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…

He's the Bee's Knees

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Real Cost of Running

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let’s break it down

Sports Bra  $50

Socks  $20

Leggings:  $75

Outer leggings   $70

Moisture wick shirt  $50

Insulation layer:  $50

Outer layer  $80

Shoes (2 pair)  $300

Fuel Belt: $50

Lights (2)  $40

Hat  $30

Mitts  $40

Balaclava  $40

Body Glide  $10

Clinic  $70

Race Fee  $85

Gu  $20

Athletic Bag: $50

Bus Fee: $25

Yaktraks: $40

Stainless Steel Pots (2) $80

Chirpractic and RMT visits: $540

GPS Watch $200

IPod  $150

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

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

'it Happens Around the Bay

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I need to have a word with the designer.

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

All the King's Horses

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“40”, I corrected.

“…years.”

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

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

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

“Massage and acupuncture,” says another.

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

“Hummmp.” I hear a grunt behind us.

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

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

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

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

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

44 Year Old Kid

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

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

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

“Yes, this is the small size.”

Small? 

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

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

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

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

“It comes in this little box.”

So far, so good, perfect size.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Actual Go-Fast Car I Put Together

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

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

The Real Victory

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

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

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

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

Apparently pregnancy is for some people.

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you doing?” she says.

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

Charity blinds and starts walking away from me.

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

She rolls her eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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