After Toronto Half

I enter through the backyard and pull the door closed behind. It's quiet in the kitchen/dinning area. Maggie is crouched over her book in the living room at the opposite side of the house. I can neither see, nor hear her from where I stand, but I know she's there. My breathing is the only sound in the house.
Quietly, as if not to break the eerie silence, I take off my hat and shoes, peel the iPod off my arm and tiptoe toward the stairs. It all seem so anti-climatic. Last week I was bursting with energy, analysing every run and calculating the pace I should hold at the race. I was pacing around the kitchen, mixing energy drinks and chattering excitedly with Maggie. Now, the race is over and the weather turned colder as if Mother Nature only waited for the race to finish before she turned off the heat and switched on the Fall.
The race was fun - a half-marathon along the lake on a slightly humid day. I felt great despite the sleepless night before and ran my personal best, winning the media challenge along the way. I suppose I'm officially the fastest running member of the media in Toronto. That may come in handy if anybody ever gives me a chase.
The route was flat, which was good, and boring, which wasn't. Luckily, there were some weird runners to break the monotony of the course. Somewhere half the way through the run, I came upon an older man with very short and fast stride. I remember thinking how he can't possibly keep the high pace with such a running style. As I was passing, he sped up and stayed just a step ahead. I tried to pull next to him, but each time he added a bit more speed to his funny gait. He looked like that funny roadrunner bird. After a while both of us were going way too fast, wasting energy, so I slowed down a notch. He must have felt me falling back, because he did too, as on a cue. I was getting annoyed when we came upon the turn where at the 12th kilometer the course makes a u-turn and goes back to the downtown. The old timer took slightly wider turn and I sneaked passed him on the inner side, triumphant. However, he just stopped then, slowed to walk and fell way back. It seemed that he lost the competitiveness, or maybe he just wanted to stay ahead until the turn. Either way I foolishly wasted some precious energy chasing him around.
As usual, the last 4 kms were a struggle, but I managed to keep the pace and even add some sort of acceleration in the last 500 meters. People cheering on were great help in those last moments of the race. I finished 84th overall, out of 8000 runners.

In the shower, I re-live those moments again. I can't help but feel deflated, without a goal to run toward the whole long winter. Still, I enjoy those solitary runs, now without the push. I just let my legs carry me, while an audio book play in my ears. Then, in April, I will realize every runner's dream when I lace up at the famous Boston marathon.

Hospital

Maggie is in a green sleeping gown open at the back. She wears some kind of washed out white robe with tiny faded blue flowers over it. She sits in the chair next to me, but she is restless. Every time a door opens her head jerks. When no one calls her name, she keeps fidgeting for a while. As soon as she finally settles in the comfortable position, the door opens again.
I ask how is she doing - an unnecessary question, for every atom of her body exhibits nervous anticipation. She manages a smile. Fine, she says. Unconvincing.
A minute later she nudges her head against my chest. Her eyes are huge.
I'm scared, she says. I smile, hoping it looks encouraging.
Don't worry it's going to be OK, I say. Such a cliche! My brain is not capable of anything better. What would I give to be able to swap places with her, to be the one in the open surgical hospital gown, wide-eyed with fear. She looks so small and fragile. I feel big and useless, incapable to protect her.
The door opens again, the head jerks again. This time with the reason - it's her name the nurse calls. Maggie shuffles in, I follow. The nurse gives us a rundown of the procedure and takes Maggie into surgery. I go back to the waiting room, where other husbands try to kill time until wives awake from anesthesia. The air is thick with worry.
I try to read a book, but my mind is with Maggie. I stare at the same page for over an hour, until the nurse taps me on the shoulder. She's awake, the nurse says.
Maggie is on a wheeled bed in a room which looks like a giant parking lot for wheeled beds. It is divided by green curtains into many tiny partitions. In each there's place for a bed, a chair and not much else.
I squeeze into Maggie's partition. Her eyes are partly open, she tries a smile. Her lips are dessicated, her face a few shades lighter green than her gown. There's an IV in the back of her hand. Even in this minute space she looks tiny. So small, I wish I can scoop her into my arms and carry her home.
Slowly, her speech becomes less slurred, her responses are quicker. The nurse gives her OK to change. There is a bloody bed-sheet, quickly taken away. Last quick instructions recited by the nurse, obviously repeated so many times it sounds impersonal, almost robotic. We nod. Maggie pays attention, I just wish she'd never need to go through this again. Strange how you need to get hurt to get better.
The nurse rolls Maggie out in a wheelchair while I get the car. The moment we left the hospital parking, Maggie comes alive. She is thirsty, she says. And ravenous, she adds. Let's go somewhere to eat.
Maybe it'll all be good, after all. I do my best to expunge the bloody sheet from memory and manage a smile. A real smile. Yeah, let's go to eat and let's go home!

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.