Jack and Jill

My running friend, Karen, her husband Jan and myself decide to give trail running a try. I had read how wonderful it is—the beauty of nature, the commune with the divine on earth and the smell of flowers and buds; a near spiritual experience, or so I am told.

The weather is awful the weeks leading up to the race so none of us is able to practice on an actual trail, well if you discount sidewalks and old railway lines. They are sort of trails, right? I mean, with a race name like Pick Your Poison how bad can it possibly be?

We arrive. I immediately feel out of place. I look around at the others participants and don’t notice many GPS watches, cell phones, fuel belts, ipods or high tech running gear that we’re wearing. Instead, I see bandanas and crazy, flower-power, mismatched running clothes and earth-toned shoes. No one speaks to us except the woman in the next car who is extracting what looks to be ski poles from her trunk. Apparently she uses these devices to walk up hills. I am beginning to question my judgement. However, I think “How bad can it possibly be?”

There are gondolas on the property. This can’t be good. Where there are gondolas, there are usually big hills. Upon registering to receive our race kits, we are given jet black shirts with a blood red skull and crossbones on it. I get a slight inkling the universe is trying to tell me something now.

“Where will I ever wear this?” Jan asks as the clean-cut, thirty-something professional holds the offending piece of clothing up at arm’s length.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Karen answers, “I could always wear it to bed.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” he mutters with sarcasm, obviously unimpressed. I figure I can always wear the shirt when I paint the basement…

And, the race kit includes a jar of free, locally gown honey. How very bijou I think.

No one has spoken to us yet and we cluster together like a small pack of penguins sheltering ourselves from the impending wind, hoping to start running soon to save us from our conspicuous discomfort. Karen and I are excited to see a happy, friendly face. It is Sandra, our former runner clinic leader.

“Hi,” we burst, so pleased to see a recognizable face.

“Hi,” she seems genuinely happy to see us.

“Are you racing?” Karen asks.

“No. I have another commitment today. I thought I’d take pictures at the start and then I have to go. Are you racing?”

“Yes,” Karen says. She adds, “It’s our first time on a trail.”

We expect a response but not the one we get.

“Oh,” pause and forced smile, “It’s hilly.”

“We know,” Karen responds cheerfully.

“It’s really hilly,” Sandra reiterates.

“We know,” Karen shoots back with a smile.

“Have fun. It’s hilly,” Sandra reminds us.

“We know,” Karen giggles.

This verbal game of ping pong is beginning to concern me. There is something in Sandra’s tone that makes me think that maybe there is more to this than we know. Apparently Karen is getting the same vibe.

We walk away. “I’m not sure I like the way Sandra said ‘oh’. We only signed up for the 12.5 km and not the 25 or 50 km. We should be okay, right?”

I do what any upstanding citizen would do in this situation. I blatantly lie, “We’ll be fine. I’m sure Sandra was just trying to let us know there are a few hills in the course. This will be a piece of cake.”

We make our way to the start line and with relief, the race starts. We turn on our ipods and set our GPS watches in isolation.  My relief is short lived, though, as we make our way up a never-ending hill. We fly by people as they start walking and think this isn’t so bad.

We enter a narrow path in the woods and it twist and turns as it continues to go up and then up some more. Then it happens. My heart stops dead and I gasp for breath. I think I am going to die or at very least have a heart attack.  No, it isn’t the never ending hills, although they don’t help. I see brambles and burrs attack Karen’s new $80 Lululemon capris (this year’s model, by the way) and can’t help myself as I scream out, “Oh no!” Karen seems less concerned as she is focussing on her footing.

We continue over fallen logs, mud patches and branches through a single lane path. All of a sudden I am startled by a woman in a wrist-to-ankle black unitard who is emerging from the depths of the woods. She looks to be about 110 years old. At first I think we are being attacked by the people of the trees and then realize she was just taking a bathroom break. I don’t like peeing in the woods and can’t imagine why she didn’t go 15 minutes ago when we were in the lodge where there were flushable toilets. Oh, well. Each to their own.

Unitard woman has obviously done this sort of race before, because she is now passing me up the hill, putting me to shame. She gives me some kindly advice. “Swing your arms,” it will help you get up the hill. On the inside I smile and politely say “Thank you for the wonderful advice.” My outside voice barely manages a grunt, “Thanks.” I wonder if I have a heart attack if my body will be eaten by bears or wolves?

I feel like I can’t get enough air. “Are you sure we aren’t in the Himalayas?” I ask Karen.

Oh finally, an open space and a downhill run. Karen and I run side by side, feeling a bit better after the steep Everest type climb we just completed. My elation, however quickly dissipates as I watch Karen’s shiny white Ascics Nimbus running shoes sink into the bog we are now running through. I feel my running shoes soak up the water like a sponge. “Ewww”, I say as I swing my hands up like a frightened little girl. There is no way around the water except through the swamp. I look around, half expecting Shreck and Fiona to appear and invite us over for supper.

We soldier on and come to a fork in the road, pardon me, trail, (there are definitely no roads here) and a gentleman who appears to have taken part in Woodstock in 1969 hasn’t changed his hairstyle (or clothes for that matter) since directs us back, around down a familiar path.

I think I’m losing my mind, delirious with this strenuous running. The hazardous roots, felled trees and brambles are starting to look the same, exactly the same as what we just came through. I talk myself out of my psychosis by telling myself I am imagining it until….we see the swamp, the precise swamp we just came through a few kilometres earlier and Mr. Woodstock is at the top of the hill.

“Is this your first time around?”

“No.” A group is now forming.

“You’ve done this part twice. You didn’t need to. I’m sorry,” he said way too matter-of-factly for my liking.

This man is responsible for my wet feet and my angry disposition has misdirected me and the best he can come up with is “sorry”. This costly mistake will add another 3 km to our run. I don’t think so. I’m not doing it.

“Where’s the car?” I ask Karen.

“Let’s go back and find the car.” I continue. I decide I’m not doing this torture twice.

But Karen has more resolve than I and says, “Let’s finish. We’ll go this way and see how it goes.”

Begrudgingly I follow.

The trail narrows and follows a ridge. One wrong step and you are stumbling down the side of a very steep hill, some (being Karen and I) would even call it a cliff.

“I don’t like this. I’m afraid of heights.” Karen confesses as she trudges forward.

I’m sure the area must have been pretty, but I can’t tell you. I was spending all my time watching my footing to make sure I didn’t break something important like a limb or appendage.  So much for enjoying nature.

“I signed Jan up for this race. I might be divorced when we get back to the finish line.”

I didn’t doubt it. If I could divorce myself for signing up for this experience, I would.

“Maybe he’s enjoying it.” I say, inwardly knowing it wasn't even a remote possibility.

Finally the trail widens and I see a golf course through the trees to the right of us—civilization…and golf carts.

“Want to hijack that golf cart?” I ask, hoping she’ll finally buy into one of my plans. But alas, Karen is the strong one and we keep going. Then I see people running the other way, just a few meters from us. Obviously this must be a loop and we will be going that way eventually.

“Want to cut across through the trees?” I figure we already added extra kilometres, this might be a way to reduce the distance a little. But then I think better of it. There are 25 and 50 km races also going on. What if that is a 50 km route and we accidently get on it? Then, my life would be over. So, I get proactive. I yell through the trees, “Are you running the 12.5 km race?”

I am met with a very emphatic, somewhat insulted, “No. We are the doing the 50.” My first impulse is to yell out "freaks" but I restrain myself. I don't know how long it would take them to find my body in these woods if this breed of super athletes decided to turn on me. Darn, I guess we better stick to the plan.

“Oh. Better stay on the trail, then,” I say.

We are being passed, “You’re a road runner, aren’t you?” a random trail blazer asks. “Yes,” we hang our heads in shame.

We’re nearing the end and trail is getting yet even more narrow and the ascent is so steep, I think I need a climbing harness and a belay partner. My calves have given up and are in a permanent contraction. I turn my body sideways in hopes of using a different set of muscles, “I have to go up the hill sideways,” I announce to Karen who is mountain climbing in front of me.

She can’t stop laughing now, “I have to go up on all fours.”

Now I’m hysterical. We are laughing hard enough to cry if we had the energy. There is a line up of people behind us now and a gentleman asks what was so funny. “Were you laughing at us ‘old’ folks?”

“No, no, no,” I assure him, recounting the tale. I am laughing because we are so out of our depth and so humbled by these extreme athletes who call themselves Trail Runners. We might as well be characters out of the TV show Sex and the City, two New York City-esque women parachuted into the Canadian wilds, wearing Prada gowns, Jimmy Choo shoes and holding a Cosmo in either hand...

I hate going up hill until I realize that I hate going downhill more. We descend a ski hill in the last leg of race. I fear losing my footing and going head over heels only to land in a heap at the bottom and we would be the inspiration for a new nursery rhyme. It is called Karen and Heather:

Karen and Heather went up the hill

To fetch a skull and cross bones t-shirt

Karen fell down and broke her crown

And Heather came tumbling after

Luckily, we both survive.

I see Jan at the finish line. “Did you enjoy that?” I ask.

I refuse to write what he said but it was as colourful as the rocks, trees, roots, and swamps we just traversed. Since I like both Karen and Jan, I will not recommend a good lawyer to either of them.

Karen and I decide to go for a run on the city roads the next week.

“Oh, the sweet smell of exhaust,” I say as I hungrily suck in the fumes.

A car honks at us and another almost hits us.

“Now, this is nice,” Karen remarks with sincerity and conviction.

We get lost because a couple of road signs are missing and it doesn’t ever both us. A driver gives us the finger and we wave and smile in glee.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” I yell out to the disgruntled and now confused motorist.

Yes, this is the life. Nature, trees and fresh air are over rated. Give me the fume-infested, angry motorist plagued roads any day. By the way, I have a medium sized skull and cross bones black t-shirt for sale if anyone is interested…

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.

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

How It All Began

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

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

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

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

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

Wow.

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

A weekend in Ottawa.  A race. Good company.

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

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

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

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

So our training log probably looked something like this:

     Training Log for January:

     Day 1:

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

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

     Day 2:

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

     Me: Learn to bowl sitting down. Cool.

     Day 3:

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

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

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

You get the picture.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I locked the keys inside.” She said.

“What?”

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

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

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

This took my grieving to a whole new level.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did you know cats can fly?

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

There once was a flying feline from Barrie

Whose treadmill experience was hairy

The poor little cat

Almost went splat

And now of the treadmill, she’s wary.

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

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

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

© 2011 Written by Heather Down and Illustrated by Jon Larter

The Race

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

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

Standing up.

Preferably breathing.

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

Surely that’s not too much to ask?

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

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

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

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

My reason is ecclesiastical in nature:

Vanity.

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

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

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

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

Emphatically, no, no, no!

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

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

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

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

Standing.

Even breathing maybe.

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

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

Illustration created for The Moose Pyjama Chronicles by Jon Larter

copyright 2011 Heather Down