Hugh Trenchard

“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.

“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.