The Need for Speed?

Without measurements, it’s hard to notice improvements. However, upon completing a long group training run before the first half marathon of the 2012 season I ran hard and realized I was the first female in the group to complete the 21 route. A stranger came up to me and said something that made my knees feel weak and my face turn 3 shades of red. He said those three words that every woman who runs dreams of hearing, “You are fast.”

This year, my running goal was to get a little faster. It’s strange that we have this insatiable ‘need for speed’.

Hank, one of our border collie/Australian shepherd crosses also had this crazy need for speed. Everything he did, he did with all his might. At the mere sight of his lead he went into a frantic jumping/whining frenzy, earning him the nick name ‘Jerry Springer’.  Walking him required the upper body strength of Mr. Universe.

Hank was the first in the car. He was also the first out of the car. The first out the door and always the first in. He loved everyone, jumped on everything, licked anything, ate his dinner in lightning speed and had three favourite words as well: din-dins, walkies and cottage. He was truly joy in a fur casing.

Hank’s flamboyant personality wasn’t without its challenges.  He barked too much, played too rough with baby rabbits (RIP), doves (why he left only the head I don’t know), porcupines (twice, which may say something about his IQ), and the skunk (luckily I was on vacation when that one occurred, leaving the rest of the family to deal with it). I wanted to put a sign on the gate to the backyard saying, “Warning Wildlife, Enter at Own Risk, Hank Lives Here”.

All the neighbours knew Hank for various, and not always pleasant reasons, but none so much as the family behind us who own the chocolate lab, Tucker. Hank learned how to jump the back 5 foot chain link fence. Actually, it was less jumping and more climbing. So, at his discretion, he would randomly jump the fence to play with his friend Tucker.

I was always yelling at him, “Hank, get back here.” Sometimes I would have to go get him. Then, he found another set of dogs in the next house and would jump our fence, then Tucker’s fence and thus began his life of crime.

I started to notice that he would jump the fence when Tucker wasn’t out as well. Raw hides, bones and toys became to spontaneous sprout in our back yard. Mr. Robber was waiting for when Tucker was inside to go pillage. This had to stop.

And, thus, the 6 foot wooden fence was built. Upon its completing, Hank looked at it long and hard. He backed up all the way to our house, then turned and ran at it with all his might. It was like watching a cartoon—or a car crash. You could see what was coming next but it was too late to do anything about it. He hit the fence about half way up with a splat and, plastered against the fence, slid down like Wiley Coyote in the Roadrunner. Unlike the porcupine incidents, he never tried again.

Hank’s need for speed was actually a natural outgrowth for his pursuit for joy. Joy overflowing personified, or caninified if you will.

****

We scattered some of Hank’s ashes at the cottage this week. It’s so quiet now. Kanoock, Hank’s brother, the one left behind, is more cultured and well behaved. There is no one to chastise or chase after.

What a lesson Hank was. Joy first. Everything else second. Do what you love with all your enthusiasm and might. Be in the moment. That was Hank.

It’s one week to the Ottawa Marathon. This will be the anniversary of my first marathon ever. Initially in the season I had a time goal but life has dealt my training partners and I various obstacles. Denise just had a new baby girl! Karen said good bye to her cat and recently hurt her back doing yard work. Last week Lyndsay’s ankle mysteriously swelled up. We lost Hank and it is supposed to be really hot next weekend—less than ideal conditions for obtaining a personal best time. Personal issues, loss, injury, and weather—all things we have little control over. Joy, however, is a decision.

Whatever this weekend holds, I choose joy.

Thanks Hank!

Hank Fraser

2001 - 2012

Joy in a Fur Casing

No finish Line

Sometimes running can be absolutely magical. The planets align, you get your stride, you experience an almost out of body experience, gliding kilometers upon kilometers, your breath keeping cadence with your heart. And then there was today…

To say that I had a bad run would be an understatement as I am sitting at the computer with three heating pads and one ice pack plastered strategically on various parts of my legs and buttock. I am so fortunate to live in Canada, a country strong and free. However, it is also the True North. And, today, it delivered splendidly. We have actual temperatures but we go one step farther. We have ‘feels like’ temperatures. And, today, according to the radio it felt like -24.

This alone will not prevent a run for any self-respecting enthusiast so Karen, Lyndsay and I went despite the cold. Everything started out fine, however, ticking off each kilometer brought something new to tick me off.

At about kilometer 9 we turned into a dreadful breeze, probably like an Abu Dhabi wind storm…minus the heat of course. My contact lenses felt like they froze to my eyeballs, like a couple of metal spoons were sitting on my cornea. Blink, Heather, just keep blinking. I read somewhere that eyes don’t freeze so I should be fine.

Challenge number two was the slushy snow. You have to change your stride and by kilometer 14 or so my entire right leg decided, starting with my butt, shooting through my calf and ending at my ankle to tighten up with the grip of a vice. I needed the jaws of life to release the tension. No worries, Karen was patient enough to let me stretch.

Things improved until Kilometer 18 rolled around with a new challenge. The water was frozen. You would need an auger and a fishing hut to cut through my water bottle. I tried to unscrew the top of the bottle, only to have some of the water spill on my hand. I took some gulps of the ice-infested waters experiencing a whole new level of brain freeze I didn’t know existed. I tried, unsuccessfully I might add, to get the top back on the bottle. It didn’t work so I ditched the rest of the water. I couldn’t unzip my pocket to get put the bottle top away and Karen rescued me by putting it in her pocket.

“I need to get my mitt on now,” I suddenly said. The water that spilled on my hand had frozen and I felt like I may be in danger of frost bite. Probably not, but that’s how I felt. I managed to ungracefully plunge my hand into my mitt and pull it up with my teeth.

I became painfully aware that I can’t hear my music. I ran for another kilometer then decided to press ‘play’ again on my ipod.  Nothing. Battery must be gone. I was not a happy bunny.

In 6 kilometers we approached the Running Room. I bailed. I started to walk, (well limp, really, thinking of appropriate expletives with each and every hobble) towards the heat and comfort of the store. I wanted water and I was tight and sore. It’s never a question of can you, but will you. And today I decided that I wouldn’t. Karen continued on and completed her 28 kilometer. Kudos to her for her tenacity and strength.

Every once in a while you just have a bad run. The great thing about bad runs is that it makes you really appreciate and savour the good ones. And, every time you have a bad run, you know you are that much closer to having a great one.

I could be upset with myself. There are truly no excuses. But, I chose not to be because I know as long as I am blessed with life and health there will be more opportunities to do better. Today was just one day, a necessary speck in an incredible and detailed ongoing journey. There is no finish line.

There are races, markers and mile stones but there is no end; at least not until I decide so. This is something I need to remind myself of often.

Blessings. Even the bad. They are all blessings.

Sole Sisters

“so…ummm,” Lyndsay starts as we begin a weekend long run.

“I lost a toe nail yesterday”, she brags.

“Congratulations!” Karen hands out accolades.

“Good for you.” I add.

“Yeah, I’m hard core now. It turned black a long time ago and has just been hanging on. Then, yesterday, when I was cutting my toe nails I realized it wasn’t really attached to anything and it just came off.”

“Cool.”

“Wow.”

Now to normal people (aka non-runners) this may seem like a rather strange conversation, however, to women that run, this is nothing unusual. We don’t even bat an eyelash which got me thinking. Women who run may look like normal people when you encounter them at work or in the grocery store, but put a pair of Asics on their feet and a Garmin on their wrist and they turn into women with the heart of a cheetah and the strength of an amazon dweller.  So, today, I thought I’d do my civic duty and, in a gesture of charity, offer a personally annotated public service announcement to anyone who might be interested in dating, marrying or just befriending a women who runs and give you the inside scoop into the psyche of a ‘sole sister’.

Article 1 – Food

Although sole sisters sometimes look like they eat like a bird, they can actually eat an entire bird in one sitting--a pterodactyl or albatross. Most sole sisters can--and do--eat the equivalent of their own body weight within a 24 hour period. I know because I’ve done it.  And, they can do it with the voracity and speed of King Kong popping back the entire population of New York City. Don’t be deceived by slim figures or slight frames. It is simply a façade. Food is their life and if you get between a sole sister and pre-race regiment meal, watch out.

Personal Note: Yesterday I secretly ate supper before my family got home. Then, we ate supper together (again for me). And, later, I had seconds---well, thirds but who’s counting. If that wasn’t enough, I still woke up from hunger at 2:00 am and found myself down stairs in the kitchen with my finger in the peanut better jar. I sometimes wonder if third world nations would be better off if I didn’t run.

There is an irony with sole sisters that is not worth questioning. In the month or so before a marathon, she will stay away from overly processed foods such as desserts and simple sugars, however, will then go on a long run and consumer 3 or 4 packets of pure glucose. This may not make sense to you, but I strongly suggest you don’t go there. This is one argument that won’t end sweetly.

Article 2 – Feet

Sole sisters’ feet are horrible. We have bunions, rotten toe nails, athlete’s foot, calluses, and cracked heels…and we don’t care. In the summer we simply wear closed toed sandals or paint our toe nails (or the skin where there should be toe nails) with very thick nail polish and hope no one is the wiser.

Article 3 – Weekends

The only slow and long thing a sole sister wants on the weekend is a run, usually upwards of 20 odd kilometers.  Deal with it.

Article 4 – Holidays

Sole sisters love spending time with their loved one at the movies, on holidays, going out to dinner or just snuggling up at home to watch TV—as long as it doesn’t interfere with the training schedule. All trips, vacations, birthday celebrations, anniversaries, births and funerals (well, not really funerals, but births for sure. Some of us are still trying to come to terms with Denise's 'I'm having another baby' stunt) must first be checked against the race schedule before they can be cleared. I have actually heard, “Well, we can’t go on the cruise that week because it is 2 weeks before the marathon…”

Article 5 – Demeanour

Generally, during non-running moments sole sisters are professional, upstanding citizens. Don’t be deceived by the cute little running skirts, or girly running tops. In certain running situations these women can swear like pirates pillaging an innocent wayfaring ship. Some of these conditions include but are not limited to:

1.       Bad drivers. Near misses with idiots behind the wheel who have no respect for running.

2.       On long runs when the battery dies on:

i.                     The ipod

ii.                   The Garmin

iii.                  Cell phone

3.       If she runs out of water, gel or if there are no washrooms en route.

4.       Any point in a race past the 32 km mark. No real reason required. All sorts of anger issues spontaneously surface. Note: Not a good time to propose marriage. Just saying.

Article 5 – Clothing

A sole sister will drive to Buffalo to save $50 on a pair of running shoes. She will salivate at the very utterance of “Lululemon” and would rather spend $100 on a new pair of running tights than a new dress…or at least she’d get more wear out of the tights. She most likely has her own drying rack for running gear and will not speak to you for a week if you put any of her running clothes in the dryer. She probably owns a pair of lucky socks. She actually wears running jewellery with pendants that are stamped with “26.2” or some such thing. If you really want to impress her—forget roses—think sports bra.

Article 6 – Digestive issues

Sole sisters often have digestive issues and they are willing to talk about them—with almost anybody. Don’t be offended or surprised. It is just a fact of running life and they think should understand. Post-race upset stomachs, or pre-race nerves, we need to share.

I hope this has given you insight into the running woman’s mind. As I am writing this, I am actually wearing a t-shirt kindly given to me from my friend Karen. On the front it says, “Sole Sisterhood” and on the back is says, “Friends to the Finish”. That just about sums it up really. If you can embrace that this is exactly what embodies a woman who runs, you can grow to love her! If not, I suggest you take up running—and  head in the other direction.

What’s Your Number?

The Niagara Falls International Marathon is the only marathon in the world that starts in one country and finishes in another. So, naturally we absolutely must run it. And, by we, I mean Karen, Lyndsay and myself.

Since this is Karen’s inaugural marathon, her excitement and anticipation is bubbling over. And, since she is a people manager, and a very good one I might add, she makes all the arrangements for our accommodation and ‘night before’ meal.

Although I can operate high powered, top of the line graphic programs and know the difference between an eps, psd, pdf, png jpeg and ai file, have had my work appear in national newspapers, and designed billboards larger than my living room, I cannot, for the life of me, operate a cell phone. Since my running buddies are my juniors and very phone savvy, I make an honest attempt to learn to ‘text’ on my very old, number-pad only phone.

I’m so excited. My phone sings. I open it and there is a text message.

Ohhhh, what to do next?

I panic and press random buttons. It makes a strange noise and up pops a message, “Where are you?”

This is good. I can answer this one. We are on Highway 400. Oh, wait. This involves numbers. A cell phone only has to be 5 minutes old to be outdated. Like dogs, cell phones have their entirely own division of time. If a dog is two years old, we say he’s 14 in dog years. Well, my phone is probably a few years old…but in reality it’s at least a few millennia old in cell phone years. Fly backwards, skip the renaissance and land it in a puddle of dark ages. It has no key pad for typing, only numbers. Which is a little ironic because I can only make those numbers spell letters. I have no idea how to tell my numbers to spell, well, numbers. I begin that painful task of spelling out “h-i-g-h-w-a-y f-o-u-r h-u-n-d-r-e-d”. It takes me about 15 minutes, but I am able to press ‘send’. It is a horrible experience, but I take solace in the fact there is a slim to none chance there will be anymore text questions that require me to give a number in the answer. Phew. Relief.

In less than the tiniest micro-second, I get a response. “So r we. What time do you think you will get to the expo?”

Darn.

Double darn, there’s even punctuation in this one.

I sigh and painfully spell out ‘a-b-o-r-t t-v-o t-h-i-r-t-y.’

I know it’s misspelled but I am beyond caring. I press ‘send’.

I am now definitely sure I won’t have to spell out any more numbers.

I arrive at the hotel and settle in. The room is absolutely stunning. It is on the eighteenth floor, overlooking the falls. I jump on the bed, gawk at the Jacuzzi tub in the bathroom and I hear my phone again.

Text.

This time from Lyndsay.

“What’s your room number?”

I growl.

“E-i-g-h u (backspace) t-e-e-n o-h e-i-g-h-t u”

“1807” Miss Lightening Fingers responds. I am now jealous of her phone’s obvious superior capabilities. She’s next door.

I could text back, but it is quicker to go knock.

The morning of the run, we’re all up early and are chipper. One by one we appear in the hallway outside our rooms. Karen, me, then Lyndsay.

Our ‘people’ will be along course to offer fuel such as peanut butter sandwiches. We leave our entourage behind in their rooms, counting on seeing them en route.

“Guess what? My ipod didn’t charge. I had it plugged into my computer and nothing happened.” Lyndsay says.

“Is it completely dead?” Karen asks.

“No, there’s about half on it.”

“You’ll be fine.”

“You think?”

“Absolutely,” I say out loud. Inside I freak out. I can’t believe she won’t have an ipod. She’ll be lucky to last 5 minutes. I would die without an ipod in a marathon. I hope she doesn’t jump over the falls, driven to distraction by the lack of motivating music. How will she survive? This is absolutely the worse thing to happen ever!

So naturally I say, “It won’t be a problem at all, Lyndsay.”

Off to the bus. Karen’s mother, Jane, is kind enough to drive us to the meeting spot. We board. The girls head for the back. I feel like I’m in grade 5 going on a field trip all over again. Part of me wants to break out into a chorus of “The Wheels on the Bus”. But I refrain.

“So, what’s your word?” I ask Lyndsay.

“My word? What do you mean? You have a word?”

“Yes, my word is ‘believe’ and Karen’s is ‘fearless’.”

“It helps?” she asks.

“It helps me.”

“Hmmm,” she contemplates.

“What about ‘hope’?” I offer.

I can tell by her face that offer is refused. She wants something a little more raw, edgy and young like she is.

Karen comes to the rescue, “How about ‘toughen…..up’. Since this is a child-friendly blog I won’t give you the unedited version. But, Lyndsay obvious likes it. Now, we all have a word, or in Lyndsay’s case words.

The bus keeps driving and driving and driving...and driving some more.

“We’ve been on here a long time,” Karen notes.

Then it occurs to me. We’ve been on the bus for probably a half hour, headed to another country and the only way home is by running. Suddenly I’m terrified.

We get to the border and two customs officers enter the bus. I don’t know what was in their cereal this morning because they are actually pleasant, polite and somewhat cheerful. I could be wrong but I think one guy even smiled. After checking all our passports we head off to our point of destination—the Albright/Knox Art Gallery because isn’t that where all stretching, nervous marathon runners should hang out for two hours? A gallery filled with precious art that can easily be damaged if you fell against the wall.

We walk by a painting of a side of beef only to be upstaged by a picture of a whole bunch of Campbell’s soup tins. There seems to be a theme. However, one good thing that the Albright/Knox art gallery has is flush toilets, a serious upgrade from port-a-potties so we all take advantage of this creature comfort. Lyndsay is the last to return. She leans against the wall between two roped off areas and starts to stretch her quads. Now I don’t know how many art galleries there are in North Bay, but I’m pretty confident that the Mona Lisa doesn’t hang out there so I’m sure it never occurred to Lyndsay that a little pre-run stretch would be an issue.

“Mam, Mam,” a rotund scary looking woman who obviously hadn’t cracked a smile since the early 70s is coming after Lyndsay. I think she showed up at the wrong job location this morning – she should work for customs.

“Don’t lean on the walls.”

“Oh, oh…sorry.” Lyndsay moves forward. “You can’t touch the walls?” she whispers to us.

Eventually we head to the start. We’re off.

All three of us are together, taking in the sights and sounds of Buffalo. And, to my utter surprise, it is beautiful. The temperature is perfect, the sun is shining, and we’re winding through really pretty neighbourhoods. Who knew Buffalo has such pretty parts?

At about 900 meters in, a friendly American yells, “Great work, you’re almost there.”  I suddenly worry about the U.S. educational system. Apparently it is in more of a mess than I thought. Maybe they need to pour a little more money into their Math curriculum.

Before we know it we’re hitting the Peace Bridge. Shania is wailing “Today is Your Day” on my ipod. And, it is amazing. All three of us cross over. The view (and the run) is breath taking and it is hard to believe we are granted the opportunity to run over this border crossing—legally!

A man running with a “Running for Japan” t-shirt keeps stopping to take pictures of a stuffed animal.

“Look at that bear,” I yell to Lyndsay. He’s chronicling its run.

“It’s a moose,” he yells back to me. I didn’t realize he heard me!

Pardon me. I can’t believe I, of all people, did not notice that it was a moose!

Eventually we all lose each other, settling into our own paces. After the half way mark I am getting hungry. I keep looking for my peeps but I don’t see them anywhere. I want my peanut butter sandwich. I imagine they got lost,  over slept or had to park so far away they couldn't make it. I almost shed a tear for the sandwich I will never have. Then I spot Karen’s relatives.  I wave and keep running. Then I realize I can give them my gloves as I don’t need them anymore. I turn around and start running back to them and stop. Not only am I tired, but I am stupid. Who back tracks in a marathon?? I lay the gloves down and ask them to come and pick them up.

Several kilometers later I spot my entourage. I should be saying I am happy to see them but truthfully I was all about the peanut butter sandwich at that point. As I approach they start running, backwards, away from me, holding the sandwich out in front. I am a greyhound chasing the rabbit skin. I think it is funnier for them than me but eventually I get to eat my sandwich!

I pass a sign that makes me giggle “Chafing lasts for a day, bragging rights last for a lifetime.” After kilometer 30 I notice a dude with Isaiah 40:31 written on the back of his shirt, “…they shall run and not get tired.” Obviously I wasn’t consulted when this was written.

It is now a mental game. I look down at my watch, I am slowing. It hurts. I speed up. It hurts.  However, if I go faster, this will finish quicker so I keep my pace up.

I see Karen up ahead. I pass her. Now, normally I would stop to see how things are going but if I stop I probably won’t start again. She says something about stomach upset and gives me one of her eload discs. It isn’t long before she recovers and breezes by me again.

I finish. I am happy. Karen is already there with her family.

 Apparently it is supposed to speed recovery. People are kind of staring at me but nothing in me cares in the least. Lyndsay joins us soon sans tunes. The ipod had died quickly after she turned it on. Even without music, she managed her personal best for the half marathon split. Must have been her ‘word’.

We head home. Now, there are some things I know for sure. I know with certainly that gravity keeps us planted on earth, the sun gives us life and oxygen is necessary for breath. I also know, with the same conviction and certainty that after running 42 kilometers, I will throw up. What I don’t know for sure, however, is how many times.

Seven. It is seven. I throw up seven times. And, we have to pick up a friend in Toronto along the way home. I am stuffed in the back seat with my head in a bag. It is noted that I somewhat resemble a horse in a feed bag. I never regretted buying a car with standard transmission so much before in my life as I am lurched with each gear change.

“I hope you don’t mind,” it is said to the new passenger, “but she’s a little sick.”

That's the understatement of the century.

“I don’t mind,” Marcus answers, “as long as she doesn’t throw up on my bass guitar.”

Marcus plunks the guitar beside me. I put my head back in the bag and promise not to defile it.

“Turn up the music,” I yell from the comfort of my plastic bag.

“Why?”

Why? They have to ask? Here comes number eight.

Eventually back at home I recover. We all do in our own way. It is a great weekend. Certainly one for the memory books. Congratulations to Karen who is now part of the 42.2 km club! Something in her facebook quote the following week strikes me as being so true, and I paraphrase from whoever she is quoting:

The person who finishes the marathon is not the same person who started it.

So true! In my case, she’s a much sicker one!

*By the way, no bass guitars were harmed in the creation of this blog.

Born to Run?

You know you are in small town Ontario when the most popular radio station is called “The Moose.” You know you are really in small town Ontario when the only radio station is called “The Moose”.

Welcome to Bancroft, population 3,500 and the nearest town to my parents’ cottage and incidentally where my family and myself…and the two dogs…and the cat are headed for a one week reprieve from probably the most stressful 4 months of my life. Professionally speaking there were deadlines and targets that make the words ‘do or die’ less of a metaphor and more of a literal bricks and mortar type of reality. In an eat-what-you-kill world, self-employment can have some serious drawbacks.

But alas, it all worked out in the end and now it was time for vacation. Normally I leave Echo, the less-than-friendly, they have to put me in a bag to vaccinate me, somewhat temperamental feline at home and have someone look in on her in our absence. But, usually our absences don’t span a week.

“She’ll be lonely,” I pleaded. So in the cat carrier she went.

We set out, dog one sitting up in the back seat, watching the world fly by, dog  two hugging the floor in between the front and back seat, hanging on for dear life and Echo, meowing with gusto once per second with the uncanny precision of a Swiss watch.  This is tolerable for a ten minute, possibly even a ten minute and 32 second journey, but two and a half hours seemed longer than Pierre Trudeau’s primeministerial run.

Then, came the waft of a very unusual and gravely unpleasant smell.

“What is that?” I queried. My family, with the olfactory acuity of a baseball bat concluded it was lingering dog flatulence. And, lingering it was. “Are you sure? I can still smell it.” They sniffed around again, including the cat crate and came to the same diagnosis.

I can’t remember exactly when it happened, but somewhere between hour one and hour two Echo stopped meowing. No sooner had we noticed and said, “Phew, she’s finally shut up,” when the most guttural, non-descript, non-cat like sound came plaintively from her crate. If I didn’t know better, I would have put money on the fact that an alien was ripping itself from her stomach. And then the poor, car-sickened creature threw up. Upon cleaning out her crate I realized the lingering dog flatulence was actually cat do-do.

Now, one could naturally get upset about this but I felt an uncanny affinity and appreciation of how poor Echo felt.  The weekend prior Karen, Lyndsay and myself ran a 30 km race in Toronto called “A Mid Summer’s Night Race” with proceeds to benefit the Toronto Sick Kids Hospital. In theory, it sounded like a great idea and there were some high points in this evening race—most of them (actually all of them) before we started running. The port a potties were plentiful and clean, well, as clean as port a potties can be. They had running water to wash your hands, the race kit pick up was well organized, the people were polite and friendly, and the shirts were really cool.

However, it was humid and hot. And, if you ever need to dump a body in the east end of Toronto along the shores of Lake Ontario, I now know a hundred places to do it and we ran by each and every one of them…when we weren’t running by a sewage treatment plant.  One park is called “Tom Thompson”. I think that alone should be an omen. After all, poor Tommy-boy drown and they are still not sure if it was murder or an accident; quite fitting for the terrain and spookiness of the locale!

On reflection of the run, Karen put it the most politely when she said it was ‘less than inspiring’. Lyndsay was a little more graphic when she said, “I was scared to go off the trail to use the washroom in case I found a body.” And then punctuated her feelings toward the race by adding, “And then I thought I was going to be raped and murdered going through the second park.” Maybe having a 20 something North Bay native run through isolated parts of Toronto’s ‘parks’ (and I use the word ‘parks’ loosely) after dark in a sketchily marked course might not be a wise idea…

We took our time stretching and recovering and Karen, the machine that she is, was driving us home. On the way back, I didn’t feel like Echo the cat, I was Echo the cat, trying desperately not to moan and meow the whole way home.

“Are you okay?”

“Not really…”

My very kind friends pulled off on Burnamthorpe Road and I want to publicly apologize to the owners of the Zehrs and to Karen who happened to still be in the washroom when I arrived. I won’t bore you with the details that prevailed but let’s just say it wasn’t my finest hour. Right after that race, I felt deflated, even though time-wise it was a personal best, shaving almost 11 minutes off my 30 km time. At that brief moment in time I didn’t like running. Running until you puke is not fun. I had lost site of the joy.

…………………

Meanwhile, back at the cottage, we are relaxing in picture perfect weather, enjoying the sun, water and oodles of free time. I am eating all things made from refined sugar and drinking caffeinated tea like there is no tomorrow. This is heaven!

If you are ever in Bancroft, I strongly recommend a visit to Ashlie’s Bookstore. You can’t miss it. It’s on the main road. And, since there is only one main road in Bancroft you will find this great treasure!

I need something to read. As tempting as that copy of Dr. Zhivago sitting on the shelf in the cottage is, I have a taste for something else. “Do you have ‘Born to Run’?” I ask someone who I assume to be Ashie. He’s probably a Bill or  Orville or something but he looks like the owner.

Within seconds it is in my hand. And, it changed my life. If you are a runner, know a runner, have seen someone run or know how to spell the word ‘run’, read this book. It's just a really good story...even if you hate running. I can’t pinpoint why, but this story is absolutely amazing. There are no tips on how to run but I feel like running differently, there are no lists of foods to eat but I want to watch what I eat, there are no recommendations for shoes to wear but I have a renewed interest in exploring options and there is no testimonial section with flowering messages on why someone should run, but I feel the joy in a stride, in the floating, in the absolute high that comes when you run for no other reason than you love it.

I can’t wait the entire week to run again. I have to run now. My family won't let me run in the woods by myself. Some crazy nonsense about elk, bears and other wild animals so they take me into town.  Some go to the local real estate office to check out what’s going on in the area and meets Joe, Fred or Bill who is on duty at the office in his most professional real estate agent garb of his cleanest baseball cap, t-shirt with the words “I Live to Hunt” across the front of it and jeans that are only 12 years old.

Meanwhile, I am to run circles around the town. The town is on a hill so getting a good cardio workout won’t be a problem. However, getting any distance will be. I think the total circumference of the town is a whole 1.5 km.

I start running and an unusual thing happens, I get lots of stares. I realize that in all the visits to the cottage through the years I’ve never once seen a single person running. I have trouble dodging people holding their DQ soft cones as they stare at my fluorescent nike orange shirt bop by. The more I run, the more of a spectacle I feel,  I am almost turned into road kill by a large truck turning into the hardware store, a little kid almost trips me. People stare out the windows of their cars. It’s official, in this town, I am a freak.

Now, if I was a hunter, fisher, lazing cottager, swimmer, hockey player, snow mobiler, or boater I would be more acceptable. But it was obvious running wasn’t part of this town’s plan. In fact, I was told later that when Joe, Fred or Bill real estate agent found out I was going for a run he said, “Really? She runs?” Silence. Another pregnant pause, “She better be careful. She might get run over. No one really runs here.”

I survive the ordeal and stretch out, relax and find a lovely park bench in front of the town’s post office. I am just started to soak up the sun and feel good again when a two people approach me. Judging by their demeanor I surmise that they are mentally challenged. They are a bit podgy and both are now right in front of me staring me down. I figure that if we got into a fight they could take me, hands down. I am starting to feel just a wee bit uncomfortable and decide to break the ice.

“Do you want to sit here?”

“Yes,” was the emphatic response and they both sat down almost pushing me off the end of the bench. I am now seat-less and weary, ousted by a couple of regulars.

But, I feel good. I enjoyed my run and despite the near misses, it was fun. That is what running is supposed to be about—having fun.

After reading Born to Run I have a new hero to add to my ever-growing list of people to admire. His name is Scott Jurek, an ultra runner originally from Minnesota. Ultra runners are not like normal runners, they will run 100 miles, through trail, because they like it.

Here’s the thing with Scott, he’s--vegan. The perfect granola poster boy ever has won the Western States 100 miles race 7 times in a row…on grains, nuts, fruits and vegetables. He eats only homemade bread and doesn’t eat anything processed. And,  rumour has it he’s a nice guy, environmentally conscious and not really much of a publicity magnet. He runs, get this--because he loves it.

Maybe that’s the trick to not running until you puke.  Just sit back and enjoy the ride. Eat well, care about others and your environment and be respectful about what you put in your body. Balance.  Born to love, born to care and now, born to run.

What Happens on a Run Stays on a Run

Shania Twain is my best friend. She just doesn’t know it yet. For some reason, I’m not sure completely why, I feel an affinity towards her. After all, we have so much in common. She’s only a year only than I, we both have been divorced, we’re both born in the same country, I’ve been to Timmins, she’s lived in Timmins, we share the practice of vegetarianism, she sings like a bird, I sound like a cow…dying…slowly and painfully. Okay, the similarities quickly break down, but you get the picture.

Friends are an interesting concept. Some people still hang out with their kindergarten BFF and others, like myself, float through life, settling where ever I happen to be planted at the time and draw from those immediately around me.  In high school, I never really aligned myself with any particular ‘group’ or clique. I simply floated around with various and strangely diverse people. Maybe I had a serious fear of commitment and couldn’t make it work with just one group of friends.

Like most, I have a collection of different groups of friends, all categorized and filed according to role and proximity. There are acquaintances, the neighbour friends, former school friends, purely social friends, work related friends, and now, added to the list are my running friends.

Currently my running friends consist of a very diverse group of 3 very intelligent, professional women. I am the oldest, but probably not wisest and Lindsay is the youngest, being the same age as my children. There are two in between, one dealing with an established career and the other raising two children before going back to the work world. But for some reason, despite all the differences, it works.

Our runs are like Vegas, what happens on a run, stays on the run. We have a lot of funny mishaps that would make great fodder for a blog (mostly about bodily functions and girly stuff), however, I take the high road and only make fun of people I don’t know.

This Vegas rule intrigues my family, and they have been known to ask about this great mystery, “What do you guys talk about for 2 hours?”

And, for the first time, I am going to break the code. If I never mention these ladies again, you will know that I’ve been kicked out of the group due to high treason. This is the conversation we had last week:

Lyndsay (who works for some type of government environmental department) says, “Have you ever heard of the bird, the killdeer?”

I have and say, “Yes.”

“It’s so cool. They have their nests on the ground and when predators come around, the mother pretends to have a broken wing to distract them from her eggs. Isn’t nature awesome?”

I respond (self-employed entrepreneur). “Yes. That’s pretty cool how the killdeer knows what to do in order to survive. Very creative.”

Then, Karen, (the people manager who works for a software company who shall not be named but whose antonym is “Macro Hard”)  comments, ”I really think that bird should take a lesson from other birds and build it’s nest in a tree. It would solve a lot of problems. It would be more efficient and the mother wouldn’t have to go through that procedure all the time.”

I wonder if she’s in the middle of performance reviews at work?

I imagine if Denise (mother of two smaller children) were with us on this particular run would say, “See what babies make their mothers go through.”

We’re all so different—different ages, different backgrounds, different perspectives, different places in our lives and yet we have no problem filling up 2 hours with conversation and laughter. We’re also just as comfortable tuning out and running in silence. In fact, our shared experience of running has even produced our own subculture vernacular.

For example, if I drop my water bottle I am ‘pulling a Karen’. If digestive issues occur, we’re all careful to avoid an ‘Around the Bay’ incident. If someone over-dresses for the heat, she’s ‘being a Lyndsay’ and I have inspired the phrase ‘wardrobe malfunction’  meaning  undergarments were not properly secured. Running is hard, but running lopsided is impossible.

We also meet interesting people on our runs. For example, last week on one particularly rainy run we were looking for a bathroom in a downtown Tim Horton’s.  We were really disappointed that there wasn’t one available for patrons. A gentleman sporting more unkempt facial hair than found on the body of a 20 lb cat and most likely of no-fixed abode told us we really didn’t need a bathroom as it was raining. If we wet our pants, no one would notice because we were already wet from the rain.

Then there was the birthday boy who ran every year. That isn’t the unique part, though. He ran the same number of kilometres as his age. That’s okay when you’re turning six, but I think he had just hit 54. Needless to say, it was an all day affair. I hate to imagine how long it will take him when he turns 90!

This world is made up of so many wildly different people, yet there seems to be a common thread on all of humanity. Some inert molecule I breathed out 2 weeks ago might be the one you are breathing in this second!  I’ve been listening to an audio book The Secret by Robin Byrne which is basically organized on the biblical principal of Ask, Believe and Claim what you want. So, Shania, if you are out there, I am asking to be your friend and I believe it can be so. I’m afraid you have to be involved in the claiming part. Fire me an email if the Universe sends you this message.

The Shoe's on the Other Foot

Today is the day we leave for Ottawa and I am more frazzled than a bad perm. I can’t find my shoe. Not just any shoe, but THE shoe. Picking the right shoe for a marathon is as worrisome as picking a life partner or a fulfilling career. There is quite a bit of pressure to get it right. And, if you don’t, there can be dire consequences. I have courted three different pairs of shoes, putting each through the paces during long runs and hill training and finally decided on this pair. But, we’re leaving in about 20 minutes and I have the right one in my right hand but have no clue where its mate is hiding. I had them both about 15 minutes ago but I have been flying through the house like a bee without a queen trying to pack, and in my travels have managed to lose the left shoe.

Okay, people do weird things when they are nervous so I methodically check all three levels of the house—thoroughly search the bedroom, the kitchen, and my studio in the basement. No shoe. I do, however, find my long lost scarf, the old ipod I’ve been looking for and a blouse I had no idea I had lost--but no shoe. I get creative…only 10 minutes to departure…I check the fridge and the freezer. I have heard of people putting weird things in the fridge when they are distracted. Still no shoe. 5 minutes left on the clock and I’m thinking I’ll have to bring along the ‘runner’ up from the farm team when I remember I got some water bottles out of the garage.  With a whole 2 minutes to spare I find THE shoe. This is the first victory long before the marathon even begins!

The journey to Ottawa begins the way all journeys should – with a stop at Starbucks. I get my usual soy green tea unsweetened latte and my neighbour, Heather, and her chiropractor boss, Andrea, order their 100 pump, no water, no foam something-or-other, strong enough to put hair on even my chest.

Back in the car, Andrea’s husband, Tom, the American, is the driver. He is driving to Ottawa because he will likely not be able to drive back as he’s running the marathon with me on Sunday. Well, I use the word ‘with’ loosely. A more accurate statement would be he will be running the marathon in front of me. We’re travelling what is often referred to as ‘the back way’ to Ottawa, through Bancroft and Renfrew. About 20 minutes into the scenic route, the American asks, “How much farther?”

It is at this moment I realize he should probably not be permitted to have unstructured time on his hands to think or muse as it soon becomes apparent that unusual observations and very unique statements seem to surface. About half way there, we stop at a little town to use the pubic restrooms in the post office/library.

“Isn’t it funny how all post offices in Canada smell exactly the same?” the American announces loudly as we walk into the lobby. The postal worker at the desk pastes on her small town friendly smile. I can’t tell if she is agreeing with or offended by this statement but she appears to take it all in stride. I inhale deeply and secretly I realize he’s right.

We make it to our downtown hotel on Rideau Street safely. As Heather and I settle into our room, I can’t believe that this weekend has finally arrived. The next day we pick up our race kits at the expo and run into Heather’s co-worker, Aracely, who is here with her family to run the half marathon. She is completely stoked. This will be her first half marathon! How amazing. I empathize with her excitement and apprehension.

When we get to our hotel, I realize that it pays to run fast, literally. It will cost an extra $50 for every hour after 12 o’clock we require the room. The race starts at 7:00 a.m. I do the math and think there is no way I can finish the marathon, get back to the hotel, shower and get out of there by noon. This will be an added incentive to run faster.

Our hotel is great—5 minute walk to the race, close to the Byward Market and no bridges to cross, however, the neighbourhood could use a wee bit of sprucing up, like extreme makeover or maybe something more subtle, like a bulldozer. In fact, so much so, that for the entire weekend I will not walk anywhere by myself. As we walk back from the Byward Market, a random gentleman asks me if I can sell him some drugs, maybe some crack or weed. Now, I’ve given this some thought and I think I was a victim of unjust, criminal ‘profiling’. I mean, doesn’t every clean cut, forty something grandmother, ex-school teacher dressed in running gear sell illicit street drugs?

The next day Heather and Andrea run their 10 km race. Tom and I set up camp about 750 meters from the finish line. It is so much fun to watch and cheer on the runners. As the elite Kenyans run by first, I am in complete awe and wonder. They are truly poetry in motion. I am struck with the energy.

“I’m addicted.” I blurt out without explanation.

“To what?” Tom casually asks.

“Racing.”

Now, what I am thinking is, “One day, I would like to volunteer to be a pace rabbit.” (See It Happens Around the Bay for complete explanation), but what I actually say…loudly…is “I aspire to one day be a bunny.”

Tom seems to be a bit more interested in this statement than the first.

“I wouldn’t say that so loudly,” he comments.

I agree and shut up for a while.

Somehow, the day ends and I am left to worry about the morning. I want to leave the hotel at 6:15 a.m. but Tom wants to leave at 6:30 a.m. He doesn’t want to have to use the ‘little blue boxes’ or porta potties as the general public calls them. He figures if he leaves late enough from the hotel, he will be able to make his final bathroom stop in his clean, flush-toilet hotel accomodations. We compromise and agree on 6:22:30.

I don’t sleep much at all.  I can’t. I’m nervous, but more excited. I’m here. I’ve trained. I’m ready. I want to do this. Tom wants to complete this run in under 4 hours, I just want to complete it, although secretly, I’d like to do it in under 5 hours.

The race begins. It is raining lightly but warm. I enjoy the run, listening to my ipod, running with this mass of strangers.  We head into Little Italy, then to China town and across the bridge into Quebec. I’m feeling a little lonely. I miss my running buddies, Karen, Lyndsay and Denise and then about 5 kilometers into the run, they appear. Not literally. I am not hallucinating, just in my imagination. Karen first shows up on my left and Lyndsay on my right. I replay the conversations and words of encouragement shared on our long runs and I feel their spirit and good wishes travelling with me. I find out later, that as I imagined them with me they were following the stats and progress of my race on the internet!

I pass a man running the race in his wheel chair, pushing the chair up a crazy Gatineau hill. Runners are telling him to keep going and that he is doing a great job. We head over another bridge back into Ottawa. I look over the River and the beauty strikes me so hard, it almost knocks me over with tears. We travel down Sussex, passing number 24. I look for Stephen, but he’s not there. Maybe I’m just not seeing him. I look closer. I see the guards, the gates but can’t find Mr. Harper anywhere. I’m getting a little anxious. After all, I travelled all the way from Barrie to do this race, you think he would have the decency to at least wave at me, especially since I went right by his front door. The nerve!

I see a man in obvious distress near kilometre 32. Two other runners stop to help him and a third hands him some of her electrolyte tablets. “You sure you don’t need them?” the other runners who are helping ask.

“No, I’ve got more. He needs them more than I do.”

I am suddenly struck what a race truly is for a recreation road runner. It isn’t necessarily a race against the clock or a race against other people. It is a race with other people; other people who have a similar passion, other people who want each and everyone to succeed, reach their goals and cross the finish line. We race together. It is a collective goal and truly a team effort. It is so heartening to see the runners encourage, help, and praise each other.

The home made cardboard signs onlookers hold up make for great encouragement and entertainment. I laugh and smile as I see them “Toenails are for wimps” “Why 26.2? Because 26.3 is just crazy” “Believe” and the best advice is “Don’t Poo”  at kilometre 37.

Now, I do have a complaint I would like to lodge with the ING Ottawa Marathon organizers. The half marathon runners merge for a short period of time with the marathon runners at approximately kilometre 35, except for the half marathon runners it is probably kilometre 19. As my now tired, unrelenting body stumbles into the merge, the fresh, perky, I’m almost at the finish line half marathon runners are making me angry. I don’t like their snub, energetic gusto at all and am sorely tempted to trip one of them. I resist the urge and soldier on.

My plan for this whole race is to run 10 minutes and walk 1 minute for a recovery period for its entirety. This serves me well for 32 kilometers but now it doesn’t seem like such a good idea. I modify to 9 and 1s, then 7 and 1’s, soon to be 5 and 1s. I am now doing an even split of 1 minute running with 1 minute walking. I am in the last leg of the race and on my last legs along the canal and if you know the area, you will remember the beautiful lamp posts that decorate the sides of the bike trail. I stop and stretch my calves at every single one of them. My calves have contracted one too many times and refuse to release.

Somehow I keep moving forward and I see the 40 kilometer marker. I rejoice and my ipod starts belting out 1986’s song The Final Count Down by the Swedish group Europe. It is corny and full of fake synth sounds but it makes me run faster, and run I do, past Heather waiting in the wings, past the cheering crowds, past other runners, and finally, past the finish line! I even complete it in a qualifying time for Boston (for a 79 year old man).

Now it is time to rush back to the hotel. I remember the $50 charge. However, rushing of any type is easier said than done. I find Heather and we head back at my full speed which is barely moving. I think I say ouch with every step. Sadly, Tom did not complete in the race in under 4 hours but came very close. Stricken with a bad case of shin splints, he said he cried when he watched the 4 hour bunny bop by as he was on the ground holding his shins. There’s always next year, Tom!

In the hotel, pack, shower, rush out…just after the noon cut off! I held us up, but the American is able to talk us out of the charge and back home we head. Things are going well at first until I am overcome with motion sickness mixed in with over exertion.

“Mind if I lower the window a bit? I’m feeling a little sick.” I am lying, of course, because I am feeling violently ill.

Heather spent most of her life working with developmentally delayed people and is not easily fazed by overt bodily functions, however, I can tell by the look on Andrea and Tom’s faces that if my stomach goes, I might start a chain reaction that might no easily be stopped.

Thank goodness for Tim Hortons. I jump out of the car and run--who am I kidding? I fall out of the car and start hobbling painfully towards the bathroom. I am behind a relaxed, slow moving family who obviously don’t feel my sense of urgency. I think, “Let’s get a move on people.” It isn’t until they step to the side that I realize that I didn’t think it, I actually said it out loud! I am a little embarrassed I am so rude, but even more embarrassed I can’t speed up enough to pass them after they make an effort to move to the side.

I’m in the bathroom. Three stalls, two occupied. I take the centre one. What happened next is not pleasant or pleasant sounding for me or the other occupants of the bathroom. I am sure they are in shock because I complete the process, wash my hands and leave and no one dares to emerge from their respective stalls while I’m still there. I must have frightened them.

I feel good now. Heather has gravol and the rest of the trip is a blur until the American pipes up, “I wrote my mother’s eulogy in my head while I was running today.”

I am in shock. His mother had passed away? The poor man. What he doing running a marathon?

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know your mother had passed.”

“She hasn’t.”

Okay. I cannot think of any positive outcome, no matter what I ask next. I really don’t know what to do with this information. I mean, does he like his mother or is he just a long term planner? I hope he doesn’t tell his mother about this little incident.

“Four hours is a long time to run. You have a lot of time on your hands and you need to do something with your mind. I wrote the whole thing—planned it all,” the American explains.

I decide to go back to sleep.

I get home and read my first blog about this journey and don’t recognize the person who wrote it.  I read with horror my initial motivation for running a marathon:

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.”

The words floor me. I have reached my goal and these were my initial motivating factors, however the by-products of this process are the exact opposite of what I thought they would be. I have no desire to tell strangers at the grocery store that I ran a marathon or do I feel any sense of pride about the events of that one day. In fact, I knew that I would cross the finish line the second I started the race. It was not a surprise and certainly not a big accomplishment that particular date. What I thought would be a great marker, ended up to be only a very small punctuation in this journey.

The true blessings of this experience are the people I’ve met, the habits I’ve developed and unrelenting commitment I’ve nurtured. I have discovered that working towards a goal (whether achieved or not) does make one a better person, does teach you about goal setting, will improve confidence and does translate to other tasks in life. I hate to admit it, but when I started this, I couldn’t be more wrong. I guess you could say I reached my goal. True, I finished, standing, breathing, even--but the real accomplishment occurred every day I turned up for training.

I thought I would end this blog after Ottawa but what began as a novel has turned into a mere chapter and I pray for the strength and health to look forward to many more races. I want to continue running and blogging. After all, I’m still a nutter with an internet connection and a credit card. Next stop, the International Marathon in Niaraga Falls! Please come and join me on this next journey.

The compassion, nurturing,and support shown to me have been truly humbling.

 I thank everyone who walked into my life through this experience: Sandra L. and Terry, my clinic leaders are so helpful, encouraging and have a great sense of humour. Betty Ann, you are so positive and full of life—I love you. Sherry, you inspire just by being. Heather, thanks for accidentally getting me hooked into this. Tom and Andrea for being part of this yearly trip. Aracely, for persevering and completing your race with gusto, Lyndsay for your purity of spirit and kindest heart ever, and Denise, you make superwoman look like a lazy slacker. Karen, you keep me on track and are so generous with your organizational skills, conversation and offers of transportation. Saz, Mike and Melissa, thanks for putting me back together and keeping me strong-at my age, it obviously takes a team effort! Thanks to my friends and extended family who have taken such an interest in this project.

Blessings!