Around the Bay 30k race

Hamilton, Ontario

Happy with my silver medal.

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

Echo system

Here’s how the news industry works these days: someone overhears a rumor of (questionable) importance. Then s/he tweets it. It gets retweeted hundreds, or thousands of times. It gets picked up by bloggers. Then it’s re-blogged by the legitimate news companies. Now that the rumor is legitimate, it gets retweeted some more. Repeating makes it true. Even when it’s not!

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.

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.

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

I'm offered US $200 mil. from Mubarak!

The scammers are fantastic! I just received an email from Ali ElBaradei, “one of the personal assistants to the ousted former president Hosni Mubarak of Egypt”. And, of course, he needs my help to transfer $200 million US to my account. I am posting the whole email just underneath, but let me point a funny thing:

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.