There is unrest in the forest
There is trouble with the trees
For the maples want more sunlight
And the oaks ignore their pleas
It’s easy to fall in love with Montreal. Cultures blend effortlessly; French elegance and couture, British order and climate with a dash of New York street savvy, mapped out in hop-scotch street blocks. This fusion is expressed though names like Rue du McTavish, Avenue President Kennedy and Rue Notre Dame. Gothic architecture rubs shoulders with brownstone townhouse and city block escarpment, replete with rusty fire escapes and weed-heavy back-lots.
Shortly before seven this morning I shuffled wearily along Rue de Bleury on my way to the Parc du Mont Real. I’d been here before back in March, but whereas the city then was draped in winters’ white, now she wowed in a dazzling array of gold and scarlet as autumn took the stage. The early sun peeked across the Saint Laurent river, illuminating oak and maple on the mountain’s hem, iridescent against a steel-grey sky. As I chugged off the Avenue du Parc, leaving the bad-tempered town-bound traffic to snarl and honk, the roar of impatient motors receded as the forest took me in its soft embrace. Cold hard pavement yielded to a thick carpet of red and gold; bleak brick and concrete replaced by lofty, lithe-limbed guardians, stuttering streetlamps by a canopy of dancing, rustling joy.
The trouble with the maples
(and they’re quite convinced they’re right)
They say the oaks are just too lofty
And they grab up all the light
But the oaks can’t help their feelings
If they like the way they’re made
And they wonder why the maples
Can’t be happy in their shade
I took the long and winding trail to the summit at a leisurely pace, drinking in the moments like a man with a desperate thirst. In my ears Robert Plant assured me that since he’d been loving me he’d been about to lose his worried mind. The setting - cool temperature, gently waving trees, squirrels gambolling in dappled shade, the occasional ‘Bonjour’ from walkers and cyclists, beautifully crafted, gentle music - sent me into a semi-conscious state. I started to day-dream, images flickering on the fringes of my thoughts until one swam into sharp relief. It was so clear, and so entirely unexpected, it almost stopped me in my tracks.
I was dancing with a beautiful young woman. We were both done up to the nines, me in a Tux, she in a stunning ball gown, her long hair swept back from a delicate pale forehead. Her eyes sparkled like rare jewels, her mouth beamed a generous smile of love and pride. Around us, slightly out of focus, a large convivial crowd clapped and laughed as we danced. My feet were lighter than air as I swooped and span the girl around me, effortless and graceful. I could feel my grin broaden and, as the realisation of this moment dawned, a tear escaped to roll down my frozen cheek and splash onto my clammy running vest.
For this, clear as day, set at some as yet unknown point in the future, was me, dancing with my daughter, on her wedding day.
The emotion was so powerful, so intoxicating and so real that I’m fighting back the tears even now. As I came to understand the significance of the moment the image started to fade, like a snowflake landed on a child’s outstretched palm.
There is trouble in the forest
And the creatures all have fled
As the maples scream `oppression!`
And the oaks just shake their heads
I stopped atop Mont Royal to watch the sun rise over the waking city. An elderly gentleman had taken station in the centre of the paved section of the look-out, lost in his own world of Tai Chi, watched silently by a woman of similar age. Below us the city's arteries spread, connected by buildings of all shapes and sizes, fused by occasional splashes of natural foliage and man-made parkland. To the east the La Fontaine bridge spanned the mighty Saint Laurent, leading highway 20 on its quest to Quebec. The hinterlands to the south and west shone, hazy in the sunlight, merging with the horizon in a blue-grey smudge.
After a sweaty slurp from a drinking fountain I turned tail and hit the downslope, my heavy tread beating out a slap-slap rhythm that even a cranked up i-plod couldn’t smother. I felt certain I was causing the ground to shake as I thundered off the mountain and back towards a hot shower, breakfast and work. Last night’s Guinness wobbled unkindly around my waist, bringing feelings of guilt as I recalled EG’s parting shot yesterday ‘aren’t we being good?’ Well, I was . . . but then there was Hurley’s and I had to drink to MLCMan’s birthday, then Antonio’s, then the band started playing Diddly-Dee music (sorry about the late-night phone call SP). By the time I’d resolved to call it a night I’d started talking to Brian the Barkeep about the Canadian election which, not that you’d know it, took place yesterday. The ruling Conservative PM had called a snap election to try to gain an outright majority. As it turned out he failed, but made significant gains in local government positions.
I bore down on downtown, a sweaty blob all in white (now part translucent) hurtling down the perilous slopes of Rue de Bleury. I felt sorry for the ashen-faced commuters yeilding to this lumbering juggernaut as they scurried about their business. Lemmy & Co popped up in my ears, crooning another favoured love song from yesteryear, Bomber. I’d already enjoyed Dead men Tell No Tales – a ditty about the perils of hard drugs, announced by Lord Kilminster on stage as ‘Dead Men Smell Toe Nails’ – and the heart-pounding ‘Sucker’ to spur me on as I flagged over the last few kilometres. The chorus, much like the infamous Ace of Spades, is a chanted repetition, this time of ‘It’s a Bomber’. With my mind on the US elections it sounded uncannily like ‘It’s Obama’. This helped replace the pavement-pounded grimace with a cheesy grin as I floundered up to the hotel. The shower was restorative, almost indecent in its embrace, the breakfast that followed rich and plentiful and heartily devoured.
13.8 kilometres, 1 hour 18 mins.
So the maples formed a union
And demanded equal rights
the oaks are just too greedy
We will make them give us light
Now theres no more oak oppression
For they passed a noble law
And the trees are all kept equal
By hatchet,
Axe,
And saw ...
The Trees, Rush
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Hurley's is magical MLCMan.
There's a big open bar upstairs which is a bit too modern for my tastes.
Downstairs there's a rabbit's warren of nooks and crannies where you can while away the hours, a music room (for the Diddley-dee music) and that wonderfully baroque, scraggy old bar.
I noticed they serve a wheat beer - Weiss beer in Europe - along the lines of Hoegaarden, served with a slice of lemon as it is in Belgium.
I asked a waitress about it and apparently it's a local brew and very popular it is too. Did I want to try it?
I gestured to my half-empty Guinness and smiled.
She smiled back and moved on. Sometimes there's no need for words
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I don't know why certain people pay good money to have their backsides strapped by some middle-aged Doris wrapped in black clingfilm. Seems to me 45 minutes on a static bike would do the job for a good deal less. I nipped down to the hotel gym just as the maid threatened to evict me from my room. She stood in the doorway, a five foot tall/ wide ball of housekeeping fury swaythed in trowelled-on make-up, brandishing a toilet brush and a set of clean towels.
'Meester, you go know! Must clean room!'
'Just a mo dear, must hit the gym first. Then shower, then dressed, then leave, OK?'
She offered me a frightening gap-toothed smile and bustled off down the corridor, no doubt to put the fear of God into any other slackers still loafing in their dorms.
No sign of the delicious young woman who'd entertained us all so acrobatically on Tuesday. In fact the torture chamber was bereft of life save for a worbling Tammy Wynette assaulting the crackly PA. I swiftly donned my earphones, plugging into the Texan sophistry of early ZZ Top before leaping aboard my very own pain machine. Jesus Just Left Chicago, Been Waiting For The Bus All Day, Pearl Necklace, La Grange . . . ah Tejas, how I've missed you! 45 minutes 'covering' 14 miles, average heartrate of 122 (it went up to 145 when Motorhead's delicious Going Down popped up), oodles of sweat flecking the dull-grey cowling. I felt good for having bothered - with five hours to kill before strapping a 777 to my backside I could as easily have opted for a Hurley's matinee - but walking like John Wayne for the rest of the day seems a high price to pay for good behaviour.
Now, sat in the lobby bar, duly turfed out by Rosa Kleb, a plate of half-mauled Soba Noodles congeling next to a Virgin Mary ('we'd all like one of those' quipped the waiter), I'm thinking that Hurley's might be a good call after all. Trouble is it's not a great option is it? Undoing the good of today's peddlefest and loading up on alcohol before a seven-hour dehydration session at altitude. OK, here's the deal; I'll go to Hurley's but limit myself to two pints of Guinness. I'll drink them very slowly, savouring every sip, and the moment the second one is drained I'll spin on my chair and hail a cab to Dorval.
Can't say fairer than that, eh?
[SIZE="1"]God it's hard to type with your fingers crossed.[/SIZE]
Uploaded overview of route and elevation from yesterday's run
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
From the madding crowds of Terminal 4 Arrivals to the blissful calm of the South Downs in a shade under three hours; what a glorious way to end the week. Blue skies, the gentlest of cool breezes and dry yet springy turf to embrace my heavy jet-lagged tread. The hounds were overjoyed at my return, hassling with lolling tongues and wagging tails until, having chucked my bags into a corner, I acquiesced, wearily pulling on shorts, shoes and a vest before stumbling out into the glorious sunshine. I'd swapped carpets of gold and scarlet for good old Sussex autumn drab but it's a fair exchange in my book.
Yesterday I’d compromised my Hurley’s deal; I did stick to two pints of Guinness, extending the arrangement to incorporate 'two pints per leg'. Well, four hours is a bloody long time to nurse two tiny weeny pints :o As I’ve said before I love the downstairs bar in this place, it’s a bona fide meeting place for kindred spirits and old friends. When I arrived at 3.30 pm three pals were swapping stories, laced with raucous guffaws, about local politics and politicians. Within an hour we were joined by Katie, a blonde Irish-Canadian regular, 52 years old armed with sparkling eyes and a quick-fire delivery, unhappy with her weight but none-the-less a committed ale-hound. Another pint and she’d told me how she likes nothing better than to cavort around her spacious apartment in her lacy underwear listening to James Taylor or Janis Joplin. Huh, and here’s me with a darned ‘plane to catch . . .
Next to arrive was Annette, an impressively large African-American lady hailing from Portland, Oregon. On the cusp of her 60th birthday Annette had vowed to 'tour Canada in the fall’ and was having a whale of a time. She got wedged into a bar-side chair then stuck into a pint of Guinness, downed with alarming gusto, offering pithy observations on Portland wines (a very well-kept secret apparently, and subject of an hilarious movie Bottle Shock, satirical in a Sideways style and, most appealing of all, poking fun at French wine-snobbery). I don’t know what it is about North American women; they seem anxious to provide a potted history within the first few minutes of meeting; previous husbands, personal issues, likes and dislikes. I guess it’s called cutting to the chase but to my very British sensibilities it all seems a bit brash and invasive.
Finally the time came to sink my last glass and head for the door, exchanging fond farewells with my new-found friends. I’ll be back in April and again in October. Chances are most of these guys will at some point be gathered around the same copper-plated bar shooting the breeze. It’s a comforting thought in these ever-changing, hundred-mile-an-hour times.
My plod today was, at first anyway, a modest one, anxious not to literally put a foot wrong in my partly shell-shocked state. Once I’d scaled Blackcap I felt a second wind come upon me (probably the kindly westerly ready to shove me homeward) and I started to up the anti. My pace ranged from pedestrian – 8 minute kilometres at various points – to positively break-neck at the finish, ducking below 4 minute pace for the last half a klick. Enjoyable stuff, and as far as dealing with travel fatigue goes, hugely effective.
[SIZE="1"]Below: snapshot on the homeward leg, Lewes and Alfriston hills in the background, plus pace chart from the Garmin showing a 'rapid' finish.[/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Dragged my horribly inflated belly off to the BHTT at Hove Park for a depressingly slow jog around the circuit. I had hoped to keep up with MSilv - herself just off the back of completing the Loch Ness marathon so 'taking it easy' - but even that was to prove beyond me. Last night's unwise Doner Kebab (I know I know, blame it on the Harvey's and bloody Captain Tom) sat, solid and immovable, hanging off my waistline like some sort of internal sandbag. At least the beer had the good grace to leave as I started to warm up, pouring out of me just like water from a barrel full of bullet-holes. Ugly stuff - horrible, horrible.
Gillybean (marsahlling) offered kind encouragement as I shuffled by. It was well-meant but did nothing for my self esteem, itself dragging along behind like a child after a good scolding. Still, I did it and under 25 minutes to boot. Three full minutes off my PB but under the circumstances I'm proud of myself for getting round. Very round. Congrats to Simon on bagging a stunning sub-20 minute PB and to MSilv who, spurred on by the threat of having to run next to a sweaty barrel, pouched a PB of her own.
Garmin data below, published mainly to show myself where the bottom of the barrel is. I'll need to visit this post next time I'm tempted.
Post run, after a convivial coffee with Simon, Gillybean, Msilv and Stevio I nipped round to see Moyleman. He's in good spirits having undergone round one of a series of impossibly tough treatments. He's been seeing my favorite Warlock Annie and she's working her magic, helping MM to get a decent night's sleep, essential for storing up energy for the fight ahead. Tina and Chris's Mum are doing great work keeping him well fed and a stream of callers and visitors are making sure there's rarely a dull moment.
I told him about my brush with the Scales of Awful Truth and he laughed.
'Could use some of that meself' he grinned, before delivering a dagger to the well-protected heart of his running partner of the last two years.
'So, what are you now, 16 stone?'
Cheeky b@st@rd!
Time, rest, good food and the love of friends and family are what's needed.
I've met very few people with his fight, sense of focus and quiet determination, honed over hundreds of miles of hard hill running in the foulest conditions.
I know we'll be seeing a lot more of the Mighty Moyle.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
You're being way too modest as usual. 3 minutes off a 5K PB is equivalent to 25 minutes off a marathon PB. That's fantastic. Very well done. How you can even go for a jog after a night of beer and kebabs is beyond me, never mind turn in a massive PB.
Unless of course you've accidentally discovered a key dietary running aid.....
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Afraid 'off' in this case means 'not up to' or 'short of' - as in 'off target'.
The ambiguous declaration is symptomatic of my woolly head.
I'm still proud of turning up and chugging 'round though :o
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:Afraid 'off' in this case means 'not up to' or 'short of' - as in 'off target'.
The ambiguous declaration is symptomatic of my woolly head.
I'm still proud of turning up and chugging 'round though :o
Ha ha! Right OK, that makes more sense unfortunately.
But being a generous sort of chap, I'll leave my congratulations where they are as it was still an achievement to turn out today.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Monday saw an outing to Tandridge with MGS. Trandridge has a fine course but is best known for incomporable cuisine. We dined so well I was unable to move for some while, having consumed a selection of roast beasts (beef, lamb and pork), a mountain of succulent al dente veg, yorkshire pudd, roast spuds and samples of at least three heavy-duty deserts including my nemesis, bread and butter pudding
The upside of all this is that when the three musky beers ventured into Lewes for a nightcap that eveing my Guinness consumption was severely restricted. I felt grateful for that this morning. After bidding SP a pre-dawn farewell (he'd crashed at Chez Sweder) I headed for the hills and a stodgy yet continuous run. 48 minutes may sound reasonable for the hilly five miler but I confess to taking the easy route so this was effectively four minutes slower than it should have been.
I'm not beating myself up about it; I'm pleased to have got out at all.
Good job I did too - I have a luncheon at Scotts in Mayfair today, Ian Flemming's favourite seafood restaurant and oyster bar.
The name's Bucket; Lard Bucket
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:After bidding SP a pre-dawn farewell (he'd crashed at Chez Sweder)
Hmmm.......I might just add here, that the 6.45am sight of Sweder in the kitchen cheerfully making tea whilst dressed only in a skimpy pair of undercrackers isn't the best start to a day I've ever had...
Breakfast -- porridge with raisins, banana and bran; glass of smoothie, green tea
After 4 mile run, lunch of chicken leg and home-made salad concoction (beans, chopped onion, grated carrot, red pepper, mushroom)
Late afternoon: fruit
Evening: baked potato with tuna and green salad.
Green tea and water throughout the day.
Probably sounds awful but it was delicious. Seems to be gradually melting the worst of the lard as well.
The surprising thing about having a healthy spell is that you seem to lose your cravings for the roast dinner, bread and butter pudding and Guinness diet. I should be salivating over your day, but strangely, I'm not. B and B pudding is a former weakness of mine too, especially M's mum's version, but at the moment, it holds no appeal. I'm sort of enjoying the change, and enjoying how it's making me feel.
Oh dear, this all sounds a bit sanctimonious, doesn't it? Isn't meant to, honestly. Wonder when I'll crack. It's normally happened before now. Usually a fortnight off the booze is enough to send me nuts, and I run back to the pub with my tongue hanging out. It's been 4 weeks +, and no sign of caving in just yet. I hope to continue as far as Brighton at least, and will see how I feel then. Next obstacle after that is Christmas, then another month to Almeria. What happens if I get to Almeria without having surrendered? Surely I wouldn't consider a booze-free Almeria?
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
msilv Wrote:Well done EG stick with it and beat the B and B pudding.
You'll reap the benefits at Brighton and could treat yourself to a medicinal guinness after?
Thanks for the encouragement, msilv. Sadly, I suspect that an "OK, just one then" to the offer of a Guinness, or anything else alcoholic, will signal the end of the good work. I'm a bit all or nothing, I'm afraid.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
ladyrunner Wrote:Definately not. I'm getting quite excited about all the talk of Guiness and Rioja. Wouldn't mind trying some of the local beers aswell.
Julie
I know, it sounds outlandish. But see reply to msilv, above.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
I'll happily take credit for the beer bottle feat, but I fear I'd fail even if I tried it now. I noticed yesterday that it's become increasingly difficult to take part in conference calls by reclining in a chair with the phone safely resting on my... front section, as is my habit. I knew there would be drawbacks to this healthy regime.
As for Brighton, we've tended to head off to Al Fresco on the seafront in past years. Not sure if you're part of that plan or have another. Might be good to all meet up and discuss Almeria strategy.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Vintage Sweder. 
