Montreal is awash with snow. Locals will tell you they’ve never known so much of the stuff to fall. Before I arrived they’d had three weeks of continuous snowfall and had started to truck vast quantities out of the city. They pile the stuff up in a disused rail terminal to the west. The dump is over seven storeys high and the worry here is that it’s now so dense it will never melt. That, or they’ll have a sudden warm snap and the whole pile with dissolve, sending this beautiful city to join Atlantis.
For snowless fools like me this is of course wonderful news. Montreal is beautiful at any time of the year, the blend of historic and daring new architectures combine to hint at the flavour and – let’s face it – sexiness of this cultural crossroads. On one street the Basilica of the Cathedral, tainted green copper against a heavy grey shroud. Two streets across the marzipan madness of the Palais des Congres, home to the 2009 World Diabetes Congress. The matrix of cross streets is typically North American but the flavour is pure Europe. French remains the primary language here and the cultural loyalty extends to a joi de vivre than includes fine music and excellent food. In its Narnian winter coat the place is positively magical, though I dare say I'd feel a good deal less romantic if I had to work here every day. Of course locals don't actually worry too much about the clogged streets; there's over forty-four kilometres of underground walkways here, complete with shops and plenty of ambiant light fed in through skylights. They're a hardy lot, and well prepared. When the mighty New York City suffered a similar deluge last winter it was their Mapled neighbours, six hundred kilometres due north, who sent in the cavalry, a convoy of cutters, shunters and snow-blowers taking to the highways to save the day.
I took to the streets for my Sunday constitutional. A ten minute study of my city map showed a series of criss-crosses would take me up through downtown to the University and the Parc du Mont Real. The locals get shirty of you refer to the ‘hill’ that stands guardian over their island city; let’s humour them and call it a mountain. The slush and hard snow proved a good deal more agreeable – and less treacherous – than I’d feared. All the same I showed due respect, keeping my plod to a modest pace as I scaled the streets. From the Rue Saint Antoine I took off west, turning up Rue de Bleury and past the stunning Basilique Saint Patrick. It’s His day today and I’ll be paying homage in traditional fashion at the excellent Hurley’s later. I took a left onto Rue Sainte-Catherine, pondering on the influence of French Catholicism abundant here. The story goes that early settlers numbered just two women and they were both Nuns. Enterprising gentry back in France lured young catholic girls with promises of land, riches and husbands, packing them off on ships to Quebec City, the one promise they would most assuredly keep being that they would never see France again. The story varies from here. Quebec dwellers will tell you all the pretty girls stayed at their landing point, Montreallers that all the smart girls came here. Only the Good Lord knows what those poor lasses made of the grizzled hirsute lumberjacks who eagerly helped them off the wagons with arms of oak and calloused paws. It must’ve worked out OK because in the years that followed the city flourished.
The hills grew a little steeper, my footing less assured as I climbed towards the Universite McGill. I stayed on the ascent to pass the learned seat, turning left onto the Avenue des Pins until the entrance to the Parc appeared. I gazed up at what I concede looked a lot more like a mountain than a hill looming overhead. The parkland wore a thick blanket of snow, the leafless trees in sharp relief showing the extent of the climb before me. I found the path and had to grin widely at it's familiar meandering nature as it wound gently towards the summit; my very own Canadian Snake, as slippery and demanding as a lardy hillside loper could wish for.
Halfway up I grew unsure as to which of the many forks in the route to take. I opted for the obvious, a steep set of rickety-looking wooden stairs leading almost vertically to what I hoped must the summit. A good deal of puffing and panting later I was gazing out across the city to the mighty rivers and the wilds beyond; what a view! The heavy snow clouds may make the pictures a little dull but I assure you what little breath I had left was whisked away by panoramic feast. Recovered I noticed a gaggle of runners, suitably clad in leggings (as was I) and looking for all the world like skiers chasing stolen equipment, hammering off up another compacted snow trail. I flagged one down to ask directions.
‘Go around – right around the top!’
I recalled the map showing a looped circuit in the park so I set off in pursuit. Aware that the Motherload might fall from the creaking skies at any time I’d chosen to wear my FLM ‘Tough Luck’ Windcheater. As some will know I tend to get a little warm on a run, and sure enough there was a good deal more precipitation inside the coat than out. The chilled air, even colder at this height, started to freeze the sweat against my back. Best not hang about then. With fresh air in my lungs I stepped up the pace, chasing the other runners down and getting up to about eight minute mile pace. A stream of outdoor adventurers passed, some on ski’s, some wearing snow shoes, others pulling happy children on wicked little sleds. There were a few dog walkers around. Most of the mutts were some form of domesticated wolf hybrid, bearded, shaggy and large. The one toy dog I saw would have been perfectly camouflaged had it not been strapped onto the most obscene little red booties. Poor thing.
I completed the loop, dodging a snow-blowing tractor that appears to crawl continuously around the trail to keep the path clear, sending plumes of powdered ice into the air and away down the slopes. I came full circle to the top of the stairs, took another set of directions (I wanted to run down the trails rather than risk horrible injury on the ice-packed steps) and swooped off towards the city. Once out of the park I continued west, taking the perilously steep roads towards the river. Traveling down hill at somewhat greater speeds than the earlier climb I took, where possible, to the snow-cleared roads. Far better to risk the occasional blast of a car horn than to slip and cause horrible damage – to me as much as to the streets of Montreal. A red-faced, sweaty chug along Rue Notre-Dame, pausing to snap the façade of the Basilique of the same name, into the Old Town with its quaint old-fashioned road signs and cobbled streets, and finally home to the Embassy Suites and the indecent embrace of a hot, powerful shower.
This was my first experience of street running on snow and I’m bound to say it was thoroughly enjoyable, one I’ll look to repeat, perhaps on Tuesday morning when the forecast is for sunny skies and even colder temperatures. The Garmin stopped at around fifteen and a half klicks, an hour and forty-five. A reasonable effort considering my thorough testing of the local black nectar the night before.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
