Weather – Rant and Roll

Just sit there and sweat it out

The east coast is humid as hell. The minute you walk outside, you are beset by a sticky, smoky, mug.

The coolness of our house is misleading. I am always sure that I am going to be cold during the first few minutes of my morning run. But that is nothing but a clever ruse on behalf of Nova Scotia Heating and the fact that we live in a very, very old home.

What I wouldn’t give for even a minute of respite from the oppressive exhalation that greets me as I turn to lock the front door. The world feels like an unwanted whisper from a strange man on a strange train.

Suddenly everything is too hot. Too close.

And my discomfort is palpable.

But it never stops me from running. If anything, it just makes me faster.

I have the mistaken belief that the quicker I run, the more wind resistance I might generate on my flushed and sweat-steamed face.

And while I have yet to see any rewards for my efforts, I keep trying.

Other than three days flattened by a brutal flu, I have run almost every day since coming to Nova Scotia.

I race about the different neighbourhoods of my adopted home. My favourite routes take me to Point Pleasant Park and up to the Citadel. I careen along the South End’s tree-dappled streets, dodging new students moving into their bachelor apartments and soccer moms walking their huskies and duck toller retrievers. I ignore the workers re-paving the road outside of the old military barracks, and sprint past the tourists taking photos of the clock tower.

I have always had a tendency to make up stories about the different people that I encounter on my daily adventures, and since moving to Halifax my internal narrative has delved to new depths.

That man on the corner? Oh, he’s waiting for his man on the inside. But where’s the drop? Where’s the microfilm? Is it up that tree? Or has it been stashed around the corner, behind the fire hydrant? And is that even a real arm brace? Or is it a cleverly disguised weapon?

By the time that I’ve figured out his entire backstory (he’s on his way to meet an ex-CIA operative who he has been trying to get out of the game but who keeps getting dragged back in because of that one shady incident in Dubai twelve years ago), I am half way home.

But not before I espy the woman who just returned from reuniting with her estranged brother whom everyone thought had died in that tragic ocean kayaking accident. It just turned out that he owed money to a man from Havana and had to disappear for a couple of years. She was afraid to tell him that she had sold all of his belongings to put herself through a two-year pottery course, but he was just happy to see her. She told him that she would help him out with the money she makes from her artisan salt shaker business.

Or something to that effect.

The more I make up stories about the people I see, the more it astounds me that anyone can really purport to know anything about anyone.

I am currently reading Dan Simmons’ The Terror, a fictionalized account of Franklin’s doomed expedition in search of the legendary, and always elusive Northwest Passage. It is engrossing and horrifying and I find myself completely sucked in by Simmons’ reimagining of what it was like to be a crew member of the HMS Erebus or Terror.

Talking to Marc the other night, I exclaimed, “My God, Franklin was so dumb. I cannot believe what a loser he was.”

To which Marc very kindly reminded me that I was in fact reading a work of fiction, and we would be hard pressed to really know what anyone was like on that expedition, what with everyone having frozen to death in the barren wasteland of Canada’s Arctic Archipelago.

I quickly acquiesced that he was right.

But I remained rankled. It just seems too true to let it go.

So I’ll just keep making up my own stories.

As I sweat through the mug.

Every day.

Every, every day.

In it for the long run.

Oh hey y’all!

Long time, no write.

And I must express my sincere contrition.

Now, I know I sound like a broken record every time I return after a long wordless sojourn, full of the same old platitudes – “Life is so crazy!” “Time seems to be slipping away all the quicker every day!” “Why can’t I ever keep track of where I leave my hairdryer!?” – but, in my defence, these inanities are sincere.

TO WHERE THE DICKENS IS TIMING SLIPPING AWAY!?

And it’s not as though I don’t want to be engaged with the blogosphere. I am always very aware that I want to be writing, and get frustrated when I am not.

I miss feeling my fingers fly across my laptop’s keyboard, tap-tap-tapping out a tale or two about the banality of hair removal, or the injustice of fast fashion (and my inability to restrain myself from consuming, and therefore sustaining this industry) or the life-altering qualities of a really good lipstick..

I miss interacting with other writers, and kind commentators, and thinking about my next scheme, or post, or story.

Last night Marc and I cooked up a pasta feast and enjoyed a candlelit dinner, taking turns reading to each other from Catullus’ complete works of poetry.

In between my laughter, I continually croaked, “THIS – THIS IS NOT A POEM!”

Bawdy stuff there folks.

BAWDY AS HECK.

Afterwards, we watched a pretty mediocre movie on the 4 Deserts Ultra-Running Race Series (racers run through the Atacama, Gobi, Sahara, and Antarctic Deserts) which we thought would be awesome, but left us feeling pretty lukewarm at best.

(Unlike the weather conditions in any of those places.)

However, despite the film’s shortfalls, I was completely jazzed just watching each of the runners take on such insane distances (250 kilometers) in downright torturous conditions (unrelenting heat, windstorms, sharp drops in temperatures, freezing rain.)

And I wanted to something similar.

I wanted to push my body to do something it had never done before.

Even if I couldn’t wake up this morning and race across the Gobi Desert, I wanted to do something, anything so to feel a connection with these amazing, fearless racers.

So when I did wake up, I decided to run from my house in New Westminster, to the Broadway/Commercial Skytrain station in Vancouver.

Now, technically speaking, this run would take me across two cities and past eight skytrain stations -which seems like a really long way to run!

But in reality, it only clocks in at sixteen kilometers.

Which seems incredibly short!

(Yet such is truth, spoken by the infallible gospel of Google Map My Run.)

However, in the end, it was a pretty bonkers route, with almost 350 meters of elevation gain, a battery of rogue crosswalks and the odd sketch individual or two, where the only thing rushing through my mind was “don’t want to know what’s being decided upon in THAT interaction!” as I motored on past.

Also, before I left, Marc told me that it very cold outside (due to the amount of fog that was blanketing our house and its environs) so I made the tragic mistake of wearing a tight, long-sleeve fleece, over my wicked (also long-sleeved) running shirt.

Marc’s note: “It WAS cold! I went out running an hour and half before you!”

Thank goodness I forwent the toque.

By kilometer four I thought my head was going to blow right off of my body, leaving the remains of my cranium looking like modern day Vesuvius.

I feverishly tore the fleece from my body and immediately felt the cool relief of the morning’s breeze make its way across my steaming torso.

Then I resigned myself to the fact that I was going to have to run the remaining twelve kilometers with my shirt tied about my waist.

Now, I’m not sure exactly what it is that bothers me so much about clothing tied about my midsection, but since childhood it has driven me to distraction, and I especially hate it when exercising.

I guess I have always (erroneously) equated (or conflated it) with non-serious runners, and prided myself on knowing how much clothing to wear at any given time, on any given run.

However, this silly theory of mine was completely obliterated on my run today, as I went on to spend the majority of my time, waist cinched, simply flying through Burnaby and into East Vancouver.

So, I’ll be the first to say it – I’m still learning.

And I hope to heck that I never stop.

Just like those ultrarunners.

So hang tight. I’ve got but two hundred and thirty-four kilometers to go.

A little ditty, sitting pretty

I am beginning to think that we will henceforth refer to time as “BTR” and “ATR” (Before the Rain/After the Rain), what with how hard it has been storming for the past few days.

There really is something to be said for a warm, dry autumn season.

I am looking at retiring to Portugal ASAP.

In the interim, here is a story:

There once was a girl who absolutely adored her to-do lists.

She made them each and every day.

At her job and at her home; for her work and for her play.

There wasn’t anything that she did – be it cleaning, writing, running, or shopping – that she didn’t enjoy ten-times more when it was written down in pen, and then crossed out with that same pen after it was complete.

Sometimes on a Friday night, her and her Swiss-Indian life-mate would sit down and think of all the magical and mayhem-inspired things they wanted to achieve over the next few days.

Their excited and over-confident scribbling often took the shape of something like this:

Nothing was ever left off of the list. Even if they thought the task too daunting – it was added along with the rest of the items, and treated with the same respect as any old regular, mundane activity.

One weekend, it just so happened to be that both the girl and her Swiss-Indian life-mate managed to accomplish the majority of things on their to-do list, despite the fact that it was very long, and very involved.

They did crazy things like jack up the floor joists under the extension of their one hundred and seven year old house, and bake two dozen pumpkin chocolate chip muffins and four dozen Halloween sugar cookies.

(The girl did concede, however, that she desperately needed to purchase some new cookie cutters, as dogs and hands – HANDS! – don’t make for the best scary pastry cut-outs.)

She ran 14 kilometers on Saturday and 7.5 kilometers on Sunday, and he mowed the lawn (front and back!) and together they cleaned out their fridge and tidied the house (which included four loads of laundry, folded and put away.)

It was an incredibly productive time – and one that also included an inordinate amount of laughter and friendly ribbing.

Because according to both of these characters, there really is nothing like spending a couple of hours scuttling about the underside of a house to bring a couple together.

The girl felt so happy to have been able to spend this time with her Swiss-Indian life-mate.

Especially on a late-afternoon Sunday walk, in the beautiful soul-warming sun.

(ATR, as it were.)

Just hold on tight – don’t let it in

Okay, some things.

1. Marc recently purchased Dark Souls II.

For those of you who are not versed in From Software’s latest release, this is a game famed for its incredible difficulty, infinitely unforgiving structure (you cannot ever pause gameplay), and relentless onslaught of terrifying and hard to kill monsters.

So of course my husband (and millions of other gamers the world wide over) love to drive themselves crazy engaging with this insanity.

Marc, in particular, really likes to set the right tone before picking up his player console, and as such, this is what our living room has been looking like for the past few nights:

I mean, I’m all for mood lighting, but I’m not sure if the candlelight is really fulfilling its intended function if he is still rage quitting every time he accidentally gets obliterated by a boss, or inadvertently walks off of a cliff.

This game, man.

It destroys lives.

(And souls)

2. Last Tuesday night I went to see the band Jungle in concert.

It was AMAZING.

Due to my slight crotichiness and very busy life schedule, it really takes a lot for me to stay out past my bedtime on a school night.

So to find me at a club downtown (on a Tuesday no less!), waiting for this band to storm the stage at the ungodly hour of 11pm, I was beginning to question whether or not my choice to come out and see them had been the correct decision.

My dance mate (my very good friend Chelsea, whom I had invited to accompany me as a “Holy crap you just published a book” gift) was equally as skeptical – she being of similar mind and crotichiness.

But sweet mother of pearl, I’ll tell ya. As soon as the first strains of their song “Platoon” propelled forth from the stage, I knew we were in for a treat.

This band is very, very good.

For the next hour we danced our little hearts out to the most epic of new soul-funk-rock tunes, dazzled by the most brilliant of accompanying light shows.

It’s not often you’ll go see a new band (they formed in 2013) that is so tight, and polished, and all around AMAZING.

They were playing at The Imperial, and I doubt they will be playing such a small venue the next time they roll around in Vancouver.

They will be selling out the Commodore in no time flat.

And I will be there.

And I won’t question that decision for a second.

Young Scamps

That’s me on the right and my big sister Kate on the left.

Ah love.

Would you look at us?

As ridiculous as it would seem – I remember that outfit so well. I was absolutely mesmerized by the plums!

I am also fairly certain that this photo was taken somewhere in the east coast of Canada, during one of our many summer sojourns in and around Nova Scotia – only I cannot for the life of me pinpoint the exact location.

I’ll probably bolt out of bed sometime around 3am tomorrow, having remembered the date and time, and also the fact that I forgot to pre-set the coffee and switch the laundry into the dryer.

The stuff of which my nightmares are made!

But until that time, I’ll just enjoy it for what it is.

Unbearable cuteness.

And joy.

…

So that’s a couple of things swinging about our corner of the jungle.

Vancouver has been having the most inconsistent and mind-boggling weather of late – one minute it’s raining so hard I keep expecting to see kayakers navigating their way along our roads and side streets, and the next it’s so hot, entire hordes of people find themselves simultaneously engaging in the terrifying practice of frantic and communal disrobing.

(It’ll be a trial sport in the next summer Olympics)

I am becoming a champion of layering all of my outfits, all of the time.

Halloween is also coming up, and I’m having a hard time getting into the spirit of things.

I think I may have done myself in on the creativity front last year – I don’t think I am ever going to top my Samara from The Ring.

However, should things change, I’ll keep you posted.

I hope all of you are warm and dry, wherever you find yourselves tonight.

And beware of dark souls (of any form).

So light a candle. Or two.

She’s got legs, and she knows how to use them

Hey kids.

I am currently sitting in bed, eating pasta and drinking a glass of (not great, but not terrible) white wine.

SUCH IS THE LIFE.

It’s been a complete whirlwind of a weekend – family hangouts, work talks, friends a-plenty, and I even read two books!

Young adult books, mind you. But still – there really is nothing like a good story in which to disappear for a couple of hours on a Saturday morning.

Meanwhile, this (Sunday morning), I ran in the Vancouver Fall Classic 10k.

It was my third time running the race, and just like the two races past, I ran this one with a friend.

(Even if you’re not running the length of the course side by side, just knowing that you have someone there with you always, always makes the experience just that much more fun.)

I woke to my alarm at 6:30am. I had fallen asleep the night before around 11:00pm, and other than one slight interruption to get up and use the bathroom, my sleep was relatively restful, and much better than some of the absolutely brutal sleeps I have had in my racing past.

After cuddling with Marc for a couple of minutes, I tiptoed out of the bedroom and started about my pre-race morning routine.

I had already packed my bag and laid out all my clothing the night before (along with back-up choices, just in case the weather was different that previously predicted.)

It wasn’t – the thermometer read three degrees, and the pavement outside was slick with rain.

Espying these both, I wasn’t going to take any chances, and decided that my long running pants, long sleeved shirt, and t-shirt were my best option.

Then, I brushed my teeth, washed my face, moisturized, put in my contacts, and put my hair into a ponytail.

It’s so weird that these actions have such important meaning for me, but it totally throws me off if I don’t take care to do these things in a particular order.

The only fly in the ointment at this point, was that I had gone to bed the night before with a slight stomach ache, only to wake up with full-blown crampage.

Surprise! As much as I love getting my period (ZERO SARCASM HERE FOLKS), the sensation of my uterus falling out of my body is one that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.

However, I’ve also never forgotten the time when my mum told me that the first Canadian woman who summited Mouth Everest did so whilst on her period, so I really feel like I really don’t much of a leg to stand on, complaint-wise.

(Seriously, I remember this SO WELL. I was twelve, and at a track meet, and was competing in high jump. I was feeling totally crappy, and she was all, “AIN’T NOBODY GOT TIME FOR THAT!”)

True story.

Any who, I then got dressed, went downstairs, made and drank coffee, ate two pieces of toast (one peanut butter, the other Nutella) and hung out with Nymeria, watching British panel shows on Youtube, until 7:50am.

Then I took out the trash, jumped in the car, and drove over to Greg and Daniela’s, where they too were preparing for the morning’s festivities (Greg to run, Daniela to cheer.)

I drove us up to UBC, and we marvelled at how awesome of a day it was turning out to be – not at all the minus four degrees and snowing as stated in the day’s original forecast.

Once we arrived on campus, we parked, grabbed our registration package (our numbers and some sweet new running tights), checked our bags, and then moseyed on over to the start line.

My stomach was still in agony, but I tried to keep it in check by moving about as much as possible.

Timeline-wise, we had calculated everything really well, and we only had about a fifteen minute wait-time, before Greg and I bade our last goodbyes to our wonderful friend (and he, to his wonderful wife) and lined up at the starting line.

These places are always just a terrific mix of nerves, posturing, egos, excitements, and camaraderie.

They truly are the best.

Before we knew it, the time was nigh – as the horn blared, we blasted out of the start gate and took off with the best of them.

The first two kilometers seemed to just whiz by – we were at Marine Drive before I even knew it, and descended to the old, lower road – a beautiful stretch of pavement, flanked on either side by towering, deciduous trees, and just hints of the ocean that stretches far and wide, just off to the right.

At this point there was only one other woman ahead of me that I knew of – a blindingly fast lady, known only to me as “pink shoes” for reasons, of course, I am confident you can deduce.

It was here that I was caught by two other lady speed demons, and, knowing I was unlikely to keep up, I tried to keep pace with a different fellow in a lime-green shirt, running about three meters ahead of me.

As we summited the hill leading back to Marine Drive, I felt pretty fatigued – my stomach was giving me quite a fright; I am always afraid when running with these sorts of cramps, that I am in fact mistaking them for some other horrible digestive ailment.

But I figured as long as I ran as fast I could, and just got to the finish line, I’d be okay.

Turning around at five kilometers, there was a dude in a giant gorilla costume, and I gave him a cracking high-five.

Running up at UBC is always wonderful, because not only is it beautiful, but the people (mostly students) who come out and line the course are always fun, funny, and incredibly supportive.

I passed Greg as he was running to the turn-around; the guy looked just great – relaxed, happy, and totally in control, and we too exchanged high-fives as we passed each other.

From there, I was just working to get to 8k, telling myself over, and over again how easy those last two kilometers were.

It also helped that as the race continued, the sun came out, and it turned into an almost blindingly beautiful morning.

At the 7km mark, one more lady passed me, and I really started to dig in and try to keep my pace, if not speed up. I didn’t think my dream of a sub-40 was going to come true, but either way there was no reason not to run my absolute hardest for the rest of the race.

Turning into kilometer eight, the wind hit me full blast. I didn’t know if it was a nice respite from the growing warmth of the day, or a pain in the butt just slowing me down.

I decided it wasn’t that important, either way.

Nine kilometers was in sight, and as soon as we turned around to the last straightaway I could feel my legs getting looser, my strides longer, and breathing easier.

I passed two men with whom I had been playing tag with all race, and just ran as hard as I could to the finish.

Daniela was there to cheer me on, and a lovely volunteer handed me a medal.

I immediately joined my friend, and we waiting only a couple minutes longer for Greg to come charging down to the finishing gate.

It was pretty epic to behold.

In the end, he finished in 45:30 (amazing for his first time running a 10k race!), 11^th in his age category, and 51^st overall.

With a time of 42:15, I finished 4^th in my age group (5^th woman overall), and placed 30^th in total.

Not shabby!

They we showered-up, gorged ourselves on comfort food (see below) and spent the next few hours playing board games, and laughing ourselves silly.

Because what else, besides running, friends, food, and fun, is life all about?

If there is anything better, I want to know.