest prohibition ever. I see perspiration on the American’s brow, probably the longest pre-race workout he’d had this year. People are starting to stare. At first, I pretend not to notice the looks. But, then I take things into my own hands. I act apologetic and whisper, “They’re from Ontario and he’s American.” For some reason this works. Their curiosity seems to be satiated and they begin nodding knowingly as if being an American explains everything.

I am entertained as I watch Heather and Tom steer and push their clinking monster loads to the cashier.  They think they are almost home free when they find out that apparently there is some type of limit on how much you can buy at once and they are likely 20 times over it. The policy is in place to prevent people reselling…probably to people from Ontario and America. It looks grim and then I remember my success earlier. I smile and whisper under my breath, “They’re from Ontario and he’s American.”

“Ohhhh, la la. Oui, oui. Je vois. D’accord, d’accord.”

The cashier and her helper are now nodding and waving approval. They ring them through.

“What did they say?” the American asks me.

“That you must be here for the race weekend because you look very fit.”

He smiles.

Across the parking lot to Heather’s car, they load their distillery into the back of her SUV and I can’t help myself, “I hope you can take this over the Ontario border.” I say to the American.

“Really?” he looks concerned.

“It’s all the same country,” Heather quickly eases the look of panic on his face.

Once back to the hotel, Tom and Heather now remember that all our rooms are on fourth floor. I think they had subconsciously blocked that fact from their memory when they were in Costco. I note the looks of concern from the guests in the lobby when they see the trolleys piled high with alcohol, however, they don’t look as nearly as worried as the desk staff. One lady comes over and discreetly slips me a card with contact information for the nearest AA chapter. “Oh, don’t worry,” I say. “He’s American.”

 “Ahhh, I see.” She nods knowingly.

Once settled in amongst the wall of beer cases, we decide it is time to go for lunch. It will be the last meal before the women run the 10 km race in a few hours.

Where to eat lunch?

“I saw a micro-brewery down the road,” says the American…

*Please note: no names have been changed to protect the innocent. You’re on your own with this one, Tom! To be fair, I should mention, however, that an extensive amount of hyperbole and creative license and little bit of outright lying was used in the creation of this entry. For example, I can’t remember whether we were on the fourth or fourteenth floor of the hotel.  Okay, not everything happened exactly as written, but some parts are true.

©2011 Written by Heather Down and Illustrated by John Larter