Merry Tuesday!

I went for a “run” this morning and, much like my memory, it was short and slow. I have been nursing a shoulder injury and my dreams of training for a spring half marathon have been crushed by the sledge hammer of reality. It is a stunning day, sunny, crisp, a Tuesday, and incidentally it is December 25^th.

Footfall, breath, footfall—I spotted a man getting out of his car, heading for his trunk to unload presents to take into a nearby house. Footfall, “Good morning” gulping breath, footfall. He looked up and smiled, “Good morning,” he answered. Hesitation. He continued, “Merry Christmas.” Footfall, breath, and then….

~

My thoughts went back to a few days ago when I saw a friend of mine post on social media about a local restaurant opening its doors on Christmas. She finished the post with, “No one should be alone on Christmas.”

Now I know you must be thinking exactly what I am thinking: What an absolutely horrid, thoughtless thing to say!

Huh? No? Really?!? You weren’t thinking that? 

I absolutely, without a doubt, know that the intention of this statement was steeped deeply in love. But I am starting to fear that this type of sentiment is feeding an arbitrary societal construct that is growing to obese proportions, a construct that may actually be doing more harm than good.

What are we telling people? Let’s take a closer look at this statement: No one should be alone on Christmas. If that is true, then the corollary would be: If I find myself alone (by choice or circumstances) on Christmas, I shouldn’t be. But I am. Why? Does this mean there is something wrong with me?

And if this doesn’t make you insecure enough, there is all the media pumping you with messages to prey on your sense of self with everything from advertising to sappy Hallmark movies that feature the bookshop owner/ad agency exec/writer/Christmas tree farm owner who isn’t complete until she falls in love with the lawyer/architect/chef and moves back to her small hometown. I know this to be fact as I have watched Every. Single. One. And, let’s not forget the mandatory hot cocoa, cookie-making, snow ball fighting, skating rink, and tree decorating scenes. And, god forbid you be single at Christmas (I have news for all you single people out there—ninety-five percent of those who are coupled are probably wishing they weren’t….)

The pressure this season can create really hit home last week. My grandson, who is nine, discovered the secret location of all the unwrapped gifts. He conscripted his sister to partner with him in crime to investigate the hidden treasures. He would have gotten away with it if he hadn’t decided to video tape it. I take comfort in the fact that he doesn’t have a highly developed criminal mind. Reminded me of the time someone scribbled all over one of my chairs. When confronted with the situation, he blamed it on his younger sister. I sighed and said as an afterthought to myself, “I wonder if it is pen or pencil on there.” His cover was blown when he boldly affirmed, “Oh, it is pencil.”

Upon getting busted for the gift fiasco, he felt bad, inappropriately and over-the-top bad for “ruining” Christmas for his sister and himself. I won’t go into details, but the pressure and self-loathing that transpired broke my heart—and he is only nine.

“It’s only a day, Bud. Sure, it might have been more exciting if you hadn’t seen the presents first, but it’s not the end of the world. In fact, when I was little, my brother Doug used to secretly unwrap and rewrap his presents all the time!”

“Seriously?”

“Yep, not a word of a lie,” I assured him.

“Huh, I didn’t know that.”

This is scary to me…when the need for “Christmas magic” outweighs the need for healthy perspective and outlook. And we are force fed the impossible ideal...even at nine.

It’s an intensified season…for those who are grieving, those who are alone, those who are facing poverty, those with mental illness, those whose family situation has recently changed. And, here’s the thing—it’s all based on a completely ethereal and shaky concept at best. Why? So stores can sell stuff. And, we all buy in, hook, line and sinker. Maybe those JWs are on to something after all…

And, challenging the construct of Christmas is like challenging Donald Trump. If you do, it you will get called names: Grinch or Scrooge. Words that are now completely part of our lexicon. Hmmm, maybe Dickens or Dr. Seuss were illuminati…

Don’t get me wrong, getting together with family, expressing love, breaking bread with friends, sharing gifts, all amazing and wonderful things to do. But pinning so much pressure and expectation onto one particular date, I am not sure it serves us. It does serve capitalism, insecurity, and a sense of inadequacy, however. 

The fact of the matter, today is Tuesday. And, although I spent last night with some of my kids and will be spending this afternoon with others, I did not buy gifts. I haven’t really for years now—at least not for Christmas. I might get my daughter a Starbucks randomly or send a surprise package to a friend but I have completely let go of the societal construct. I may put up a tree, I may not. I might buy a gift for someone or I might not. When my parents had their cottage, I would literally run away for the day and drink tea and eat chocolate biscuits for breakfast on December 25. And, you know what? It is absolutely liberating! I refuse to hang all my good memories on a particular date. I want to live my life and create memories on my own terms!

~

Breath, footfall, hesitation. “Merry Tuesday!” I responded. He looked slightly confused, smiled and walked his presents towards the house.

So, if you find yourself not fitting the typical Hallmark postcard picture of Christmas today, either by choice or circumstance, if you are facing intense adversity and heartache, here is my holiday message to you:

You got this! It’s just a Tuesday.

Defying Logic

I think my cat is building a nuclear bomb in the basement. Little did I know when I affectionately (and inappropriately) named her “Lambe,” I was creating a study in ironic names. I think she is the secret spirit-offspring of Evel Kenievel and Albert Einstein, mixed in with a dash of Winehouse melancholy. I am not yet sure if she is simply a daredevil or perpetually suicidal. It’s hard to say. To put it in context, my dearly departed cat, Echo, is Mother Teresa compared to Lambe (and I once affectionately referred to Echo as the Spawn of Satan).

Yesterday she successfully pooped out a 10-foot length of yarn. The thing is, I keep my yarn behind locked doors now. So, the only logical conclusion is that she is able to teleport items through solid walls. It wouldn’t surprise me. She is quite smart. She could easily have an advanced degree in physics. All the previous pets, if cast in the wild would be lucky to last a day. I believe this one would not only have no problem, but she would organize a colony, get voted in as leader of the feline mafia, and take over the world.

If Lamb is underneath the bed, it sounds like a construction road-works zone. I have no idea what she is doing (and probably never will), but I am pretty certain it is bad. When I stealthily plummet my head to the floor, all noise ceases immediately, and she innocently stares at me with those big yellow-green eyes as if saying. “What’s up?” My fear, of course, is she is secretly burrowing holes in the structural integrity of the bed, and one day I will get in and it will collapse—a fate much worse for her than me, by the way.

At the age of 8 weeks, Lambe almost died by running through the spindles in the hall, only to fall 9 feet to the hardwood floor below. Luckily she survived. Since then she has climbed walls, climbed curtains, climbed people, jumped in the toilet, jumped out of the toilet, jumped in the bathtub (whilst I was still in it), got herself stuck behind a dresser, got her head stuck in the spindles of the chair, got herself accidentally locked into the front porch, thrown up yarn and unidentifiable fluorescent green and red spongy squares, climbed on my desk and pulled out all the push pins and papers on my office cork board using her mouth (all of my papers are now pinned to the very top quarter of my bulletin board, right next to the ceiling), and of course, the most recent yarn-poo incident. I am not even going to list the electrical cord, fan, blinds, shoelace, rug, plug, cardboard and zipper incidents, as they are too plentiful for a single blog.

She might be the only cat who has her own bedroom. Not because we want to separate her from us. We have it for her own safety when we go out. There are no plugs, no cords, or blinds. At one point, I padded the floor (for real), but she started dismantling it.

It’s not necessarily logical (unless you are a cat person), but I love her to pieces. I love the way she gently pats my face, or chirps at the window, her loud purr when I bring out her favourite blanket, and her crazy, entertaining personality. Some things cannot be explained by logic.

This summer, I watched only one aspect of the Olympics, and that was the men’s marathon. This wasn’t because I wasn’t interested in any other sports, but because I accidentally turned on the TV at that moment. I love watching distance runners, especially professional marathon athletes. Maybe it’s the pure beauty, or maybe it is because it took me twice as long to cover the same distance.

The outstanding athlete who won the marathon was Kenya’s Eliud Kipchoge, but to me, the more interesting story was the American bronze-medalist, Galen Rupp. Why, you may ask? Well, he hasn’t been a marathon runner before…as in ever. He is a middle-distance 10,000-metre kind of guy. In fact, he had never competed in a marathon until the Olympic Marathon Trials on February 13, 2016. So, when he flew across that finish line in Rio, it was only his second marathon! That is pretty incredible.

During a post-race interview, in a wave of inspiration, Rupp quoted and gave credit to his parents, Mahatma Gandhi, Coach Alberta Salazar  an Adam Sander’s movie, because isn’t that who all American’s admire? As I sat there, stunned, I transitioned from laughter at the absurdity of it, to nodding my head in agreement. Wait, he might be onto something here!

The movie in question is Happy Gilmore, a film in which the main character wants desperately to be a hockey player, but discovers he in fact is a much better golfer. Galen was using this strangely Yoda-esque analogy to express how thankful he was to be open to trying something other than his usual middle-distance. Instead of him choosing his path, his path chose him. He always thought of himself as a 10,000 racer all these years, where in fact, he might really be a marathon runner.

This got me thinking. Since the discovery of a torn meniscus and ACL in my right leg, maybe I need to uncover something other than my former marathon training as my “thing.”

So after giving this concept some serious consideration, it appears the next logical goal is quite obvious—I should become a triathlete. It makes complete sense--other than the swimming, biking--and now with my knee--running parts...

Up until last year I didn’t know how to swim at all. Thanks to my friend, Lyndsay, and lots of hours on YouTube, I can now traverse across the 25-meter expanse of a pool-lap sans drowning. (We did try swimming in Lake Simcoe last summer, but again, that deserves its own entry…) And, I don’t own a road bike. In fact, the technician who tuned up my antique mountain bike who, incidentally is at least a third the age of the bike itself, told me they now actually make shocks for bikes. Who knew? It certainly is a brave, new world.

This decision defies logic. Like my cat or Galen Rupp switching from middle to long-distance running, some things just don’t make sense. So, why do it?

Well, I have discovered that when you accomplish something you believe is on the edge of impossible for you, it provides a sense of wonder and discovery that is difficult to articulate.

So, I guess it is time to make a declaration and put a plan together. I am going to “Try-a-Tri” next summer. Pretty sure there will be lots of mishaps to write about along the way! For the first time in over a year, I have to go plug in that Garmin.

Cheers to defying logic. 

Always look for the leopard print shoes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“These are for you,” she politely says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The man smiles politely and nodded.

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

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

“I’m ninety-four.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At approximately 9 km I blink. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Upside of Anger

Karen, Lyndsay, Jan and I ran Hamilton’s Road 2 Hope Marathon just over a week ago. Getting together for a debriefing of our running experience, we enjoyed breakfast.

It was a marathon of many firsts. Jan was the first to prove that you can actually finish a marathon in good time without much training (due to an injury, not choice). Lyndsay was the first to employ a new  very high tech motivational technique that I could see future Olympians using. While in the latter half of the race her sister Jessica ran beside her with an iphone, allowing Lyndsay’s other bed-ridden very pregnant sister Krista to cheer her on via video-conferencing and push her to keep going when she wanted to quit. And, of course Karen brought in a few first of her own. She was first of us women to finish under 4 hours but in my opinion, her most impressive first was to be the first of us to throw up on course (yay Karen!). I am a little jealous, actually. I think this esteemed position should have belonged to me as when it comes to running and upchucking, I feel  am somewhat of a champion. I am going to take a leaf from her book and possibly give this strategy a go next time--maybe if Iose my cookies during a race, I won’t need to during the after party!

Then, the topic of race anger emerged. And, when it comes to road rage, apparently Lyndsay is Queen.  It is sometimes hard for me to take her seriously--although I know she is serious--because she is the sweetest person alive. However, when she expresses anger, it is like seeing a three year old decked out in a skull and cross-bones bandana. You know it is a skull and cross-bones bandana, but somehow it just looks cute on a sweet innocent child.

As Lyndsay recounted her various pet peeves while running, one seemed to stand out. When she is in the upper kilometers of a marathon, the smell of body odour puts her into a rage. Unfortunately, body odour after running 30 kilometers is pretty much a given. So, needless to say, I am glad I wasn’t next to her for that part of her run!

I’ve found that I’ve been experiencing more than my usual dose of anger lately. It is with great hesitation and trepidation that I share this story. Please don’t judge too harshly. People who live in glass houses and he without sin and all that…

I was having a bad day to start with. But, I was running and running fast. I was pushing the limits and putting my soul into each step during a neighbourhood run when I ran by a large, scary motley gang of juvenile hoodlums. (Okay, it was a small group of what looked to be three clean cut twelve year old school boys.) They decided it would be fun to jeer out chants and screams of “Run, run, run…oooh, look at her go. Run faster.” The words sounded innocent enough but their tone was evil. I’m going to let you in on a secret. People who run do not want you to comment. And, by the way “Run Forrest, Run” is not funny, clever, new or remotely cool. It is just annoying.

What happened next is embarrassing and possibly a new base level to my existence. I am not proud. And, when I tell you, you will be shocked. Or, at least I hope you will be shocked. I shocked myself.

The flock of boys caught me on the wrong day. I sized them up. Judging by the general rotund nature of their physique, the velocity with which I was travelling, the fact that I was about to go downhill and, upon first glance, they didn’t look to be armed I made a snap judgement call. A bad one, but a judgement call all the same. They looked like the only exercise they got was picking on smaller children or tormenting toads, I figured I could easily outrun them.

Now, I should preface this event with some background. For 15 years I was a teacher. An elementary school teacher. In fact, for the most part I taught twelve year olds. I prided myself with being calm, level headed and nurturing. And, in 1994 I was even honoured with an award called the “Award of Excellence” where I was nominated by my peers for my classroom, school and community contributions to society. Ha! If they could see me know I’m sure they’d ask for it back.

It’s a good thing that I am no longer a paying member of the Ontario College of Teachers, because I am pretty sure I would have been stripped of my membership.

With one fatal motion, I raised my hand high right after passing the boys and then I gave them a gesture. Not a nice gesture. In fact, a rather rude gesture. A gesture that would have sent me to the principal’s office had I been twelve years old instead of someone who was thirty four years their senior and should know a whole lot better. This was a new level of low.

It was the fuel that ignited the intensity and volume of their jeers. I remember hearing myself speak to myself over the blaring of my ipod, “I can’t believe I just did that.”

Anger.

Then, about a week later there was the whole de-friending incident on facebook. One of my ‘friends’, an American (that alone should say it all) was quite hyped up about their election and was constantly posting rather opinionated political comments and links. I am not particular political and generally don’t get involved in debating or bashing. I do have my personal opinions but I attempt to stay respectful. To me, argument for argument’s sake is simply an ego feeding food that never satisfies. It is like high fructose corn syrup; feels good at the time, but just leaves you wanting more.

But, once again, that demon anger raised its head and I engaged against my better judgement. Unhappy with an article in The National Post my ‘friend’ commented that Canadians shouldn’t comment on U.S. politics and should stick to what they do best, hockey and maple syrup.

How wrong could that statement be? Doesn’t she know anything? We don’t do hockey well, we’re on strike.

I felt like a mouse looking at the cheese. It looks so good but you know as soon as you sink your teeth in it’s a trap. Did it any way. It went something like this:

     Me: Peter Jennings was a Canadian.

     Random Other American: Peter Who?

     I thought he was being sarcastic. He truly can’t be this uninformed

     Me: Not cool.

     Random Other American: Didn’t recognize the name.

     I realize now the dude is serious. He’s never heard of Peter Jennings. I see in his profile he is in the U.S. military. Oh boy.

     Me: link to Peter Jennings in Wikipedia

     Random Other American: Sorry, didn’t know who he was.

     Me:  Well, he was one of the most well-known U.S. political news anchors and he was born in Toronto…but what do I know. I’m just a Canadian commenting on U.S. politics.

My momentary high came crashing down when I realized what I wrote. Why was I engaging in this conversation? I deleted all my posts, sent a quick note to my ‘friend’ respectfully explaining that I did not wish to use facebook as a political platform, wished her love and then defriended her.

Why was I experiencing so much anger? I kept thinking about anger because I couldn’t see any upside to it. Why do we experience such an devastating emotion? Why does it exist? This past week I’ve been oozing, sweating it out with every breath. It seems to be so negative. It eats at my stomach, consumes my thoughts and makes me feel horrible.

Then, one possible answer came to me when most good things come to me, on a run.  I don’t believe we are meant to live with anger. However, to everything there is a season and a purpose under the sun. And, I believe it exists for a reason and that reason is a temporary flag.

I came to the conclusion that anger is a bridge, a warning signal, a flashing yellow light, a transition emotion. I think it exists to get us to pay attention and let us know we need to deal with something. It is necessary to help us prioritize what requires attention immediately. It is the emotional equivalent to bleeding. As long as you have breath and a heart beat, the next order of first aid is to stop the bleeding. You can't live with profuse bleeding forever. It has to be curbed.

For me, anger doesn’t just dissipate all by itself. I can try to ignore it and simply replace it with happy thoughts but it bubbles up in the most inopportune times and then innocent children or facebook friends suffer…I don’t like feeling angry. In fact, I find it quite yucky (that is the psychological word for it). So, how can I get rid of this nasty, horrible emotion? Sometimes it feels as complicated as defusing a bomb…until I went for a run.

The way I see it, there are only 2 possible reactions. It may be over simplified, but I’m a simple person.

One reaction to anger is to view it as a call to arms and fight whatever you are angry with. But, this doesn’t make sense because you are just perpetuating an enemy…which in turn breeds more anger.  You have to be angry to fight and fighting makes you angry.

The alternate reaction is to accept whatever you are angry with and take action by focussing on the world of possibilities. As far as I can tell this is the only way to transition from anger to someplace new.

There are all these angry campaigns to fight war, discrimination, crime, terrorism, famine, heart disease and cancer. Instead, how about a call to see war, discrimination, crime, terrorism, heart disease and cancer as it is, then envision and focus on the great possibilities of peace, inclusion, kindness, tolerance, health and abundance.

Accept what is, and put your energy toward all the best possible outcomes. Because isn’t that what life is, possibilities? As far as I can tell, at least from how I see things today, this is the only upside to anger.

I am, I said

A few months back I was chatting with the new owner of a massage therapy chain. I had just finished my treatment and I was mentioning my purpose for massage.

“Oh, so you jog.” He mistakenly remarked.

“Pardon?”

“You jog?”

“Pardon me?” There was nothing wrong with my hearing but I refused to listen to this nonsense. He obviously wasn’t picking up on the social cue I was desperately trying to relay.

“You like to jog?” he tried one more time.

I decided to put him out of my misery.

“I am a runner.” It was a declarative statement, like the sky is blue or gravity keeps us attached to the earth. Not that there is anything other than syntax separating the word ‘jog’ from the word ‘run’, it just feels like one comes across as a hobby, something you might do casually for fun. The other, something you are.

So when did I move from someone who jogs to someone who is a runner? It isn’t something I do; it is something I am. But, isn’t that what all spiritual growth is about? Moving from simply a state of doing to the bliss of being?

Prompted by a very funny story told to me by one of my running friends (all names and circumstances have been changed to protect the innocent—I only make fun of people I don’t know…), I have given contemplation to the signs and symptoms that show that you have made the stride (pun intended) from jogging to becoming a runner.

You know you are a runner when:

• You have thrown up at least once before, during or after a run.
• You plan all holidays, dates, medical appointments, and kids’ birthday parties around the training schedule.
• You happily set your alarm clock for 5:30 am on a Sunday morning so you can run double-digit kilometers before it gets too hot.
• You have had a blister on a blister on your foot
• You have lost at least one toenail.
• You own a watch that easily uses GPS technology to tell you how fast you are going, but don’t know how to get it to tell you the time of day.
• You own more running shoes than all other types of shoes combined.
• You have more specialized gear than an astronaut.
• When you hear the words ‘body glide’ the first thing that comes to mind is a petroleum based product to prevent chafing.
• You have used your kitchen rolling pin to roll out your calves at least once.
• You know what IT (and its not information technology) stands for and can locate it on your body.
• While the general public is warned about the over consumption of salt, you actually take pills of it on your runs.
• You have had to deal at least once with dogs/horses/wild animals of some type.
• You speak of food as fuel and specific foods never by their real names. Words like bread, pasta and potatoes are always referred to as carbs.
• You know who Paula Radcliffe and Scott Jurek are.
• You check the charge on your Garmin and ipod daily.
• You have read “Born to Run” more than once.

And the final one…based on a true story

• You have veered off the road into the woods—field—ditch—fill in the blank—and emerged with only one sock—a sacrifice well worth it.

And that, my friend, truly shows that you have arrived.

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.