Marathon choker

Quebec City Marathon

I'm still trying to figure out what happened during my big race. I made a series of mistakes - which one of them caused me to choke up 4 km before the finish line?

The weather was almost ideal for running: cool and cloudy, though there was drizzle and occasional shower along the way too. The first odd thing was the distance marks - the course was marked in the distance remaining to the finish. So, the first sign marking 41 km remaining was actually 1200 m from the start. Used to time my pace on each full kilometer, I had to wreck my brain with all sorts of calculations to figure out if I'm on the pace at all. I'm not a big fan of math, and doing it while running is the last thing I wanted during the marathon. To make it easier, I ran faster to round up the time. That was the first mistake.

The route for the first two thirds went through hilly Levis across the river from the Old Quebec. There were a few exhausting climbs, then we crossed the bridge and headed for the downtown. That last stretch, about 15 km from the end, was a killer. I battled strong headwind and fatigue, there were no distractions which meant all I could think of was how tired I was. In the hindsight I should have slowed down and focused on short goals, but instead I kept pushing on, wanting to be done with it as soon as possible. Finally, around 5 km mark my legs started cramping, my weakened mind gave up and I WALKED (shame, shame on me) for almost a kilometer. A couple of runners passing me shouted encouragement, cheering me on to continue. Amazing how a small mental push can bring you around. I pressed on and finished 76th out of 871 runners in 3h15m20s.

In the cab that took us to the ferry I fought violent cramps in both legs and shook from hypothermia caused by exhaustion. That was easily cured by a couple of aspirins. But the thing aspirins can't cure is the fact that I choked up on route to post a really good finishing time.

To Quebec City

Friday was clear and sunny without a single cloud, neither too hot nor too cold. A day made for travel. And travel we did, my running gear and Maggie's camera packed and ready. It's a mere four days trip to Quebec City where I'll exhaust myself in a marathon race. The only problem - if that can be called a problem at all - were the construction-clogged traffic arteries of Montreal. If you think Toronto traffic is bad, try Montreal, you may change your mind.

Our hotel is in Levis - nothing to do with the jeans - across the river from the Old Town. Pretty much in the middle of nowhere, but near the race's start. To get to the town it took us:
15 min walk to the bus stop
20 min wait for the bus
5 min bus ride
25 min wait for ferry
15 min ferry ride
15 min climbing the stairs and steep streets of old Quebec
(all times approximate)

All that because we didn't want to bother driving and paying for parking. It turns out that much smaller town of Quebec has much steeper bus tickets than our inept Toronto transit: their ride is $3.60, while in Toronto it's "only" $2.75. Amazing how such a short trip can change one's perspective on his daily life. In only a few hours we learned that Toronto's traffic is not the worst and its public transit is not the most expensive. It is true that you can see the whole picture only when you move away from it.

Barcelona

Barcelona on the pages of "2666" by Roberto Bolano is the Barcelona I hoped to find when I was there, but couldn't. Instead, I found a rushed, intolerant and unfriendly town. I wonder if it deserves another chance?

Writing, or lack of it

Maggie wants me to write about my life. To put all the anecdotes I told countless times in a book. I nod, agreeing, and stall until we both forget. Then, in a new cycle, we start again: I'd remember a bit from the past, she'd say "you should write it down" and I'd agree.

I don't know what stops me, which silent force keeps the pen in the air and far from the paper? Maybe it's fear. Maybe I'm afraid to tell the truth. Maybe I'm afraid to remember it. So, I blog, fooling myself that I write. But blog is about the present. Writing is - or would be - about the ghosts of the past. The only kind of ghosts that frighten me.

In the Skin of a Lion

By Michael Ondaatje
(book review)
In his trademark fragmented prose Ondaatje connects unlikely characters into a story with no beginning, no end and no questions answered. A construction daredevil turned baker saves a nun who falls from unfinished Bloor Street viaduct in Toronto, she turns into an actress and meets a dynamiter who's in love with her best friend, who runs away with a millionaire... Like in all his novels, Ondaatje waves beautiful prose, but completely disregards the storyline. Result is a confused mosaic of events which never fit into a complete picture - an equivalent of a beautiful puzzle with several center pieces missing. (2.5 out of 5)

Backyard Shuffle

On Saturday evening we go from house to house - 4 houses in total - sampling our neighbors' food and wine. It's a "backyard shuffle": the four families whose backyards meet in the alley shuffle from dinette to dinette. The children run around - for them it's a change of the playground every time the group moves to the next house.
At midnight, we shuffle carefully across the alley back home, tipsy with wine and content.

North Korea

Kim Jong Il, the leader, is dying from cancer.
Finally the nukes with which the madman threatened the world could be put to use - for the radiation treatment for the leader.

Fall and Break

Maggie's mom suffered a fall half the world away and we felt the tremor. Brittle bones in her leg in Hong Kong shattered the peace and quiet in Toronto. It's a spiral fracture, bound for long recovery. Maggie's on the phone, wishing her into health.

Scugog

Hanging the sheer curtains. Busy with measuring, drilling, screwing the hooks, we have no time to make lunch. Tim Horton's will have to do.
After meal, on impulse, Maggie says "let's go for a ride" and we are off through the deep green of farmlands to the shimmering blue of the Scugog lake. It's an almost perfect day: drinks at a pub at the beach with live jazz, and return on country roads by grazing horses and cows, through corn and wheat fields back home where the curtain waits unhanged.

Cell

By Stephen King
(book review)

A pulse spread by cell phones erases brains of all who answered the phone. They turn extremely aggressive and murderous against each other and the "normies" - normal people who didn't pick up the call. Clay, a comic book artist, with a small group of "normies" travels through cataclysmically changed world in search for his son and wife, and eventually a dead zone without the cell phone signal.
A very bloody story full of gory details, not for the reader with a sensitive stomach. There's King's trademark suspense, although the book seems like an idea which gave way to lot of blood, but failed to fully develop into a story. A cross-breed between "The dawn of the dead" and "Happening", neither a movie I'd watch, nor recommend. (2.5 out of 5)