What I Think About When I’m Running...
Last weekend there were two marathons in Greater Toronto Area - one went along Yonge St., Toronto’s main street, splitting the town in half. The other one temporarily disabled traffic in Mississauga, a community of half a million to the west of Toronto. It created a traffic mess of proportions intolerable to most Toronto drivers.
Here I must say that Toronto is by far the most runner-unfriendly town I know. I’m not going to sugar-coat it. Torontonians show no support, or even understanding for the marathon running, especially if it crosses their path. They honk annoyed at the road blocks, flip the finger to the runners. Last October a car swung around a police officer blocking the road, and cut through the runners (right in front of me) in downtown Toronto. Accordingly, the town’s many media outlets only reflect the hostility to the sport, as it’s nicely pointed out in THIS article. And it doesn’t help when competing organizers try to squeeze not two, but three major races annually, and when two of them happen on the same day. As a result, the attendance in all three marathons is low and I could almost understand Torontonians grumbling about the road closures.
For last weekend’s marathons, a friend and avid marathoner Yumke crunches the attendance numbers in his BLOG. Even the third, and arguably most popular Toronto marathon, the Scotiabank Waterfront Marathon, while boasting about attracting upward of 15,000 participants, rarely admits that this number consists of joint attendance numbers for 5k, half AND full marathon races. Its flagship race, the Waterfront full marathon, had only 2,719 participants in 2010, according to the Sportats.ca
As someone who ran in all three events in town (though not in the same year), I was greatly disappointed with the fan support and spectators, which were few and far between during each of them. It’s preposterous to compare Toronto with Boston, or New York marathon, both of which are packed with crowds stretching the whole length of the course (and bringing millions in tourism dollars to their cities). Still, Toronto likes to think about itself as a “New York of Canada” (to dismay of the rest of the country), but its populous can’t muster even the basic courtesy toward runners. Heck, even if they only stopped complaining AGAINST the race would be a major step forward.
That is why I think Toronto doesn’t deserve a marathon race. But, if there needs to be one, why not focusing on creating a SINGLE ONE, respectable race, which will attract runners and tourists from around the world? As a bonus, if the roads are closed for only one race and only once a year, maybe—just maybe—Torontonians would stop grumbling about it. And, who knows—they may even come out in numbers to watch the race, to cheer the runners on.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Thursday, May 12, 2011
The value of life
What I think about when I'm running...
Recently, I read the book "What I Talk About When I Talk About Running" by Haruki Murakami, a Japanese novelist and a marathoner, a kindred soul who likes writing and running. He drew some neat parallels between determination needed to train for a marathon, and to write a story. His book made me more aware of the things that pop into my mind while the rest of the body is moving in the rhythm of my running steps. It encouraged me to write them down.
A crow flying over my head reminded me of a run about a year ago—or was it two years already?— when I ran on the gravel shoulder of a by-pass in my neighborhood and spotted a small animal scuttering by the side of the road ahead of me. It must have been a field-mouse, but it was too far to tell for sure. When I get closer, a dark shadow of a hawk swooped from a tree near by and grabbed the unfortunate critter in its talons. That one cool swoop that killed the mouse and fed the hawk made me think how cheap life is for the hunter, and how precious it is for the pray.
It inevitably took me back to the crazy days when I viewed my life through the pictures I took. Photographs of war and suffering, of fear and of celebration of life. Because, only when life itself is threatened do we come to appreciate it fully.
Like on a sunny spring day in the early 1990s in the town of Mostar in southern Bosnia. Friend photographer Sasha and I were crouched along with a group of soldiers in a passage behind an apartment building, which was under sniper fire. Some time earlier the soldiers helped two women to safety. The women too were caught by the sniper fire and hid between two houses, calling for help. The soldiers rushed to provide cover. When the women escaped to the shelter and safety, the sniper turned its evil eye on us. As we hid in a passage lined with concrete walls, its bullets bored into the wall behind us. After a while, he started shooting tromblons our way. Tromblon is a rocket-like grenade, which attaches over the mouth of a rifle to be fired. The first one exploded on the road right in front of our hideout. We were showered by rocks, chips of asphalt and shrapnel. A shrapnel cut a gash in the forearm of a man who was having a smoke in the passage. He let out a scream followed by an avalanche of curses, clutching his arm. He had a gash in the forearm muscle, which was bleeding, but didn’t look deep. When the second grenade hit the wall, we all rushed to the basement of the building.
The memory gets somewhat foggy with the passage of time. And, for the first time, almost twenty years after that day, I tried to imagine what it was like to be that man, on that day in that place, at the other side of that sniper-rifle.
In my mind, I see him sitting by an open window of a building overlooking the downtown:
From his elevated spot he has a clear view of the stone houses and narrow, winding streets of the Old Town. Behind the compact maze that is the Old Town, the urban sprawl continues with apartment buildings spreading to all directions. The Old Town is a bees nest of activity, with people scurrying around busily. That will change soon!
He follows the people through the viewfinder, picks one from the lot, squeezes the trigger, braces for the recoil. People scuffle in panic, sifting like ants through the doors and gaps between houses. In a few short breaths the downtown is deserted. Then a woman’s voice starts calling for help, voice thick with anxiety. He sees movement between two houses. Quickly, he aims to the gap and waits. Red colored piece of fabric emerges behind the wall. It’s a small target on such a distance. It’s a nice challenge. He holds his breath, squeezes the trigger half the way, presses the rifle harder against his shoulder and waits for the count of three until the weapon is perfectly still, crosshairs of his viewfinder on the fabric. He pulls the trigger the rest of the way. The bang is loud in the small room, it rings off the wall and in his ears. There’s a thin cloud of dust where the bullet grazes the edge of the wall and changes direction slightly, but enough to miss the target. The fabric disappears in that instant, with simultaneous yelp.
A group of soldiers pours from a passage of an apartment building behind the Old Town, and takes positions around the woman’s corner. There are journalists too. A photographer. No, two photographers. They take cover in door frames. There’s one particularly big soldier. He doesn’t fit into the door frame. His shirt is not wide enough to be buttoned up, so it flaps around the huge bulk of his body in a stretched blue undershirt. That one is a perfect target! He finds the soldier’s bulk in the viewfinder, shoots... The soldier turns to say something to the photographer, and the bullet misses by less than an inch, ricocheting down the street.
He curses his luck. Then he ducks, frustrated, when shots were fired to his direction, to give the women cover to run to safety. He keeps his head under the window frame, in case a stray bullet finds his window, but the soldiers are shooting blind, not knowing exactly where he is. When he dares to look up, he sees them running behind the apartment building, the two photographers with them. He decides to teach them a lesson, show them who's the boss, take a few of them down. But, they are hiding cowardly behind the wall, occasionally peeking from behind.
He is waiting patiently, a cigarette on the window frame, the lit end facing inside. The ash drops on the floor. He doesn’t care. This apartment is compromised. He won’t use it again. He spits on the carpet, as if confirming that thought. At the corner where the soldiers hide heads appear in irregular intervals, always on different heights, impossible to predict where and when. It infuriates him. He fires a few shots, always a fraction of a second too late, a foot to high or too low, hitting the wall after the head was already gone.
He decides to play with their nerves. Every few minutes he shoots into the wall. The shots will keep them on edge. He pulls a gulp from a bottle of strong homemade brandy set beside his chair on the floor. The bastards are not moving. He wonders what to do to smoke them out. Then he remembers the tromblons.
He quickly replaces his ammunition with the bulletless cartridges which will propel the grenades. Two grenades he lines up on the window frame and attaches the third one over the mouth of the rifle. He detaches the sniper viewfinder and lifts up the metal target finder. The tromblon’s trajectory takes much bigger parabola than regular bullet, so he uses this finder to help him calculate the distance. Then he takes aim at the corner where the soldiers are hiding. The tromblon misses the wall, but explodes on the road right beside it. Shrapnels fly to all directions, some showering the passage behind the wall. There's commotion, someone screams. He got at least one!
Hurriedly, he has the second tromblon ready. This one hits the wall and explodes. It leaves a deep, flower-like scar on the wall, but doesn't have enough power to penetrate it. He fires the third one to the road again, but the commotion had stopped, so were the screams. The rats are in the hole, he thinks.
He celebrates with another swig of brandy, then replaces the bullets in the rifle and waits for the movement. After a long wait, a soldier runs out, sprints down the road and disappears behind the curve at the next intersection.
The sniper sets his sight and waits. Nothing moves for a while. He relaxes his grip on the weapon, when another man, a photographer, jumps out and dashes toward the intersection, hopping like a rabbit to the safety. He curses softly and waits. Nothing happens for a long while. Just when he lifts the head from the rifle again, another soldier runs out. He is damn fast and the sniper can barely follow, but he shoots anyway. The bullet is way off, way too high. He was never really good with moving targets. Especially ones moving so fast.
Another long wait. They must be waiting for the nightfall. He leans the rifle against the wall and reaches for brandy. Another shadow jumps out. The second photographer. This one runs like a cheetah, and in a few seconds he's gone. The sniper cocks his index finger and thumb in a gun-gesture and mimes a shot to the sprinting figure, as it rounds the corner.
“Pow!” he says and chuckles. He put the fear of god in them, made them run like dogs.
---
I wonder what it would be like to talk to that man now, if he survived the war. Would he remember that day? Would he remember that second photographer, running like the whole world is burning behind him? Would he tell me his thoughts? Did he hate me for getting away? Or was he a good sport, outsprinted by the desperate few? Would I hate him? I am not sure now. I think I'd only be curious to see myself through his eyes. And his sniper.
Recently, I read the book "What I Talk About When I Talk About Running" by Haruki Murakami, a Japanese novelist and a marathoner, a kindred soul who likes writing and running. He drew some neat parallels between determination needed to train for a marathon, and to write a story. His book made me more aware of the things that pop into my mind while the rest of the body is moving in the rhythm of my running steps. It encouraged me to write them down.
A crow flying over my head reminded me of a run about a year ago—or was it two years already?— when I ran on the gravel shoulder of a by-pass in my neighborhood and spotted a small animal scuttering by the side of the road ahead of me. It must have been a field-mouse, but it was too far to tell for sure. When I get closer, a dark shadow of a hawk swooped from a tree near by and grabbed the unfortunate critter in its talons. That one cool swoop that killed the mouse and fed the hawk made me think how cheap life is for the hunter, and how precious it is for the pray.
It inevitably took me back to the crazy days when I viewed my life through the pictures I took. Photographs of war and suffering, of fear and of celebration of life. Because, only when life itself is threatened do we come to appreciate it fully.
Like on a sunny spring day in the early 1990s in the town of Mostar in southern Bosnia. Friend photographer Sasha and I were crouched along with a group of soldiers in a passage behind an apartment building, which was under sniper fire. Some time earlier the soldiers helped two women to safety. The women too were caught by the sniper fire and hid between two houses, calling for help. The soldiers rushed to provide cover. When the women escaped to the shelter and safety, the sniper turned its evil eye on us. As we hid in a passage lined with concrete walls, its bullets bored into the wall behind us. After a while, he started shooting tromblons our way. Tromblon is a rocket-like grenade, which attaches over the mouth of a rifle to be fired. The first one exploded on the road right in front of our hideout. We were showered by rocks, chips of asphalt and shrapnel. A shrapnel cut a gash in the forearm of a man who was having a smoke in the passage. He let out a scream followed by an avalanche of curses, clutching his arm. He had a gash in the forearm muscle, which was bleeding, but didn’t look deep. When the second grenade hit the wall, we all rushed to the basement of the building.
The memory gets somewhat foggy with the passage of time. And, for the first time, almost twenty years after that day, I tried to imagine what it was like to be that man, on that day in that place, at the other side of that sniper-rifle.
In my mind, I see him sitting by an open window of a building overlooking the downtown:
From his elevated spot he has a clear view of the stone houses and narrow, winding streets of the Old Town. Behind the compact maze that is the Old Town, the urban sprawl continues with apartment buildings spreading to all directions. The Old Town is a bees nest of activity, with people scurrying around busily. That will change soon!
He follows the people through the viewfinder, picks one from the lot, squeezes the trigger, braces for the recoil. People scuffle in panic, sifting like ants through the doors and gaps between houses. In a few short breaths the downtown is deserted. Then a woman’s voice starts calling for help, voice thick with anxiety. He sees movement between two houses. Quickly, he aims to the gap and waits. Red colored piece of fabric emerges behind the wall. It’s a small target on such a distance. It’s a nice challenge. He holds his breath, squeezes the trigger half the way, presses the rifle harder against his shoulder and waits for the count of three until the weapon is perfectly still, crosshairs of his viewfinder on the fabric. He pulls the trigger the rest of the way. The bang is loud in the small room, it rings off the wall and in his ears. There’s a thin cloud of dust where the bullet grazes the edge of the wall and changes direction slightly, but enough to miss the target. The fabric disappears in that instant, with simultaneous yelp.
A group of soldiers pours from a passage of an apartment building behind the Old Town, and takes positions around the woman’s corner. There are journalists too. A photographer. No, two photographers. They take cover in door frames. There’s one particularly big soldier. He doesn’t fit into the door frame. His shirt is not wide enough to be buttoned up, so it flaps around the huge bulk of his body in a stretched blue undershirt. That one is a perfect target! He finds the soldier’s bulk in the viewfinder, shoots... The soldier turns to say something to the photographer, and the bullet misses by less than an inch, ricocheting down the street.
He curses his luck. Then he ducks, frustrated, when shots were fired to his direction, to give the women cover to run to safety. He keeps his head under the window frame, in case a stray bullet finds his window, but the soldiers are shooting blind, not knowing exactly where he is. When he dares to look up, he sees them running behind the apartment building, the two photographers with them. He decides to teach them a lesson, show them who's the boss, take a few of them down. But, they are hiding cowardly behind the wall, occasionally peeking from behind.
He is waiting patiently, a cigarette on the window frame, the lit end facing inside. The ash drops on the floor. He doesn’t care. This apartment is compromised. He won’t use it again. He spits on the carpet, as if confirming that thought. At the corner where the soldiers hide heads appear in irregular intervals, always on different heights, impossible to predict where and when. It infuriates him. He fires a few shots, always a fraction of a second too late, a foot to high or too low, hitting the wall after the head was already gone.
He decides to play with their nerves. Every few minutes he shoots into the wall. The shots will keep them on edge. He pulls a gulp from a bottle of strong homemade brandy set beside his chair on the floor. The bastards are not moving. He wonders what to do to smoke them out. Then he remembers the tromblons.
He quickly replaces his ammunition with the bulletless cartridges which will propel the grenades. Two grenades he lines up on the window frame and attaches the third one over the mouth of the rifle. He detaches the sniper viewfinder and lifts up the metal target finder. The tromblon’s trajectory takes much bigger parabola than regular bullet, so he uses this finder to help him calculate the distance. Then he takes aim at the corner where the soldiers are hiding. The tromblon misses the wall, but explodes on the road right beside it. Shrapnels fly to all directions, some showering the passage behind the wall. There's commotion, someone screams. He got at least one!
Hurriedly, he has the second tromblon ready. This one hits the wall and explodes. It leaves a deep, flower-like scar on the wall, but doesn't have enough power to penetrate it. He fires the third one to the road again, but the commotion had stopped, so were the screams. The rats are in the hole, he thinks.
He celebrates with another swig of brandy, then replaces the bullets in the rifle and waits for the movement. After a long wait, a soldier runs out, sprints down the road and disappears behind the curve at the next intersection.
The sniper sets his sight and waits. Nothing moves for a while. He relaxes his grip on the weapon, when another man, a photographer, jumps out and dashes toward the intersection, hopping like a rabbit to the safety. He curses softly and waits. Nothing happens for a long while. Just when he lifts the head from the rifle again, another soldier runs out. He is damn fast and the sniper can barely follow, but he shoots anyway. The bullet is way off, way too high. He was never really good with moving targets. Especially ones moving so fast.
Another long wait. They must be waiting for the nightfall. He leans the rifle against the wall and reaches for brandy. Another shadow jumps out. The second photographer. This one runs like a cheetah, and in a few seconds he's gone. The sniper cocks his index finger and thumb in a gun-gesture and mimes a shot to the sprinting figure, as it rounds the corner.
“Pow!” he says and chuckles. He put the fear of god in them, made them run like dogs.
---
I wonder what it would be like to talk to that man now, if he survived the war. Would he remember that day? Would he remember that second photographer, running like the whole world is burning behind him? Would he tell me his thoughts? Did he hate me for getting away? Or was he a good sport, outsprinted by the desperate few? Would I hate him? I am not sure now. I think I'd only be curious to see myself through his eyes. And his sniper.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Sporting Life 10k Toronto, the race report
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| Chilly Toronto morning, before the start of the 10k race |
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| Self-portrait, 10 min before start |
My splits for the first 5k are:
1k - 4:04
2k - 3:32
3k - 3:57
4k - 3:11
5k - 3:35
The pace is quite inconsistent, with surges whenever the road was clear enough. By this time I was still about 20-30 steps behind my colleague, all my body signs screaming alarm, knowing I am going too fast, but unable to give up the chase. Luckily, the man I was chasing overestimated his own strength and started slowing down after 5k. After a couple of strategically used downhills, I was behind his back by 6k, too breathless to say ‘hi.’ We turned off from Yonge street, but surrounding was a blur. I wasn’t able to pay any attention to the neighborhood we were running through, too busy trying to catch my breath and loosen the legs for finish.
The next 5k splits are:
6k - 3:32
7k - 3:46
8k - 3:56
9k - 3:48
10k - 4:06 (this last one was probably faster, but I lost time fumbling to stop my iPhone’s RunKeeper app, which was tracking my race).
It’s obvious I slowed down as soon as I caught my colleague and surged only in the last 1.5k, when I realized that I have some strength left for strong(er) finish. As we ran shoulder to shoulder, he looked quite spent, but managed another little burst of speed about a km before the end. I knew I had no strength for a long finish, so I fell behind him and waited for the last 500 meters, then accelerated and left my poor colleague behind.
My official result is:
Chip time: 37:25
Overall placement: 115 (total participants: 12,157)
Age group: 7
Gender: 100
Meg was there to take pictures, also freezing and wondering what is taking me so long. She dropped me off at the start and drove down to the finish, so we can have the car near by for speedy retreat. It was a nice race, but somehow organizing logistics is not among its strong points. Toronto, despite its size and population, seems unable to learn how to cope with crowds, whether it’s in traffic, or public festivities, or footraces.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
The ‘Meh’ Factor
The media is to blame! Every news story they take, they turn into a sensation. They build our expectations to such a level, that no one can live up to it.
Take the Royal Wedding, for example. Here in Canada, we’ve been hearing, watching and reading about it for months. It seems as if it was in the news even before Will proposed to Kate. It’s taken the dimension of the Christmas advertising: too much, too long and too kitschy!
Of course, come Friday, it will be a nice spectacle, but when all the I-dos are said and done, it will most certainly leave us with the “meh” feeling. Because, for a buildup to last this long, the event itself would need to last long, and to keep the general public’s infantile attention-span engaged throughout. Not going to happen!
Need more examples? Sure - take Oscars. Or, even better, take Obama. He was all the hype for over a year. He became the president. Then, he quickly became ‘meh’.
We are in the 140-characters news cycle, and our excitement lasts just about that long too. Times they are a-changing. We can’t constantly be tickled and expected to laugh all along. The sooner the big brains in the media business realize this, the less the public will despise them.
Take the Royal Wedding, for example. Here in Canada, we’ve been hearing, watching and reading about it for months. It seems as if it was in the news even before Will proposed to Kate. It’s taken the dimension of the Christmas advertising: too much, too long and too kitschy!
Of course, come Friday, it will be a nice spectacle, but when all the I-dos are said and done, it will most certainly leave us with the “meh” feeling. Because, for a buildup to last this long, the event itself would need to last long, and to keep the general public’s infantile attention-span engaged throughout. Not going to happen!
Need more examples? Sure - take Oscars. Or, even better, take Obama. He was all the hype for over a year. He became the president. Then, he quickly became ‘meh’.
We are in the 140-characters news cycle, and our excitement lasts just about that long too. Times they are a-changing. We can’t constantly be tickled and expected to laugh all along. The sooner the big brains in the media business realize this, the less the public will despise them.
Monday, April 11, 2011
Body wash
Here's a fantastic picture of a weasel in Beijing pet store getting a bath. I just couldn't resist linking to it.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Around the Bay 30k race
Hamilton, Ontario
Although I haven’t been blogging about running lately, that doesn’t mean that I stopped. Or slowed down, for that matter. It just means that I’m trying to spare the reader from the runner’s rumbling.
But, this time I have an excuse: another historic race, which claims to be the oldest race on the continent. Hamilton’s “Around the Bay” race is three years older than Boston marathon, and proud of it. Even the shirts we runners got in the race kit has written on the back “Older than Boston”. Someone joked that it’s also colder than Boston.
Well, it was cold for the start of the race, -10 C, but gorgeous sunny day, and we warmed up quickly. The race was nice, the course great, especially first 17 flat kms. Then the hills rolled in, but I’ll get to that in a moment. The beginning was uneventful - I decided to try to run under 2h 15min, because this race has the scaled medal system, unlike the other races - the finishers faster than 2hrs get gold, between 2-2:15 get silver, and the rest get bronze medals. I figured running 30k under 2hrs would be a little too much to ask of my old legs, so I aimed for the silver.
Friends who run the course before warned me about the last 10km of rolling hills, so I decided to run a bit more aggressively at the first two thirds and bank some time in case I choke on the hills. But, when the hills did come, they weren’t as bad as I thought - gentle bumps which I actually enjoyed. There is the one really steep incline on 26th km which made even the strongest runners slow to a crawl, but even that didn’t set me off too much.
It was funny to see quite a few strong runners who passed me earlier, struggle on that climb. I held onto my mantra - “short stride, pump the arms, keep going”, the music in my headphones lifted my spirit and made legs feel lighter. Slowly, I gained and passed the “fast” runners, some of them walking, cramping and suffering on the hill. After a few strides at the top, I caught my breath and sped on to finish strong in 2hr 10min 56sec and got my silverware!
A few details I’ll remember from the race - first the headphones confusion. I love running with my iPhone - its GPS not only tracks my runs, it also gives me audio cues on my current speed. Plus, there’s the always motivating factor of music - the right beat can get me over any hill. When the night before the race in the official race guide I read that headphones were not allowed, I was shocked. I remember reading the race rules on the web site and it didn’t mention anything about headphones ban. I checked the web site again, and right I was - it doesn’t mention headphones. So, I decided to ignore the race’s leaflet and packed my headgear on. No one said a thing, and there were many other runners with headphones.
At the first aid station I grabbed a cup of water, tilted it into my mouth, and - nothing! Strange. I looked at the cup - there was water. I shook it, it sloshed. Then I squeezed it, and the layer of ice on the surface broke, so I could drink. Yes, it was that cold.
The spectators were friendly, supportive, but few in numbers. I can’t blame them, on such a bitingly cold morning, who’d stand outside to clap at the runners? I expected more of a scenic route, but there wasn‘t much to see. Most of it ran through the neighborhoods, with houses on both sides of the road. On some traffic arteries, only a lane was blocked off for the race and we breathed exhaust fumes of the traffic running next to us.
Like in some other big races, the kids were high-fiving us from the side and people were offering their own refreshments - sliced oranges, banana halves, and similar.
Another well known race-attraction was the Grim Reaper standing on top of that steep climb I described earlier. He had Mrs Reaper with him this time, waiting for the runners who didn’t make it to the summit, I suppose. I told them they look too spooky, and they called after me to get closer so they can kiss me. Even though it was all just a joke, I gave my heels some wind and flew into the last 3k stretch home.
The finish of the race was inside the Copps Coliseum arena, which made it fantastic for both, Meg and me. She didn’t need to freeze her behind while waiting until I arrive, and I could enjoy the warm indoors after the race, without worrying about catching cold. It was a beautiful race.
Stats:
Gun time: 2:10:56
Chip time: 2:10:45
Total placement: 238 (of 7000 runners)
Gender placement: 210 male runner
Age group (45-49) placement: 27
 |
| Happy with my silver medal. |
But, this time I have an excuse: another historic race, which claims to be the oldest race on the continent. Hamilton’s “Around the Bay” race is three years older than Boston marathon, and proud of it. Even the shirts we runners got in the race kit has written on the back “Older than Boston”. Someone joked that it’s also colder than Boston.
Well, it was cold for the start of the race, -10 C, but gorgeous sunny day, and we warmed up quickly. The race was nice, the course great, especially first 17 flat kms. Then the hills rolled in, but I’ll get to that in a moment. The beginning was uneventful - I decided to try to run under 2h 15min, because this race has the scaled medal system, unlike the other races - the finishers faster than 2hrs get gold, between 2-2:15 get silver, and the rest get bronze medals. I figured running 30k under 2hrs would be a little too much to ask of my old legs, so I aimed for the silver.
Friends who run the course before warned me about the last 10km of rolling hills, so I decided to run a bit more aggressively at the first two thirds and bank some time in case I choke on the hills. But, when the hills did come, they weren’t as bad as I thought - gentle bumps which I actually enjoyed. There is the one really steep incline on 26th km which made even the strongest runners slow to a crawl, but even that didn’t set me off too much.
It was funny to see quite a few strong runners who passed me earlier, struggle on that climb. I held onto my mantra - “short stride, pump the arms, keep going”, the music in my headphones lifted my spirit and made legs feel lighter. Slowly, I gained and passed the “fast” runners, some of them walking, cramping and suffering on the hill. After a few strides at the top, I caught my breath and sped on to finish strong in 2hr 10min 56sec and got my silverware!
A few details I’ll remember from the race - first the headphones confusion. I love running with my iPhone - its GPS not only tracks my runs, it also gives me audio cues on my current speed. Plus, there’s the always motivating factor of music - the right beat can get me over any hill. When the night before the race in the official race guide I read that headphones were not allowed, I was shocked. I remember reading the race rules on the web site and it didn’t mention anything about headphones ban. I checked the web site again, and right I was - it doesn’t mention headphones. So, I decided to ignore the race’s leaflet and packed my headgear on. No one said a thing, and there were many other runners with headphones.
At the first aid station I grabbed a cup of water, tilted it into my mouth, and - nothing! Strange. I looked at the cup - there was water. I shook it, it sloshed. Then I squeezed it, and the layer of ice on the surface broke, so I could drink. Yes, it was that cold.
The spectators were friendly, supportive, but few in numbers. I can’t blame them, on such a bitingly cold morning, who’d stand outside to clap at the runners? I expected more of a scenic route, but there wasn‘t much to see. Most of it ran through the neighborhoods, with houses on both sides of the road. On some traffic arteries, only a lane was blocked off for the race and we breathed exhaust fumes of the traffic running next to us.
Like in some other big races, the kids were high-fiving us from the side and people were offering their own refreshments - sliced oranges, banana halves, and similar.
Another well known race-attraction was the Grim Reaper standing on top of that steep climb I described earlier. He had Mrs Reaper with him this time, waiting for the runners who didn’t make it to the summit, I suppose. I told them they look too spooky, and they called after me to get closer so they can kiss me. Even though it was all just a joke, I gave my heels some wind and flew into the last 3k stretch home.
The finish of the race was inside the Copps Coliseum arena, which made it fantastic for both, Meg and me. She didn’t need to freeze her behind while waiting until I arrive, and I could enjoy the warm indoors after the race, without worrying about catching cold. It was a beautiful race.
Stats:
Gun time: 2:10:56
Chip time: 2:10:45
Total placement: 238 (of 7000 runners)
Gender placement: 210 male runner
Age group (45-49) placement: 27
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Echo system
It is like shouting in a deep canyon - echo emphasizes your shout and repeats it so many times that you can’t discern what’s right and what’s wrong any longer.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Death of a dream (part 2)
For Part 1 click here.
Seven years passed, filled with images of war and peace, sports and politics. I learned every hamlet in Bosnia, criss-crossing the country on its mountain roads. When the madness known as “The Balkans War” died down, I did a tour in Chechnya, which was just gearing up for the second round of onslaught. Yugoslav refugees in front of my lens were replaced by the Chechens; Bosnian and Serbian soldiers with Russian and Chechen fighters; but the dead looked the same. That’s when I realized how tired I was. Tired of war, of catastrophe, of tragedy. I was numb to tears and pain, and frustrated with the fact that the top news somehow always involves immense suffering. I wanted peace and quiet somewhere far away, where war exists only in the title of Tolstoy’s book. So I moved to Canada.
I worked for a number of newspapers across Canada, trying to figure out what constitutes a photo in the country where not much happens. I learned to appreciate extremely talented Canadian photographers who always managed to get a picture out of nothing.
While I worked to blend in, the earth shifted beneath my feet. The film disappeared, replaced with pixels, everything became digital, and by going digital, everything was getting fast. The news and pictures are being filed straight from the event. Media companies, whether they were print, broadcasters or online, had no time to fact-check the news. Mistakes were made, competition grew fiercer, credibility destroyed. Soon, we were all chasing sensations, celebrities, and rushing to publish any kind of gossip we stumbled upon, proven or not.
To be absolutely honest, this is not the situation specific to Canada. It is happening all around the world. To make matters worse, in rush to save money, most media organisations cut their international staff, relying on local freelancers instead. By the nature of things, local journalists are more affected by the events in their own neighborhood, which impairs their neutrality. All of that contributed to journalists falling from grace, not revered any longer as informed intellectuals, but rather despised as mercenaries and liers.
Along with my colleagues, I sold my own ideals for a paycheck. In 1991, just as the war started swallowing Yugoslavia, I shot a long lineup for water in a refugee camp. A woman from the line asked why am I photographing them. I explained that, by showing the world this image, they’ll get help and recognition, and soon the war will be stopped.
In 1994 I crouched in a dilapidated school gym turned into the living quarters for over a hundred people. I was taking picture of an old woman sitting on the floor, with her life’s belonging in two plastic bags. She looked me straight in the eye and asked the same question - why am I taking picture. By then, we all knew there is no help coming. My picture will not make a difference. All I could say is “It’s my job, grandma, that’s what I do for living.”
From the offices of a newspaper in Toronto, I keep witness to disintegration of once-noble profession. I see the focus shifting from informing to advertising, and I can’t help but mourn. My dream of being a bearer of news to people is gone. All that’s left are memories, and that 9-5 office job. Some new kids are carrying the torch of telling the story. Only, they are telling it for the money, and not for the story.
Seven years passed, filled with images of war and peace, sports and politics. I learned every hamlet in Bosnia, criss-crossing the country on its mountain roads. When the madness known as “The Balkans War” died down, I did a tour in Chechnya, which was just gearing up for the second round of onslaught. Yugoslav refugees in front of my lens were replaced by the Chechens; Bosnian and Serbian soldiers with Russian and Chechen fighters; but the dead looked the same. That’s when I realized how tired I was. Tired of war, of catastrophe, of tragedy. I was numb to tears and pain, and frustrated with the fact that the top news somehow always involves immense suffering. I wanted peace and quiet somewhere far away, where war exists only in the title of Tolstoy’s book. So I moved to Canada.
I worked for a number of newspapers across Canada, trying to figure out what constitutes a photo in the country where not much happens. I learned to appreciate extremely talented Canadian photographers who always managed to get a picture out of nothing.
While I worked to blend in, the earth shifted beneath my feet. The film disappeared, replaced with pixels, everything became digital, and by going digital, everything was getting fast. The news and pictures are being filed straight from the event. Media companies, whether they were print, broadcasters or online, had no time to fact-check the news. Mistakes were made, competition grew fiercer, credibility destroyed. Soon, we were all chasing sensations, celebrities, and rushing to publish any kind of gossip we stumbled upon, proven or not.
To be absolutely honest, this is not the situation specific to Canada. It is happening all around the world. To make matters worse, in rush to save money, most media organisations cut their international staff, relying on local freelancers instead. By the nature of things, local journalists are more affected by the events in their own neighborhood, which impairs their neutrality. All of that contributed to journalists falling from grace, not revered any longer as informed intellectuals, but rather despised as mercenaries and liers.
Along with my colleagues, I sold my own ideals for a paycheck. In 1991, just as the war started swallowing Yugoslavia, I shot a long lineup for water in a refugee camp. A woman from the line asked why am I photographing them. I explained that, by showing the world this image, they’ll get help and recognition, and soon the war will be stopped.
In 1994 I crouched in a dilapidated school gym turned into the living quarters for over a hundred people. I was taking picture of an old woman sitting on the floor, with her life’s belonging in two plastic bags. She looked me straight in the eye and asked the same question - why am I taking picture. By then, we all knew there is no help coming. My picture will not make a difference. All I could say is “It’s my job, grandma, that’s what I do for living.”
From the offices of a newspaper in Toronto, I keep witness to disintegration of once-noble profession. I see the focus shifting from informing to advertising, and I can’t help but mourn. My dream of being a bearer of news to people is gone. All that’s left are memories, and that 9-5 office job. Some new kids are carrying the torch of telling the story. Only, they are telling it for the money, and not for the story.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Death of a dream (part 1)
I always dreamed of being a journalist. I chased that dream for over twenty years. Now it’s time to admit the truth - there’s nothing left worth dreaming of.
---
My first photograph was published in a sports magazine when I was 23. It wasn’t particularly good, just a mediocre shot of two guys grappling on the mat, but the magazine needed a photograph from a judo competition, and I was there - a young judo coach and an amateur photographer, shooting pictures of the tournament. I was their only choice. I don’t remember being paid for the picture. It didn’t matter - having my name printed in the magazine was all I could care about. At that time an outrageous thought formed in my head for the first time: how sweet would it be to work for Vecernji List, a national daily newspaper with the circulation of around 250,000! It was more a dream than a goal. A dream worth dreaming.
Two years later, a friend from judo who was also a sports journalist, took me down a long corridor of Vjesnik high-rise, where most of Zagreb’s newspapers and magazines had their offices. We walked into the Vecernji List’s photo department’s office, a long, narrow space with windows along one side and drywall separating it from the open-concept newsroom at the other side of the corridor. There were two lines of desks with young men around my age sitting or standing around, chatting or reading newspapers, their camera bags and gear spread on their desks. As my friend introduced me to Karlo, the photo editor, the chatter died down and I felt everybody’s eyes on me. My hands were sweaty when I handed a stack of 4x6 black and white photographs to Karlo. They were shots from my roaming through the town: city, people, daily life and scenery, all developed in my darkroom in the bathroom. Some of them were already yellowing - my mother couldn’t wait any longer to use the bathroom, and I had to cut the fixing time short for the whole batch. Karlo shuffled through the pictures as through the stack of cards, then looked up at me.
“You have an eye for the detail,” he said. “Come in tomorrow morning and we’ll give you a try.”
Another two years later I stood in the same room, distributing cevapi, a local specialty, and drinks to my friends photographers. It was my farewell treat for them - I was moving to the Associated Press, the world’s biggest news agency. Renato, one of the photographers, pulled me aside.
“I remember when you first came in,” Renato said. “You looked so confused, I thought you won’t last a day.” He paused, looking at me, but seeing the younger, confused version of two years ago. “I would have never thought that such a talent could just walk in straight off the street.”
To this day I consider that the biggest compliment I ever got.
To be continued...
Note:
I originally started this post as just another blog post. Somewhere half the way through I realized how much there is that I want to say, and decided to break it into parts, to conform to the blog format. ~Zoran
---
My first photograph was published in a sports magazine when I was 23. It wasn’t particularly good, just a mediocre shot of two guys grappling on the mat, but the magazine needed a photograph from a judo competition, and I was there - a young judo coach and an amateur photographer, shooting pictures of the tournament. I was their only choice. I don’t remember being paid for the picture. It didn’t matter - having my name printed in the magazine was all I could care about. At that time an outrageous thought formed in my head for the first time: how sweet would it be to work for Vecernji List, a national daily newspaper with the circulation of around 250,000! It was more a dream than a goal. A dream worth dreaming.
Two years later, a friend from judo who was also a sports journalist, took me down a long corridor of Vjesnik high-rise, where most of Zagreb’s newspapers and magazines had their offices. We walked into the Vecernji List’s photo department’s office, a long, narrow space with windows along one side and drywall separating it from the open-concept newsroom at the other side of the corridor. There were two lines of desks with young men around my age sitting or standing around, chatting or reading newspapers, their camera bags and gear spread on their desks. As my friend introduced me to Karlo, the photo editor, the chatter died down and I felt everybody’s eyes on me. My hands were sweaty when I handed a stack of 4x6 black and white photographs to Karlo. They were shots from my roaming through the town: city, people, daily life and scenery, all developed in my darkroom in the bathroom. Some of them were already yellowing - my mother couldn’t wait any longer to use the bathroom, and I had to cut the fixing time short for the whole batch. Karlo shuffled through the pictures as through the stack of cards, then looked up at me.
“You have an eye for the detail,” he said. “Come in tomorrow morning and we’ll give you a try.”
Another two years later I stood in the same room, distributing cevapi, a local specialty, and drinks to my friends photographers. It was my farewell treat for them - I was moving to the Associated Press, the world’s biggest news agency. Renato, one of the photographers, pulled me aside.
“I remember when you first came in,” Renato said. “You looked so confused, I thought you won’t last a day.” He paused, looking at me, but seeing the younger, confused version of two years ago. “I would have never thought that such a talent could just walk in straight off the street.”
To this day I consider that the biggest compliment I ever got.
To be continued...
Note:
I originally started this post as just another blog post. Somewhere half the way through I realized how much there is that I want to say, and decided to break it into parts, to conform to the blog format. ~Zoran
Sunday, March 20, 2011
I'm offered US $200 mil. from Mubarak!
The scammer, whose name is, I’m guessing, Giuseppe Amorello from Italy, changed the “From” name of his account, but forgot to change the outgoing email address.
Also, the English used in the letter may be passable, but is far from the level one would expect from a Mubarak’s personal assistant.
Anyway, I had a good laugh, and wanted to share it.
From: Ali ElBaradei giuseppe.amorello@poste.it
Subject: I NEED YOUR ASSISTANCE TO TRANSFER THIS FUND FROM EGYPT
Date: March 16, 2011 12:48:23 PM EDT
Reply-To: alielbaradei@skymail.mn
Dear Sir/Madam,
My name is Mr.Ali ElBaradei, I was one of the personal assistants to the ousted former president Hosni Mubarak of Egypt. Since after my boss was chased away by demonstrators about a month ago, many countries have seized his assets and funds and those belonging to his aides/close associates. So far, about usd$20billion United States dollars have been seized in Switzerland, London and other European nations! I therefore write this letter to you to solicit your support for the safe keeping of the sum of usd$200million (TWO HUNDRED MILLION UNITED STATES DOLLARS ONLY). The said sum is presently deposited in a secret account with HALIFAX BANK,LONDN in THE UNITED KINGDOM. Because of the fact that we are in hiding since after the ouster of my boss.
I or any member of my family or associate cannot claim this fund that is why I ask for your kind assistance and support. You will present yourself as the next if kin/beneficiary to the said funds. All documents relating to the funds will be changed to your name as the owner so that you can get the funds out from the bank to any account of your choice. I am willing to give you 20% of the amount for your assistance but just help me get these funds before the U.K government discovers and confiscates it also.
Already, they have taken a lot from us and we cannot afford to loose more funds to them as they are looking for more to confiscate, which is why I need your urgent help to save these funds.
All you have to do is just present yourself as the beneficiary of the funds with the legally notarized documentations. You will receive the payment directly at the HALIFAX BANK in London or at your request; the bank can wire the funds directly to any account of your choice once all the transfer processes and documentations have been cleared.
Get back to me urgently if you are interested to assist using my direct email…. Or you can call my mobile number here in the U.K….
Thanks for your anticipated kind response.
Yours Truly,
Ali ElBaradei.
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