About 200 metres into yet another race, a noise drowned out all others, and I knew I'd be in for a transformational experience. Up until the 7:30 a.m. starting time of today's 25K, it was really not that different from the 97 previous times I'd been at road races -- at 5Ks, half marathons and 27 marathons. All of them were done on roads -- at major cities with thousands of others, or in a city park with a few hundred.
But none of those were like the 98th. None of them were like today. And I'm left thinking why it took so long.
Today, I had abandoned my Asics road shoes for New Balance trails. Today, I had no idea what a good pace would look like, much like the first race 97 start lines ago. Today, under the canopy of trees on a much-delayed Spring, I could hear the difference -- the thud of our trail shoes on pine needles and later sucking mud, and then then sound of birds.
New shoes now broken in.
The sound of birds chirping overtook the footfalls of a few hundred runners. As I was letting gravity help plunge me deeper into the trails before I'd have to climb the coming hills, I knew I was already falling in love.
This won't read like any traditional race report. I really don't know how to write it for trails, maybe one day I will. I will refer you to Russell's excellent course preview of the Sulphur Springs race.
The race is made up of varied distances, a 10K, 25K, 50K, 50 miler, 100 miler and a 100 mile relay. So from the 10K (done the fastest in 34 blistering minutes) to the 100 miler, which will take some as much as 30 hours, there are hundreds of runners doing this course in Ancaster, Ontario, just outside of Hamilton. (Results for 10K, 25K, 50K, 50 Mile, 100 Mile Relay)
I had to rip those arm warmers off. A kilometre earlier, they were shielding my limbs that are apt to get cold in the gusting wind, but now I was running into the sunshine, a honest tailwind behind me, they were getting on my nerves, big time. You don't want any negative thoughts this late in a race.
A few clumsy motions later, they were off, but not without a casualty.
I had dropped the wristband.
How could I leave it behind, after it carried me for so far?
So I stopped dead in my tracks, 36K behind me, less than an hour away from The Goal. I turned, risking sudden cramps. I wasn't going to lose it, it meant too much to me.
***
Most marathon experts advise even paced marathons -- run the first half pretty much the same time as the second. By doing so, you do not risk getting up to your lactate threshold levels until late (or never). The race will get harder as the miles pile on -- they always do, but if you try to bank too much, you are likely to blow up. I know this feeling, having had marathons where marathon pace was going great, and a kilometre later, you were going 30 seconds slower per kilometre. Then you took a few walk breaks. Then it was over.
My last two marathons, I ran two negative splits, where you actually run the second half faster. In Chicago, where I hit a 3:18, I ran the second half 9 seconds faster than the first. In New York, which I ran three weeks later, I ran the last 21.1K about 30 seconds off the first.
But this weekend called for anything but a negative split. The first half features a net huge downhill that even I'd advise runners bank a minute or more.
And then there was that wind.
***
The Toronto Marathon is where I PBed and qualified for Boston back in 2009. It's a net downhill course in the first half but it doesn't always necessarily make it fast. But it is a fast course and if you run it right, it can pay huge dividends. I put Toronto on my race calendar when I signed up with BlackToe Running in December. I told the coach that I wanted to get back to Boston. When he asked what time that was, I told him 3:10. In reality, I needed a 3:15, but Boston had a cutoff last year of around 1:28, which meant you needed a 3:13:30 to get in.
Buffer, I told him. I wanted a buffer and 3:10 would get me that.
I've written about the crazy training in this extreme winter. I had, up to marathon day, also been on a 157-day running streak, had hit 200 miles or more per month for four months, and had set new personal bests in the 8K, half marathon and 30K. In my mind, being three for three in races was a massive deal, but there was really only one race that mattered -- the marathon distance.
Through the winter, my group got faster, that by the time were were talking marathon pace, the coach was starting to assign us 4:25 kilometres, or 3:07, or three minutes faster than that 3:10.
The loneliest place to be in a race is at the start line. We've all been there, silent and still, standing in a corral with hundreds of strangers -- strangers who miles later would be comrades, who by the time you finished your 26.2 miles would be a brother or sister. I remember the first time I ran a road race, an early April day like today, many years ago. Somewhere in the power of the crowds, the surging mentality, I had finally found a place where I felt I belonged. That first race, I weaved, bobbed, drafted behind a faster runner and, finally, raced.
Racing brought out the best of the runner in me. In it I found the childlike strides that we all strive to regain, somewhat close to graceful (by our own mind's eye). Racing let me share that pain and somehow, the movement of fellow runners somehow made the effort almost easy.
So in the dozens and dozens and dozens of races since, I've always cherished the start corral. My routine is set. A sip of water, a tug of the cap, feeling the gels on my pack, loosening the throwaway sweater. Composing a game face. And even as we get to the final minutes before a race, you could almost hear the silence. Thousands of people could be that silent? Could I really be so alone?
Run for Peace at Queen's Park
Yes we are social creatures and though the growth of the sport has sprouted running clubs and Sunday run groups, there is a reason why they talk about the loneliness of a long distance runner. We may share the misery, but those roads we run, the miles we log, the calories we watch and the times we hit the start button on our Garmins are individual acts. So is actually putting a foot in front of the other.
While on most days of the year, I train alone, suffer by myself, push myself to do an early run, it's the power of the crowd, the need to have a shared experience, that keeps me slogging through the winters or hold a running streak. Those are all internal struggles looking to be expressed on a race day months later with the crowd.
***
Start of Boston 2010
But we are not really alone.
Marathoners have a shared experience because not many other people go through the training and work that goes into long distance running. When I say to myself that runners are my kind of people, I'm not just talking about a type of person who can geek it out about Garmins, tempos, race schedules or trackwork. I'm talking about people who work hard, love physical fitness, are supportive of each other, find it more easy to give than to get back. In some ways, I just can't explain it other than to say I've never really met a runner I wouldn't want to go on a 5K run with, or share stories over a few pints.
Even us crazy runners are not alone.
A few years ago, in a bar a few hours after a friend and I had done Boston, we sat with our significant others. While we tried to regale ourselves with stories about the bus ride to Hopkinton, the wait at the village and the ensuing 3 to 4 hours of racing, we got nothing but eyerolls. Our better halves had endured a marathon -- a marathon of waiting by Hereford and Boylston, jockeying for position so they can be curbside, so when myself or a runner passed by for a mere few seconds, they could wave at us and scream 'Go Kenny!' or 'You're Almost Done! Woo hoo!'
And they're right. Any spouse or supporter of a runner knows what it means. Short Saturday nights, early Sunday mornings, 'taper' weeks where certain foods were forbidden and others gorged. This is not to mention the piles of running clothes that accumulate or vacation schedules squished between race seasons.
On race day, runners and their biggest fans, those loved ones, friends, supporters of our sport, turn stretches of road into something special. That race course -- First Ave in NYC, the Mall in DC, Wellesley -- is transformed into something so special they have nicknames like the "Scream Tunnel" or "Citgo Sign."
This is my long way of saying that on race day, that course, filled with my people, lined by our family, makes a race, be it Boston, Chicago, Toronto, MCM, my house. And I think that's what I feel about yesterday. Those attacks hit in a way I'm still trying to figure out how to process
Yesterday, our house was attacked. Our friends and our family. Our fellow racers - no, runners. And that's why I think it hurts.
***
Boston's shirts are loud. In the two times I've run it I've gobbled up a tonne of gear -- my weakness. But after the race, I tuck away the bright blues and greens and go for a muted black windbreaker with a smaller Boston logo. The logo is small, yellow, and just big enough that a fellow runner can see it within 10 paces. Just enough time to nod if it was called for.
Proud to wear blue and yellow
Last night, I read about the #blueforboston movement, a call for runners to proudly wear Boston blue and yellow. I thought about it, and didn't hesitate. I dug through the gear, and took out the brightest blue, the loudest yellow.
Today, I proudly wore my Boston colours. This Sunday, I signed up for a 10K where I will do the same. And just a few hours ago, at the Peace Run for Boston in Queen's Park, I and others gathered in our gear, in the perfect spring air. We stood there, silent for 60 seconds, where a crowd of 100 could be as loud as none, before we all set out on a run for Boston.
It's been called the sweetest left turn in the world, the corner of Hereford that leads to the final stretch of the Boston Marathon on Boylston Street.
For a few hours, once a year, Boylston becomes the hallowed ground for thousands of runners. Boston on this day doesn't become the name of the city. It's the name of the race, run on Patriot's Day, also known by those who line the 26.2 mile route as "Marathon Monday." Citizens and runners alike love the event. No question.
For runners, Boston is the everyday Everest, a sort of Olympics for those who toil the roads on 16-week training programs in those winter months. And to be in Boston during marathon weekend (I've run two in recent years) is to know how much runners and everyday citizens celebrate an event that reaffirms live.
So when I heard about the bombs at Boston it was a shock to the system. I know more than several runners down there and I've run literally been in their shoes, struggling down that final straightaway. The finish of the Boston Marathon is the happiest place for a runner, where dreams are fulfilled.
Today, friends of mine emailed me, texted or called me, fearful that maybe I was there for the 2013 edition. I in turn was fearful for friends of mine who were down there -- more than 2,000 Canadians were signed up for the race. Most so far have checked in and for that I'm grateful.
A few years ago, in the lead up to the Marine Corps Marathon in Washington, D.C., officials raised security for the October race, citing recent shootings.
Running can heal communities. Despite the backlash runners faced last year over the cancelled New York City Marathon, these big city events can lift spirits. The New York Marathon was run in the months after Sept, 11, 2001, as was the Marine Corps a month after 9/11.
I spoke to two running friends in Boston and emailed another. One, Samantha Sykes, a friend who I see on road races around Ontario, said that the bombs feel like an attack on the running community. A community that is helpful, friendly. Dave Emilio, another runner who I'll see on random Sundays in a Toronto park, told me he didn't know if he'd do another Boston. Big city marathons, like Boston, Chicago, New York, may never feel the same again -- not for awhile yet. And it's too early to come to conclusions about what this means for races, for the sport of running. That will come with time.
Last week, while accompanying a running buddy, we both described Boston as a runners' Christmas. And it's true, for the most part. Today, that finish line, one that I had gratefully had the pleasure of running twice in my career, was marred.
One thing all of us runners know. In times of stress, we lace them up, and we go out for a run. We'll be back on our feet and on the roads.
The snow had narrowed the sidewalk that leads home from work, slowing me down as I was rushing to get back to my condo. It was a Friday, and apparently we were having the worst snowstorm since 2008. My sense of urgency was so I could put on those winter runners and go play in the snow in the fading daylight -- too late, as usual, this time of the year.
In front of me, a woman and her two kids were struggling down the sidewalk. Rather, she was struggling and her boy was bounding into the snow, running in short bursts then landing with emphasis, the imprint of his tiny boots barely making an impression on the mound of snow.
Earlier that day, while winding down, I had come across a piece in the Guardian titled Why we love to run. It's an absolutely gorgeous piece but several excerpts resonated with me:
Running brings us joy. Watch small children when they are excited, at play, and mostly they can't stop running. Back and forth, up and down, in little, pointless circles. I remember, even as an older child, I'd often break into a run when walking along the street, for no reason. There's a great moment in The Catcher in the Rye when Holden Caulfield, caught in the uneasy space between childhood and adulthood, is walking across his school grounds one evening and he suddenly starts to run. "I don't even know what I was running for – I guess I just felt like it," he says.
---
Racing along out on the trails, or even through the busy streets of a city, splashing through puddles, letting the rain drench us, the wind ruffle us, we begin to sense a faint recollection of that childish joy. Somewhere a primal essence stirs deep within us; this being born not to sit at a desk or read newspapers and drink coffee, but to live a wilder existence. As we run, the layers of responsibility and identity we have gathered in our lives, the father, mother, lawyer, teacher, Manchester United-supporter labels, all fall away, leaving us with the raw human being underneath. It's a rare thing, and it can be confronting. Some of us will stop, almost shocked by ourselves, by how our heart is pumping, by how our mind is racing, struggling with our attempts to leave it behind.
That's where I am. In those early years of training for marathons, every run had a story, a distance to log, a new challenging workout to master. As the years go on, I haven't found the passion die, but wanting to capture more of the essence of what running is.
So what is it?
Running is a sport for soul searchers, and which each successive movement, we find communion with our true selves. Recently, as I huffed and puffed my way through a dark path, I watched steam rise from my mouth, impeding the view of the icy trail. I worked hard to stay upright through the patches of black ice and through that danger, and working past the pain, I felt what I've always gotten from the run. To carve out time back for myself. To feel at once lonely and powerful. To reconnect with something so innate in our modern lives. I love the phrase poetry in motion, and you can capture it more often than not if you go out enough, run enough. In simple words: Moving, Speeding, Sprinting, Striding, Gasping, Running, Living.
My headlamp hasn't been turned on for 10 months, but I put it on tonight, perfect for illuminating the imperfections of my favourite waterfront path. I've been waiting for some real winter, hoping this season will live up to its promise.
January and February are the months that I need to build a proper spring marathon. It's when I start rebelling against those early nights and instead embrace the lonely trails. These are the most memorable runs I'll ever do. Snow, wind, they add grit to the simple workout regimen.
I suppose January is the year everyone makes resolutions. They say they'll eat better, work out more, set course for the next 12 months. I'm typically wary of such grand goals, I keep mine simple. Run, then run again, and when you've recovered from that, hit the roads once more.
Me, I've got Around the Bay in two months, a marathon in four. And I've got miles to run before I'm in battle shape.
Today marked my 14th straight day on the roads. Add another week, I'm well on my way to reforming a habit. When it comes to running, habits and training happen on a schedule. You can't give in to 'not feeling up to it'. That doesn't belong on a runner's calendar.
The wind gusts that swept through Toronto early Sunday morning still had a some strength on Sunday morning. I was not happy to see 50km/h winds on the forecast, gusts of up to 90km. Yet I knew I signed up for it by doing a 'short' 8K on Saturday, when the weather was near perfect.
An hour later, heading west toward Humber, I tried to tune out the distance as I barely moved against that headwind. A pack of runners were making speed toward me, and I was so jealous of them with the wind at their back. In all, I put up with the pain, and 22 kilometres later, I was loving the tailwind, enjoying the sun, savouring the cold, embracing winter.
That is what a painful headwind looks like.
There will be worse days, days when I'll be trudging through snow that turns into slush then into malformed patches of ice. Days when sucking in air freezes your lungs.
This week, the temperatures are starting to fall. Today, after 13 straight days of putting in the miles, I did think about taking a rest day.
At the end of every run, I reset the watch. The clock, pace and distance counters of my Garmin wipe out the previous effort that left me soaking, displaying neat, clean zeros.
The sobering reality of the new year, when the January darkness rules my free time, hits hard on a runner's psyche. From this point, I slowly take a body that has run multiple marathons, hundreds upon hundreds of hours, and try to coax it back to life.
A 5K jaunt may be agonizing -- almost like I haven't run almost 2,000 times in the past eight years -- lies, body says, lies. As I take a breather, somewhere miles away from my condo's front steps, stretching those aching calves that could use a little extra bending, it seems like I've just started all over again.
***
Why did I come so far, only to feel like I haven't gone anywhere?
The body rests, and your muscles begin the long slide to a state where they can start thinking about what atrophy must feel like. The resting heart beats a little faster, not having felt the pain of sucking in oxygen only possible with hard effort (or sub-8 minute miles). The legs, used to striding across sidewalks and pavement in what movement can only be imagined as graceful -- Kenyan like -- can only bear to be fluid for no more than a few hundred metres, clomping down on pavement like rusted hooves. And it feels just as heavy.
Running? This isn't what my mind's eye imagined.
Fact: I've pounded out more than 13,000 miles in the past eight years; I've run 22 marathons; I've tracked my usual downtown routes hundreds of times. Also, fact: Yesterday's run of 10 miles was a silent struggle.
Yet.. Yet, when I get past the pain, when I make it to the ninth kilometre, something clicks in, I remember why. Sort of like listening to that song that's been repeated on your iPod -- only once in a while do you zero into the lyrics, when the words and harmony connect with your attention that you truely understand why you loved that song in the first place.
It's the same with running. I suppose in those early days of a marathon training, a month from when I'd start thinking of hitting the roads for the length of three podcasts, I rediscover what it is about running that grabbed me.
***
I was reading about Canadian runner Cam Levins. He surprised the running world by snagging a breakthrough of the year award. How? By outworking everyone -- 150 to 190 miles a week.
Just finished up running 190 miles this week! New record! #timetosleep
“Last year showed me that as long as you don't set limits on how hard you can train, then the same can be said for races. I have continued to improve each year because there was never any doubt in my mind that I wouldn't as long as I put in the work to deserve it.” - from Flotrack
Hours and miles were reaffirmed mid-run one night while I was pounding out the last stretch of a six-mile run, listening to Macklemore & Ryan Lewis's The Heist. A few words from Ten Thousand Hours -- the theory that with hours put in, you gain brilliance -- resonated as I strode down the hill, letting gravity assist in my hard work.
Put those hours in and look at what you get
Nothing that you can hold, but everything that it is
Put those hours in and look at what you get
Nothing that you can hold, but everything that it is
***
That's it. With each run, I'm rebuilding my cardio and those muscles that feel most comfortable when bent at a 45 degree angle, best seen in that zone between jog and sprint. I'm geting used to the pain, getting used to getting stronger, rebuilding and shoring up blood vessels and connections that will deliver more oxygen and blood cells to my engines, so I can run longer, faster, stronger. I've always wondered, since switching to long-distance running, why I often can almost conjure bouts of runner's high. Often after six or seven miles, my body hits a pace unfathomable on any other day, but it feels like i'm just putting my body through its paces. I zone out, tune into my form and distance disappears, as does time.
Nothing that you can hold, indeed. It's so easy to lose hold of that, what it is to be a runner, but it's entirely possible to find your way back to running mojo -- you just have to find it for the first time. It then it just takes plenty of miles. And time.
I always wondered what they would do with the parking lot next door to my condo. The parking lot was right in front of an amazing view of the lake, so potentially a place where some high-cost condo would go up.
Anyhow, a year ago, I was happy to see they were turning it into a park. A year later, they're still working on it.. Anyhow, I've managed to document the build in enough pictures (along with the blog posts)... I'll take more in the coming weeks as it comes together..
... Ah, AC/DC.. the voltage was high flying after work today, and I could spot the lightning in the clouds as I got in the bus for home.
Damn, no run today.
But, when I got home, the clouds lifted, and instead of settling in for couch potato type activities, I threw on the running gear, warmed up the GPS and set out for a 5K run. At the mid-way point, I heard the thunder and saw flashes. I turned back and, during the last 5 minutes, drizzle turned to rain turned to wind and rain turned into a full out spring storm.
Tomorrow's long run was supposed to be 17 miles, but damned schedules. After last week's 16, I felt I needed to run more, to reach the big two-zero, and I didn't want to wait another two weeks.
Tomorrow's also my 32nd birthday, which was on top of my mind when I set out to do my long run this morning, one day earlier. I'm thinking I may be having a drink or four tonight and it would be a bad idea to get up tomorrow at 6 a.m. for a long run.
With age, comes wisdom, or wariness toward post-drinking mornings.
So I set out, with a vague vision of doing 30K (18.6 miles). Then I started running, and it felt good. By the time I hit the 5K mark (3 miles) I decided to make this run count. Make it symbolic. I'd run a kilometre for every year. I'd run 32 kilometres and reach that 20 mile mark, not for my training program, but for me.
It's all in your head, I've always believed about these long distances. The ability to run for more than two hours is an amazing feat that once you get it into your system, you can find ways to do it well. It's when you hit the 10 mile mark and you're running smoothly and the heart rate is actually at the 75% mark, the measure of effortlessness. It's when you breeze by the other runners and only you know that you're embarking on a long, long run. Are they as well? Who knows?
Once I hit the 26K mark (16 miles), I passed a woman who was running at a good clip and as I passed and we were on the lakefront, the sun glistening off the quiet lake, she said 'isn't this beautiful' and I answered, 'yes, it is' with a smile, and with that, I turned on the jets. I would not end this 32K run, each kilometre for a full year, slowing down. I would take each successive kilometre and push it harder. And as I ran the last two kilometres, I quietly repeated:
'This last kilometre, it's for me.' My mantra fuelled that last 5 minutes and as I approached the final stretch by the music garden, I thought of a little raised seating area in which I love to end my runs. At the end of my 5K sprints, i'd end it by leaping up on the platform and, for a few moments, run a bit higher. So with it in my sights, I turned on the jets, aimed, and leaped...
Okay, I'll get the heat story over with. It was 27C when I stepped out of the door at 6 a.m. Humidex is crazy today as it hit 36C or 47 humidex, which is supposed to feel like 116F. Crap that's hot. Us Canadians melt in this temperature!
Anyways, this little shot from Google Earth shows the area from which I start my lone run every day. My condo is at the start point and you see where all the boats are docked, beside the beautiful garden. If it looks familiar to those with music training, then you're right, it's inspired by Bach and Yo-Yo Ma helped design the garden based on Bach's music.. On this morning, like every morning, I wait for the Garmin to pick up a signal, stretch, and watch the runners on the trail go by as I am about to join them.
I started my run behind an older man, someone i've seen on the trail before. By the end of the run, I had found a kindred spirit. He was sorta limping, but keeping up a strong pace, about 5:30kms. It was hot and my calves were tight, so I happily paced off him and ran about 15 metres behind him, seeing my heart rate was at the perfect zone. By the time we hit the 5K mark, we were going downhill, and I caught up to him. With all the heat, I didn't feel like pushing it past him, so there we were, running side by side for 30 metres, when we started the conversation.
I can't remember the last time I ran with a running partner. Actually, since I document all my runs, it ... let me check.... June 3 with Jelly. Suffice it to say, I've done my marathon training alone, and am happy to do so. So I don't really do the run and talk test. Today, I was running at a good pace to do so.
Me: "How long you running today?"
Him: "To the pool and back to my condo... "
Me: "I'm doing 8 miles."
Turns out, he's 68, has been running for 50 years, and is doing his own 8 miler. He usually does two runs a day, speedwork in the evenings. Then he splits out a number that knocks me off my feet: 'Yes, I usually run about 100 miles a week'..
Oh.. My.. God..
Anyways, we split up when he reaches the pool, he says 'thanks for the company,' and I nod the same, and I keep on going. I then turn back and a few kms later, enounter him again. He's talking to another runner but picks up the run as I approach. 'You get to know the regulars,' he says as he nods to another passing runner. Another woman, he tells me after he says 'good morning to her', is getting better at her walking, going farther and farther. I feel like I'm running with the Godfather of the Martin Goodman Trail.
We run the 4K home together. He tells me he has been in Toronto for 14 years, have lived in New York and London. He runs 3 hours on Saturday and 2 on Sunday. He's injured right now and has a bad hamstring. He doesn't drink during runs but can list every single water fountain in a 10K radius ('I run with people who stop at water fountains,' he explains).
He doesn't do marathons any more, but does 10K and 5K. I'm scared to ask his time, knowing that he's a speed demon and I'm not. He imparts more advice: 'If you want to lose weight, run twice a day'
We then talk about the trail. Our favourite runs. The races we've done. We're both year-round outside runners and, on this hot day, we talk about running on this same trail, about how in the late fall it empties of spring and summer runners, about treading on snow and about winter cleats. As the Ks go by, I forget about the creeping heat, the breathing and the tightness leaves my calves as I adjust to our slower pace.
With a few kilometres to go, he says "My name is Dennis'" I go "My name is Kenny, good to meet you."
And as we reach the music garden, the sun getting to a full rise, I bid farewell to Dennis. I'm sure i'll see him again soon, as I do from time to time. Next time, I'll say hello, and maybe, if we're going the same way, we'll run for a few kms.
I just finished a six-day workweek. Very tired. But the best thing is that now I have a four-day weekend! So I'll get the rest and the leisure time. And best thing, today's a rest day.
Numbers and signposts, we like to see how far we've come and in my world of running, I can tally them up neatly in a blog, a training program or in my head during a weekday morning run. I tally them up, those miles and kilometres, and add them into a weekly total, a monthly goal. In terms of my Chicago Marathon training, I still have more than 17 weeks of training to go, a whole lot to go, but in my running year, I'm half done.
I've run 1,135 kilometres (705 miles) so far this year. I've laced up my shoes 124 times since January 1 (yes, I ran 5K), 23 times in January, 26 times this month. I've averaged about 189 kilometres a month, or about 47K a week. This has been a big running month: no vacations, good weather, marathon training to look forward to and plenty of motivation. I ran 260K (161 miles).
But it's not just about the numbers. That's not what really sticks out in my mind. It's the first run in the snow, when I start off in three layers in the freezing cold, but end up warm and toasty, the steam billowing from my forehead. It's about those goals you make far off in the future and then following through on them. It's about those first long runs when you test out your legs, your lungs, your stride. It's about those moments when you're out there on a run, reconnecting with nature, or just with yourself. It's about the community of running that exists, no matter if i'm in Toronto, New York (later in Chicago) or in my case in April, on the boardwalk in Nice, France. It's about those perfect days, when you shed all layers but the shorts and the top, don the shades and ball cap, and embrace that big sky and sun and spring's full arrival. It's about those races, those signposts of achievement that you set for yourself. It's about running friends, like mine, who are able to share in your pains of training, stories about the runs and, on occassion, a nice long run. Yes, those are things that I can't jot down on a Garmin or Computer Training program. Yep, writing my blog and reading dozens of others keep me sane and help me remember why I run. Happy running. Six months down...
It was a hot day today, and I did a 15K run (9.3 miles) on the waterfront. They were doing a father's day run and I managed to be in the perfect place where I was able to run 'with' the 10K leaders on the 'back' part of the out and back.
Was fun to see the sub-40 10kers weave their way among the jogging crowd who were doing the shroter 5K version. One girl was smoking the field and had to apologize while negotiating the crowd. I think she is owed at least a few seconds for that effort.
After 15K, I gave up with the heat and got ready to visit my parents in 'east Toronto', better known to me as Scarborough , back to the house where I grew up between 1979 and about 1996. I've run around a lot in that neighbourhood, biked, snuck through windows (like the little ones in the picture shown here). Of course, my parents are a bit warier and times have changed, putting bars on all previously accessible windows.
Around 3 p.m., as the weather was hitting 31 degrees (88 farenheit), humid with humidex of 37, I decided I wanted to extend the mileage a bit. I ran out to the very hilly area that housed my elementary school. When I was about a block from St. Ursula, I decided to veer off into a street I knew i'd run before and it brought back memories.
It's about 20 years ago, and yumke, at aged 10, is in phys-ed class running portion, which consisted of running around the track, then around the neighbourhood. The streets are wide, with tall trees providing ample shade. On the left and right are long patches of grass, with wide houses. The path weaves, and the little runners, in Grade 5, struggle to keep up with the distance. It feels like forever for us. We take walk breaks, only speeding up once in awhile when we catch our breaths.
I was on the cross country team in Grade 6. I remember one competition in which ran in wooded area against all the local schools, of the four guys in my class entered, I was third and (unexplainably) just made the cut to advance to the next meet, a city-wide affair. I still remember the asthma attack and walking the rest of the race.
Back to the present, I'm running the same course, backward, it's hot! and I'm keeping a 4:45 km pace (7:30 miles). I repeat as the sweat beads down my face, 'i am strong'. I pass the houses, marvel at the beauty (and size) of the houses. This is where I grew up. This was me as a kid. I had not run in that neighbourhood in 20 years. I get into the field behind the school. There are two kids, braving the heat, playing soccer. One's in goal, the other doing penalty kicks. I see the track and, just for kicks, ran around it once (see the pic above). I spot the place where I broke my ankle playing foot hockey (it's a Canadian thing, eh), I see the field where I distinctly remember chasing after friends, and also where my bat finally connected with the softball, one of the few homeruns of my youth. I see the back of the track, where we rounded time after time during recess and time after time while doing the various walk-a-thons or gym class.
In the less than 2 minutes that it took to run that track, I brought a flood of memories. I ran past the basketball courts, the school's front, and nodded to the little building, promising myself that it won't be another 20 years until I run around that little track. Maybe next time i visit the folks.
Oh, then came the mother of hills. 600 metres of straight and hard incline. I'll have to come back for proper hill training. Did 4.7K (2.9 miles)
Weekly total: 72.5K (45 miles) Year to date (and pre Marathon training mileage): 1,052K /653 miles
Well, for one thing, I live on the waterfront. I have a great view of the water from my balconey, so when I look out there, I usually see a few runners, cyclists. Yes, sometimes I'm guilted by it. Anyways, today, did the Cherry Beach run, and the pic here is where I started... 10K. waterfront Originally uploaded by yumkerun.
Winter's back. Minus 10, -20 with windchill. But sunny. Ran to Cherry Beach and back 10K
Decided it would be particularly challenging run with the cold, so ran with my Shuffle today. I usually think it's too dangerous to run in city routes with music, but today, appreciated it. Helps to maintain pace with the drumbeats. A sampling from my hour-long run: Macy Gray's I Try, Louis Armstrong's Wonderful World, Guns and Roses' November Rain. My favourite moment happened during the last 500 metres when the cheese-of-the-80s moment came in Milli Vanilli's Blame it on the Rain started playing.
