RVM; dynamic tension
The small muscle spasms of post Victoria Marathon soreness seem to signify a good time for a long-overdue blog update. Granted, on this morning after, I am not as sore as I could be, though I certainly felt green for two or three hours post-race while a nasty cocktail of sugary/ cola drinks, too much caffeine and ibuprofen filtered through my liver and kidneys.
Training for the Victoria marathon began mid-August, following an anti-climactic end to a cycling season in which a broken chain preceded an unceremonious withdrawal from my last important race of the season, the Provincial Road race in Abbotsford. A couple of relatively weak Tuesday night time-trials in Sidney was all the body could muster in two weeks that followed, though the placings there bolstered a minor upside to my season finale by preserving a 5th place overall in the Victoria Cycling League ‘A’ standings, a weekly series of local club races that begins in March and ends in September.
To linger for a moment on the summer’s cycling events, the highlight was probably the White Rock Criterium in July, in which fitness acquired from the Mt Hood 5-stage race in June began finally to emerge, and, by the criterium finish I began to believe I still belonged in an elite level bicycle race, though perhaps not the same could have been said about the road race the next day.
Overall my cycling season was not as long and generally weaker than 2008, but perhaps a commitment to a role in a Victoria Shakespeare Society production of Julias Caesar and twelve performances beginning early July, and ending mid-August, flattened slightly my peaking capacity on the bike. For this I am not complaining, as the acting experience was rich and wonderful, and I see more of that in the cards in years to come.
To be sure, while the motivation remains to train and be competitive as a cyclist (and as a runner), there is a marked, inexorable shift in motivations that greets the advent of my fifth decade and gently nudges the expenditure of my energies in alternative directions. I feel it stronger now than I did during the last decade of life, but still the call is also strong from every bodily cell to be invigorated by intense activity. But this beckoning is now more firmly pulled against a set of intellectual and artistic imperatives that drive my energies too, the agents of which at either end are not inconsistent in principle, but which heighten the tension that sends me on my way through the dynamical dancing landscape of my life, as it does all of us to varying degrees. Of course amid that tension is the greatest responsibility we bear to our fellow human beings, the constancy of which is sometimes the hardest work we bear, at least it so often seems to me.
I have vastly digressed! But what could a post that comes three months after the last one be but one that begins from the philosophical perspective, shifts to a general descriptive overview (perhaps vice-versa in this case), but ends finally on specificities. The marathon!
My training went well, having discovered double tempo workouts once a week that culminated in one day a couple of weeks ago when I did two 10 mile tempo runs within a few hours and about 40km on the day. With a longer lead up to the event, I can see how such sessions can result in yet greater fitness.
In the weeks leading up to the race I had in mind that 2:36 was reasonable, and initially I had thought it was possible for me to shoot for the top Master time, for which some prize money was on the line. But when I had heard that Danny Gonzalez, from Oregon, was here, whose PB is 2:13 (albeit set probably 20 years ago), it seemed my chances at that were slim.
On the cold but sunny and nearly windless morning, I found it a tough day out there. While my pace was about where I had hoped through ten miles, in 58 somthing, I found the energy gradually waning through to the half, at 1:17.58. While I have had greater mental struggles to pull myself to the finish, I was surprised at how hard I was breathing at points over the second half – glad that I was able to breathe that hard and not blow completely, but somewhat chagrinned that such an effort did not result in faster leg turnover.
In the end I was not far down on the second Master, from Tokyo, whose time was 2:36, and not as far back from Gonazalez as I might have thought, who was in at 2:33. I was happy with being the third Master and 12th overall among a very strong field, with non-Canadians taking 8 of the places ahead of me.
Filed under Uncategorized | Comment (1)Tour de White Rock
In the simmering heat of a July weekend in White Rock for the 30th edition of my favorite bicycle race, this year did not mark two years in a row in which I could be part of a 60 km four-up breakaway in the road race. Certainly I was on better form at this time last year after returning from the 6-stage Cascade Classic the weekend before and coming into White Rock with my best form in many years. This year I have felt generally flat nearly all season long, and did not feel I gained much form after the Mt Hood stage race in early June. This despite a couple of minor successes including two mid-week wins this year (Victoria Cycling League races) in which there were few participants, and a couple of half decent Masters race results, but overall nothing of particular noteworthiness.
Still, the final result for me in White Rock was much the same as last year.
The race has for many years been of an omnium format, which means points are accumulated for placing in each individual race, of which there were three: a hill climb, a criterium and a road race – and for which the total combined points determines the winner. One may thus select any combination of races in which to participate. This is in contrast to a stage race in which the winner is determined on the lowest accumulated time, and so by necessity riders must complete each stage in order to race the next one.
I have never raced the hill climb. Being less than two minutes in length and taking place on a Friday, it has usually not been convenient to do, given work commitments etc. However, I have competed in the criterium and road race several times, with varying degrees of success, or lack thereof. Both races are very hard – the criterium has a 300 metre, 4 percent, hill up one side of the 1km course and, at 60km long (60 laps), makes for about 18k of big ring on-the-rivet climbing. The criterium was won for the second year in a row by Andrew Pinfold in 1:10, with the rest of the 45 Pro/cat 1,2 finishers through, mostly as a group, following within seconds of Andrew, and me in 33rd, with 15 or so dropping out and a couple of crashes to boot, which I fortunately missed.
I was happy with my result, given the rough state of my legs for many weeks, and I felt the body was reasonably well rested and ready for that level of intensity. The race did not feel as hard this year, as last year there were a few stronger teams in the race, it seemed, although in reality it likely was not very much slower.
The road race was held the next morning. It consists of a circuit of 11 long laps each about 11k, and 6 short laps of about 4km (or this is the way the race is supposed to be!), a total of about 134 km.
The race proved rather strange.
For my part, certainly last year I was much better recovered after the criterium, but after a long breakaway effort still ended up a short loop (4km) down on Chris Horner, the Astana team member, and me being one of the last finishers. In all my years of doing White Rock, there have never been more than 40 finishers of the 80 to 100 who usually start the race. It is such a hard race, and configured in such a way that unless you make it onto the short loop circuit before the barriers go up, you’re day is over, which discourages many riders from finishing if they find themselves off the back.
As for other finishing riders, there was much confusion. The Costa Rican leader, off on a solo breakaway, was misdirected and began the short loops too soon, while the chasers continued for one additional lap; those farther back, like myself, ended up in some other half-state purgatorial strange loop.
From the start, after three of the fastest first laps I can ever remember on that course, I found myself popped the fourth time up the 16% Magdallen climb, after a big ring sprint up Columbia just prior. But as many dropped out after similar fates, I kept going and found myself in a small group, which whittled to two of us who, seemingly by a miracle, found that we made the small circuit before the barriers went up. Meanwhile, the Costa Rican rider had soloed away from the main bunch, and thereafter occurred the noted confusion.
Being several minutes back of the main chase group, I am still not certain what exactly transpired, but I believe I was thus directed onto the small course one long lap shy of the full 11 we were scheduled for, and being more than half a long loop back (each about 11km), and they being directed for the full last loop, I and a Glotman Simpson rider, Marvin Guzman, ended up on the short circuit roughly in line with the chasers.
To be honest I am not all at all clear what happened, but as we made it onto the short course before the barriers were erected, we were allowed to finish, presumably to receive a pro-rated time based on finishing one short loop down and change. As it stands, the number of finishers was 35, and I and Marvin should have been recorded as about 31st and 32nd, with 3 others whom we were ahead of coming onto the short course being behind us, I believe. Currently, however, among all the confusion, results show us as 19th and 20th. This is wrong, and I am currently endeavoring to correct the results.
Nonetheless, in summary, I am glad for the finishing result, as it is such a hard race to do and to end up shut out by the barriers, although I do hope the results can be corrected to show more accurately where I finished.
Filed under Uncategorized | Comments (3)Pacific Circle Route
Earlier in June the Province completed paving the road between Port Renfrew and Mesachie Lake, near Lake Cowichan. This established a completely paved circle from Victoria to Port Renfrew, to Lake Cowichan, Duncan, and then back to Victoria. Soon after hearing of the pavement completion, I’d resolved to ride the route, romanticising in my mind the concept of being able to ride to Port Renfrew and back to Victoria without retracing my course, experiencing a road not travelled before, and taking in a huge variety of scenery the entire way.
Reports, however, were conflicting about the quality of the pavement, and it was not clear how a road bike would fare on the new connector route. However, I’d received enough information to be sure that I was willing to risk my road bike on the route.
Today turned out to be ideal weather-wise for the journey, which, with a day off work, began about 6:15 this morning. At its peak, the temperature near Lake Cowichan/Duncan surely must have been near 30 degrees.
As it turned out, it was no problem at all for a road bike. In fact the first 11 or so km out of Port Renfrew are highway quality, as are the last 15k or so into Mesachie Lake. There are about 25 km or so of slightly rougher chip seal, but it really isn’t bad – basically like any secondary road anywhere. There are two very short stretches of gravel, maybe 10m long, if that, and only one little spot where there were about three potholes – that’s it! 100% roadbike rideable. The last 10k into Port Renfrew are worse for potholes, but still roadbike rideable, and there is currently much roadwork being done on that stretch of road.
The total distance is, I believe about 250km. I am estimating based on road signs and time, since I don’t have an odometer. Thinking of the route as clockwise out of Victoria, I’ve seen reference to it being 104km to Port Renfrew, then when you are on the bypass road to Lake Cowichan there is a sign that says 56km to Lake Cowichan and 88km to Duncan, both of which seemed pretty accurate based on other sign posts along the way and the amount of time it took. From Duncan there is a sign saying 61km to Victoria – you add it all up and it’s at least 250km – certainly one of my longest rides ever, if not the longest. The only possibly equally long or possibly slightly longer ride was a leg of a journey in France I’d made a few days after competing in the Zofingen Powerman in Switzerland in 2001, or thereabouts.
The Circle Route is stunning, with some fantastic lakes and streams all the way. Standing out in mind are vistas of the ocean out to Port Renfrew; the corkscrew climbs and descent into Port Renfrew, which I last rode during the now defunct Gary Lund Road Race several years ago; the glades along the first 11km of flat road heading out of Port Renfrew; the encroaching jungle-like vegetation along parts of the connector, reminding me of Costa Rica – if only there were the sounds of Howler monkeys; the clearest water in streams crossing the connector or running along side it; the ascending road upward along the connector and the gradual descent into Lake Mesachie.
My splits were roughly (give or take a few minutes) 2.5 hours to Jordan River; 4 hours to Port Renfrew; 6 hours to Lake Cowichan (a short stop there); 7 hours to Duncan, and a short stop there for a more substantial meal. Taking the main highway all the way in from Duncan, and not feeling too bad up the Malahat, I was home in about 9:45 (forgot to stop my watch for an accurate time)
All in all a fantastic ride, and having managed to keep more or less properly hydrated and fed, I didn’t bonk, and at this point in the evening actually feel quite good. A couple of hours after the ride, I made it through a Julias Caesar rehearsal, in which I have a small role, without any problem (albeit with a little assistance from Dr. Pepper).
I highly recommend the ride for anyone with the time and inclination. It is one of my most memorable and will certainly stand out in my mind forever. The key for the distance is to maintain a steady pace without pushing too hard on the hills and building lactic acid, eating and drinking plenty. It is interesting how time compresses when you are out for a long ride, especially if you mentally break your journey into segments, and this is easy on this route with such beautiful and varied scenery along the way. When it was over it truly didn’t feel much longer than some rides I’ve done at half the distance.
With that, a 4 hour ride yesterday (also taken off work) and some more riding yet on Saturday and Sunday, I hope recovery will be complete by Superweek – which begins with races in Delta next weekend.
Filed under Uncategorized | Comments (4)Mt Hood Cycling Classic
Yesterday I returned from the five-stage Mt Hood Cycling Classic, centred out of Hood River, Oregon. Hood River is a small city located afront the majestic Columbia River upon which, in my imagination, floated the ghosts of paddle-wheelers on hot August afternoons; where on the decks stood women in their dresses, flowing in the humid breeze, much too warm for the weather and the afternoon sun; where men stood in overalls and long black slacks, their hats in hand, ignoring or enjoying the cooling spray of river water lifting and rolling off the tumbling, tumbling paddle wheel.
While those ghosts lingered and their true counterparts travelled the water 100 years ago or more maybe, just last week there, in Hood River, were teams of lean and hungry cyclists from across the western United States and British Columbia. All donned skin forming uniforms and futuristic helmets and rode atop their bicycles of carbon and titanium and precision engineering, all rode their machines far away from the water, discharging their energies in Herculean quantities from out pelotons that morphed in shape along roads that tangle like yarn around the mountains and countryside with Mount Hood at its core, ever looming, stately in its omnipresence, seen from every vantage point among the green rolling hills, the orchards and valleys around.
And there was I, among such a peloton on roads that spun the mighty Mount Hood far away from the waters of the Columbia where once the pleasant paddle-wheelers ran. Five stages: 250 miles and 25,000 feet of climbing, consisting of a prologue three miles long, two road stages of 85 and 92 miles, a time trial of 18.5 miles and a criterium 70 minutes long; and there was I but one component of a peloton system and its subgroups – teams like Bissell Pro, California Giant, Ouch-Maxxis, Red Truck Ale, Lombardi Sports. All comprised a peloton that found life 116 riders strong, an organic system that died just a little each day as riders sloughed off like detritus from the back, victims of the furious struggle for survival and triumph at the front; that in its final throes at the criterium finish Sunday afternoon, downtown Hood River, on a viscious loop with ups and downs and twists and turns, ended its life eighty-eight strong, of which I was 79th in the final general classification.
A peloton is a dynamic organic system, it is true, but among it are individuals, and ultimately it is a race, a race for victory and survival. It is as if one could narrow the scope a little to view the dramatic struggles within the super-organism; as if one could hone right down to follow the life of particular single ants in a colony-wide assault on a writhing snake lurching and twisting to escape, where the snake might be the road on which the cyclists travel, its death the final triumph for the first to experience the cessation of motion, and for every cyclist or ant that follows, each upon their respective winding surface. There are the individual riders with each their stories of drama and triumph, such as for the overall winner Paul Mach of Bissel Pro, or the individual stage winners like Rob Britten from British Columbia on the longest and hilliest stage and Jamie Sparling also of BC in the criterium, both of Red Truck Ale; tales of desolation and dissatisfaction, like for Ryan Olson from White Rock on Stage one who lost over an hour after riding most of the stage on his own – or like me, whose front wheel nearly disintegrated soon off the start on the descent at 85km/hr, forcing me to slow and to be sloughed from the pack and to ride the day partly on my own and partly among a small groupetto, ending the longest stage a half hour back.
And for every rider are a thousand stories, and for every story combined was a peloton borne last Wednesday afternoon, that rested each night and revitalized each day for five days, and finally died on Sunday. To be part of the peloton, the living system, is the objective of every racing cyclist, whether they see it that way or not. To be both an individual and a member of a broader whole: there is no truer microcosm of life than the peloton. For every living peloton whose transient trajectory I am part, whether I win or lose, if I have been part of its birth and death, then ghosts linger in me of every rolling, rolling one, accompanied by all the admiration for the individuals within them that one person could have.
(Full results at www.mthoodcyclingclassic.com)
Filed under Uncategorized | Comment (1)Milestones and the Sooke 10k
The Sooke 10k running race was not originally in my plans. But as the months since January passed by, rather at their own choatic pace tempered by an underlying rhythm of coldness and grey; and, in contrast, as the Island running series ticked down one by one in their bi-weekly clocklike regularity, I discovered in myself an unexpected but burgeoning desire to win the top Master award (40+) for the series.
Originally I had intended to cease running altogether after the Albany Marathon in March, and to begin training in earnest on the bike soon thereafter. This plan seemed reinforced by the calls for capitulation from my troubled plantar fascia, which calls I well thought to heed.
But after returning from Albany I was quickly tempted by the possibility of a decent half marathon, knowing I could rely on marathon fitness to carry me over the next two weeks with very little running required in between. So, I partially heeded the cries of my foot by running minimally after Albany, remained well aware that the foot was far from fully healed, and knew of the risks for long term injury were I tempted by the Comox Half. Still I considered that after the Half I would certainly be replacing the runners with cycling shoes, so even if I came away injured, I would have months of healing over the cycling season before resuming running again.
With that in mind I ran the Half to a reasonable finish by my standards, but the last two kilometres obliterated my plantar fascia. And so afterward I swore to myself that that was it for the season. Time on the bike ensued and indeed my mind shifted toward the multiplicity of bike races, and away from the Island series and the possibility of winning the Master award.
But then after three weeks of no running, the Island series Master award leaked into my consciousness, and that trickle, by dint of continued analysis, gradually became a torrent. What if circumstances are such that I cannot even run at all next year? Who will be 40 next year and faster than me? Will I regret not having taken the calculated risks associated with pursuing the goal of one last race and winning the Master award?
The die was cast, but my foot was in rough shape, and I set out to calculate the minimum time I would need to run to win over the next two competitors, Hicham el Amiri and Kevin Searle. On points Hicham was not far back of me, but he was in Boston and, with only four races completed in the series, would not qualify for the award. Kevin was farther back, and I had a fairly comfortable margin over him – I could run relatively slowly, for me, and still win the series.
With that in mind, and in consideration of my injured foot and no running in three weeks, I ran three runs in the week leading up to Sooke (but plenty of riding): an easy run around the lakes on the previous Sunday during which the foot was sore but held up, a treadmill run on Wednesday with 15 mins of tempo, and an easy half hour on Friday (followed by some time on the bike), and no training on Saturday.
This proved an adequate formula. I ran better than expected and felt quite good for the race. After about a mile, I settled in with Mark Nelson, running second and third behind Dave Jackson, way out in front, and who is finally returning from a long term injury. I didn’t think I would be able to stay with Mark, so I tucked in behind him most of the way. On the return, at about 7km, where the 300m hill at about seven percent gradient is located, I discovered more gas than I thought, and found myself pulling away from Mark, and holding on for second place in 34:34, and securing the Master award for the series.
I am quite proud of winning the top Master award. It represents the validation of 20+ years of nearly continuous training and racing; a confirmation that all the years of sweat and sacrifice, the countless highs and lows of racing and training, have all been worth it; a confirmation that all the years of dedication can and do keep your body young and in fantastic shape.
Now is the stage set for another twenty years of dedication, but if it were all to end tomorrow, I would be satisfied and happy with the immense efforts of the last twenty years. And so the Master award marks both twenty years past and the uncertain future whose highs and lows no doubt will not pass with clocklike regularity, but a future that begins now with the same unwavering dedication that has buoyed all the years passed.
The Master award is truly a great honor, and I am indeed proud of it.
Filed under Uncategorized | Comments (2)The Fenderless Rogue – Fender Ethics Part II
Now having considered a couple of scenarios itemized in the first installment of this short series, we can move to consideration of others.
As a brief refresher, recall that in the first installment, one scenario involved training in January, a time of year when it is well known to rain in spades almost continuously on the west coast; a time when there is no racing and it is arguably not particularly onerous to ride with fenders that can be installed for the long term without any reason to alternate between taking them off, if it happens to be dry, and putting them back on if it is raining. In other words, the time and hassle and the general temptation to use a hammer to straighten the fender housing, and the litany of curses that generally accompany fender installation – these need only happen once.
But now let’s imagine that it is late March and the first race of the racing season has taken place just last week. There is no race this weekend, but the local hard-butts have gathered for a training ride and, as might be predicted, it is sprinkling lightly. Everyone dutifully sports their fenders with mudflaps.
There is general chuckling and chatter in the air about the spring racing series among the local bike racers: who was displaying good form at the first race of the year? Who is peaking too early and will be flat as a pancake in June? There is more chuckling. That sort of thing. No one, though, discusses the absence of fenders during the race – they are simply not used during races, rain or no rain.
Now recall from Part I that the riders departed without Fenderless Joe, who, unbeknownst to the group latched on later, somewhere along the way. So has this occurred again.
Your good strong pull is over and you decelerate along the paceline, collecting your well-deserved brownie points as you go, which come in the form of hard-breathing and the general look of suffering on those behind you, a few cordial back slaps and breathy congrats on your good pull.
Glowing, but glad to be heading to the back for shelter, you arrive at the rear and, much to your dismay, you realize that Fenderless Joe is present again. Momentarily it sticks in your craw that he’s not breathing very hard. But he is a human being after all, and so you say “hey”, and seeing the space he leaves for you, you move to occupy it. Just then you hear him mutter something apologetically about having removed his fenders before the first race – which you are quite aware that he did not win because you would have remembered this, and actually recognize him only because you saw him at a ride in January without fenders – and that it’s now racing season.
You can barely believe your ears. Was it not enough to extend greetings to him, and now you must respond to his inane utterances? During a moment of stunned silence, you stare at Fenderless Joe from under your currently clear Oakleys with contempt and disbelief. Uncertain whether it is beneath your dignity even to respond, eventually you say, in a sort of Schwarzenegger monotone: “most people have two bikes.” Then you rise quickly from your saddle for two or three rapid forward thrusts on your pedals to ensure that you are riding ahead of him.
Now Fenderless Joe is in a quandary. Unlike you, Fenderless Joe does not have a winter bike permanently set up with fenders, and a racing bike (actually you have a time-trial bike too, but that is needless detail). Fenderless Joe has only one bike. It is multi-purpose and he uses it for both winter training and for racing, sometimes a little off-road and the odd commute to work and back. Ordinarily he doesn’t use it much during the winter, training mostly indoors or running or some such.
And so the questions arise: is Fenderless Joe obligated to have two bikes, a racing bike and a winter bike? If so, how does this obligation arise, particularly when Fenderless Joe does not train much outdoors in the winter? If he uses only one bike, should he be expected to put his fenders back on before a training ride after racing season has started?
Filed under Uncategorized | Comment (1)The Fenderless Rogue – the rhetoric of fender ethics Part 1
A recent discussion about the ethics of using fenders on group rides has led me to think through a few of the various subtleties of the issue. Consider a few scenarios:
It’s January in Victoria, and you’ve been racing and training all year, summer and winter. It’s five degrees and sprinkling lightly and you show up at the bike shop to join the local winter hard corps for a soggy Sunday ride. You have dutifully affixed your fender with mudflap, as much of a pain as it was to assemble, and this time you have managed to avoid the incessant rubbing of fender against rubber that annoyed you endlessly last winter.
As the group sets out, you fall into a double paceline. You are all getting wet under the rain, but everyone has fenders with flaps and at least no one is getting sprayed in the face by Fenderless Joe. At least not at first. But twenty minutes pass and you’ve just taken a pull at the front with your two-up partner. You drop to the back – going “back for a smoke” as some would say – and lo and behold, yes, check it out, Fenderless Joe has latched on to the back somewhere along the way.
Actually, you don’t realize at first he has no fenders, but Fenderless Joe informs you of the fact and kindly opens a gap for you and allows you to slot in ahead of him. Oh well ok, you think, at least Fenderless Joe is aware of his rude fenderless nature and isn’t some sort of sociopath who will simply spray everyone in the face and not care a jot about it. Still it bugs you that he won’t be contributing to the paceline and gets a free ride the whole way, but you’d rather he sit at the back out of sight and of mind, and there you can forget about him.
But someone at the front ramps up the pace, and a split in the pack occurs. You’ve found yourself in the second group, but Fenderless Joe is strong and he passes from behind and you know he can take you straight across to the first group if you choose to get on his wheel. What do you do? Do you let him go because he is fenderless, treat him as a non-entity, or do you jump his wheel and let him pull you across and take the spray in the face? Besides, you can always shout at him after he takes you across. Let’s say you choose to take the wheel – what has happened now? By taking the benefit of his pull, have you waived your ethical right to complain about his being fenderless, or can you still in good conscience spit the sandgrits from his spray back at him or give him the evil eye beneath your mud-covered face and glasses?
Now consider you’re all riding along, moseying along fine and dandily; no one is really pushing too hard under the rain. Fenderless Joe is quiet at the back and not a worry at all – no one has yelled at him since he hasn’t been giving anyone the face spray. But look at it, yes, check it out, Fenderless Joe is moving up the outside of the group, even crosses the centreline so as not to spray anyone. how considerate, you think. Fenderless Joe passes everyone and is on a solo flyer out in front of the pack! The guys at the front don’t take the bait and Fenderless Joe gets far enough ahead that no one is getting sprayed. But your adrenaline spikes, and you think “that’s my wheel” and you head after him. Soon you latch his wheel and get a face full of muck, and in your mind you call him good for nothing for having no fender. But, did Fenderless Joe say you had to come after him? Again, what has happened here, have you now waived your ethical right to complain because you have joined him ahead of the main pack? You could have just treated him as an invisible ghost and let him ride ahead, after all.
…To be continued…
Filed under Uncategorized | Comment (0)The Opposites
“When it is hot,” said the man, stripped to his waist, his lean brown body glistening with sweat against the windless air, above the shadowless soil. “Then winter calls to me more than summer does.” He turned his eyes to pass his gaze momentarily across the sun’s sharp trajectory.
“When it is hot,” he continued, “I am withered like a brown blade of grass and I long for days when winter winds cut my face like the last defiant slash of claws from a dying lynx; those days when I wrestle all the heavy snow with boots and high knees to fill the empty pails, and bear the punishing cold like orphaned children on my back.
“I could live and die in such air, it is true, but roots have grounded me here. I have two children of my own, a wonderful wife. The children grow quickly, and we could not leave here now, there is such abundance here. But on days like this – so hot – I look for snow in every evening shadow, for cold wind between every leaf, for frostbite on every sunburn. Tell me, cyclist man, when the sun burns you, do you long for winter too?”
Having stopped at the man’s watermelon stand — where, beside the stand, the watermelon numbered in hundreds neatly piled and interlocking like a castle wall of speckled yellow and green blunted edges — the gypsy cyclist regarded the man quizzically. “Me? Oh no, not at all. I am here where it is hot because I come from a cold climate and long for the heat. I see that you and I are opposites.”
“Opposites?” said the man, a smile turning to soften the hardness of his gaze. “I am not so certain of that. There are extremes, perhaps, of what we may bear of all that is either hot or cold. I may prefer the cold when it is hot and perhaps when it is cold I will prefer the heat, but there are no opposite things under all the stars; they are really just the same.”
“The same?”
“With certainty. I endured the terrible sharpness of the cold for the wife and children I did not have and the mother and father from which I ran. I fought and survived alone with every second of time and meagre snowflake of strength focussed and pitted against all the hardest of winter’s rages, all for the life I dreamed I someday would find.
“I have that life now, I bear it fruitfully and with immense responsibility and beautiful sacrifice. And when the hot air shimmers in waves and my sons’ sillouettes seem to spread their bodies thin against the dancing heat, I would fight alone and pit myself against the sun and the cracking earth to feed them and to protect them. But here they are, and we do not worry about our next meal, nor of hungry predators, or fear the darkness of night. And so, for every step that I take beneath the burning sun, I survive and prepare for the life I do not have. And when my children are gone, and my wife has perished in the ocean of whatever illness that must eventually befall either one of us, or both of us, then will every step still be to defy the aching heat or the piercing cold. It will not matter which.
“Perhaps,” sighed the man, “you do not see it that way, cyclist man. But will you still, for your every pedal stroke beneath the hot waterless air or against the cold lashing wind, conclude that you and I are opposites?”
“Well,” said the gypsy cyclist, reaching for a few coins from his jersey pocket. “Perhaps not so much.” The gypsy cyclist paid the man for a few slices of watermelon, and began to devour them. Until then, he had not been aware of the hunger that lashed at his sunken stomach. “Thank you!” he said, mounting his bicycle. “I have a long way to ride today, and it is a scorcher! I will take some watermelon with me for the road.”
The gypsy cyclist shifted his weight, took a drink of water, and turned his handlebars toward the sun.
Filed under Uncategorized | Comment (0)Did somebody say yes? A Georgian picturesque.
“Every road is a ray of light…
Gravity release me
It won’t ever hold me down
Now my feet won’t touch the ground.”
– Coldplay
It is comforting to discover that sometimes every ounce of our heaviest doubts may be lifted up and cast away beneath a fountain of wonder and satisfaction. In my last post I expressed considerable hesitation in traveling to Georgia for the Albany Marathon, but in finally choosing to go, I was rewarded with perhaps my most satisfying trip ever, despite it being only a few days in number.
Early March under a Georgian sky is normally a temperate affair, with temperatures typically in the mid to high teens. But I was fortunate to arrive to a few days when the bluest air registered temperatures to 25 degrees – an antidote for all that could ail, if anything could, for a warmth and sun-starved Victorian.
A four hour drive in the morning from the Atlanta airport to Albany revealed the generally flat topography of the region, the fast open highways, the farms spreading all of whatever new crops may have been seeded or await to be seeded, vast ranchlands trampled beneath cattle’s feet, and miles of countless pine needles full upon the branches from which they grew and bedding the floor near the majestic trees from which they fell.
For that evening in Albany I was treated by newest friends Gerald and Constance, met at the pre-marathon dinner table, to a walk through parts of downtown Albany, a parade on the eve of the next day’s Mardi Gras, and an impromptu interview by the local NBC station, aired later on the six o’clock news: who is this odd fellow from Victoria, Canada, running our marathon tomorrow and how did he come by Albany as his destination of choice? The answer is that it was a good time of the year for a marathon and the course was said to be flat and fast. And for me I have long had some fascination for the history of the American deep south, the racial divisions there and the legacy of Martin Luther King; the region beckoned me in a way that no March marathon in California could.
Fog shrouded the 7:00 am marathon and half-marathon start. On the line, even with a few minutes before the gun, there seemed to be an absence of 125 pound runners with negative body fat, and for a moment notions arose of a top three and finishing in the money. Such illusions were instantly dispelled when seven or eight fellows fitting the description above finished their warm-ups and took the front row on the start line a couple of minutes before the start.
With the gun and runners proceeding off into the mists, the first row of them quickly disappearing while a couple dangled just ahead, and I was through my first mile in 6:05. This seemed slow and, given an inevitable decline in speed over the course of 26 miles, I thought not to be on target for a sub-2:40 time.
Not panicking, however, I quickened the pace ever so slightly, aiming for 10 miles at under an hour and then to work really hard for the next 10, and then to hang on as best I could for the last six. The strategy worked well. After passing the two fellows who dangled ahead at about seven miles, I was through 10 miles in about 59:35, stayed the course and went through 20 in 1:59.40. I lost a little time between about 21-23 miles, but found enough reserves to hold on to a 2:37.36 final time, good for 7th place after at least one of the fast boys pulled out.
With my mile splits nearly even at 6:00/mile all the way (6:01 average in the end), I was elated that I’d remained strong without losing too much time in the second half – losses were mostly through the two mile lag at 21-23.
Afterward, I chatted briefly with the fellow in second place in 2:20 (winner in 2:19). He noted a few of them were aiming for 2:10 times (Olympic qualifying times I understand). However, despite being a flat course, it featured some 50 turns, and was not as fast as they had hoped, somewhat to their disappointment. Of note is that I was not the first Master, as Sergey Kaledin of Russia took that spot in 2:27 – he was also the recent winner of the Masters title at the 2008 New York Marathon in 2:22.
Luckily my legs were not as sore as they could have been, and one blister on each foot seemed about the worst of my post race problems. Within a few hours I found the energy to take in the action of the criterium racing at the Regions Bicycle Race (photos below).
Earlier I had inquired about the best local churches to attend for a little of the famous Southern Gospel singing. To that end, on Sunday a new friend, Geraldine, accompanied me to the Mt. Zion baptist church and, full of anticipation, even my high expectations were exceeded. There the power of the extended improvised gospel solos and the Southern choir, enriched by the uninhibited participation of the congregation, rang out in thunderous glory and made beautiful the space between those reverberating church walls. That such energy and exuberance preceded a sobering sermon that spoke to Geraldine on a personal front so strongly, and would serve as a general reminder to me or to anyone on so many levels, the experience that morning is not to be quickly forgotten.
After enjoying lunch with Geraldine, who, for her protection as a single woman living in a higher-crime neighbourhood on the outskirts of Albany, is licenced to carry a pistol with her, the road ahead for me tilted generally eastward toward Savannah.
Arriving in the evening in Savannah, my legs not sore at all, though my left plantar fascia rather tender, I wandered in amazement to see the famous old city squares and Majestic Oaks laden with mossy overhangs that nearly blocked out the sun along many city streets. Oh Savannah, a city now dear to me, I would go back again for a longer visit someday.
There among the lush Georgian foliage, the bluest air above that heated to 25, I found a place to rent a bicycle. To some consternation it came without brakes, leaving stopping to be engendered only by a rapid backward pedal motion and a foot thrust to the ground, bringing you finally to a stop in a sequence of footstrikes, all the while clutching tenuously to the high-arching cowhorn handlebars – not terribly safe at speeds faster than 15km/h. Nonetheless, the bike featured fat tires and I had plenty of fun finding railroad tracks and trails and parks on which to ride.
Later in the afternoon, the last leg of my Southern visit took me over the roads to Atlanta, through which I drove to see the broken slums, people from which, I have learned since returning home, were given one-way tickets out of town before the Atlanta Olympics and their dilapidated buildings demolished. In stopping once to seek directions to the airport, there was for me a palpable sense that I, in my tank top and shorts and car rental, could have been assaulted if I were to linger very long.
Ultimately, from the friends I’d made, to the evening parade and interview, the fog on the morning of the race and a well-run marathon over which I seemed nearly to live the words of a Coldplay song when every road was a ray of light and gravity had released me; to the hot clearing skies, the fantastic bike racing, the resounding gospel singing and the spirited calls in the church that morning: “did somebody say yes? Do I hear a yes in the house today? Tell me, do I hear a yes in the house today?”; to the open highways that took me to the riches of Savannah and the reality-check of Atlanta, where my laptop was also stolen: for all of that, I said yes and allowed myself to be open to the riches offered by beautiful Georgian people and the place they call home.
I am certain I have returned richer and wiser for it all.
____________________
Savannah, Georgia, to where I travelled the day after the marathon, and after a couple of hours at a local Baptist church enjoying some high energy gospel singing. Here there are streetcars in abundance.
Corner of Abercorn and Gordon. Further up Abercorn are Savannah’s famous series of public squares, around which are one-way traffic flows, surrounded by stately Georgian/Louisian architecture and majestic oaks.
Railing adornments are not common, but may be found here and there.
A spire rises between buildings.
More great Georgian architecture.
Inside the washroom of SCAD, Savannah College of Art and Design. The building itself was a fascinating design, exemplified by its fine washrooms. Inside is some amazing artwork, and after snapping a photo of a sculpture of ants on a triangular lattice, I was warned not to, but couldn’t resist an interior shot of the bathroom – living on the edge, as I do.
In the heart of old town Savannah.
View across the river. Down the stairs between the buildings lies Riverstreet, along which are myriad shops and restaurants. Along the river massive barges and tankers travel to the awe of tourists and passersby, and across the river are a host of high-rises and offices.
Steep crumbling stairs between building rise up from Riverstreet.
Albany – immediately following the finish of the Pro 1/2 criterium of the three stage Regions Bike Race. Barely 100m from the course lay the finish line for the marathon, which I had finished just hours before watching the great criterium racing.
The men’s Pro/1,2 field with about 4 laps to go.
Downtown Albany.
Between the cones, a rider warms up.
Specators align the criterium course.
Red, white and blue – riders on a breakaway taking the corner.
Participants in a parade on the eve of the marathon.
Low light in the playground.
Across from the marathon race hotel.
Filed under Uncategorized | Comment (0)Georgia on my mind
If Georgia were not a place, but a representation of inner conflict, then for me at this moment I could kneel before it and humbly ask it to relent, or I could run frantically roughshod all over it with a steamroller of desire bent on flattening it or pressing it under, but watching it, like a sponge only to rise up again in every place I had just been.
There is a thing in Albany, Georgia, a thing called a marathon. It happens in a little over a week, on March 7. There is a number prepared for me, perhaps with my name on it, I don’t know; but the entry having been sent some months ago, by now, I am sure of this much at least: there is a number reserved for me, and it will be laid out on a table among a few thousand others. If it is not retrieved by me, it will be gathered up with those few others whose owners did not show, and cast out or used again next year.
There are kilometres in my legs, many hundreds of them. There are a few races in my legs and injuries that have come and gone; illnesses borne and shucked off, and new shoes and insoles and socks and all the old clothing that have soaked many pounds of water and sweat, and cycled through their countless go-rounds in the tumblers of driers and washing machines.
There is even a little fire in the belly, a smaller one perhaps than the one required to stoke the furnace that drives the engine of sacrifice for the cause of running 26 miles in some distant place on the Eastern seaboard that is both a place on earth as real as the keyboard on which I type, and a monument to the voice that lingers and says “why are you doing this, you are not even ready for it, and the cost is substantial, and the travel is long, and perhaps the ways are deep and the weather sharp”; but these last two things only if the voice that lingers was swept into a melancholy mood that found itself reciting an Eliotesque landscape to convey the perception of a very long journey, a journey made long only by the conflict it bore along the way.
But still there are shoes and socks and shirts and a number that waits for me, and a thousand kilometres and a few races in these legs. But there is not yet a flight on which they will travel, though, and for that, if they will make the journey through Georgia, the monument of my current conflict, to the city of Albany, then perhaps there will be something more for me to write about when I return.
Perhaps that will make all the difference.
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