Rocktober

[Sweder]

In keeping with recent efforts I shuffled off into the Montreal dawn in search of a few sneaky pre-breakfast kilometers. I got more than I bargained for, and getting out there at all was something of a struggle.

On the hair-raising plummet from my lofty perch on the 20th floor I was offered good reason to bail out. Still slightly jaded from a second consecutive night in the care of Hurleys' nurses (and more fine Diddley-Dee music dutifully and expensively published via Audioboo) I slithered into the vertical coffin next to its' lone occupant. Cue-ball bald, in his late fifties and sporting a cracking pair of Alan Wicker thick-rimmed glasses he looked every inch the European accountant. Surveying my leggings, bright red 'Sod Off' VLM loser's windcheater, tell-tale white fuse-wires leading from my arm-mounted iPhone up under my grey headband he must have surmised my intention to venture outside.

'S'raining' came the thick middle-eastern accent, replete with side-of-the-mouth smile-cum-sneer. 'S'wet'. I noted the droplets on his well-worn dark blue raincoat (wondering why he was traveling down having clearly already been out. Was he, after all, not a boring bean-counter but an incongruous, professional hit man having wrapped up his first 'clean of the day? Was some poor sap even now sliding down beneath a bath-full of blood-spattered suds? Perhaps I'd find mangled-pizza evidence of an assisted swan-dive on the sidewalk ... but I digress). 'Thanks' I returned, deadpan. Sure enough as I emerged from the womb-like lobby into the apocalyptic gloom of Sherbrooke Ouest the first icy shards of cruel rain stung into my still-warm face. Bollocks. There's a perfectly adequate (and cozy) indoor gym on the 26th floor. Nice views, might be some young filly knocking out a few ks on the tready, perhaps even a few squat-thrusts; always liked the idea of ... anyway ... but even as these thoughts formed on the end of my rapidly-numbing nose they snapped off, instantly chilled, to fall into and mingle with the fallen rain before swirling off down the filthy curbside drain.

The Garmin was not co operating. I remembered this from previous visits. Montreal is a city of avenues criss-crossed on a grid and stuffed with a variety of extremely tall buildings. Not ideal terrain for the location of the 2.3 million satellite signals required to fire up the archaic Forerunner 205. With a stiff shrug I set off up Peel street towards McGill University and the hulking mass beyond; Mont Royal. Take away the rolling hills, stunning views, fresh air and abundance of wildlife and this could be my weekly constitutional ... in as much as it starts uphill and continues on a generally upward trend for several kilometers. Almost four as it turned out. The Garmin, resigned to my indifference to its recalcitrance, bleeped into life as Peel reached Les Pines. I turned left, crossed the slick wet street and entered Mont Royal park where, shock horror! the trail continued to ascend.

I plugged away at a pitiful pace, battered, time-and -travel-ravaged body as reluctant to get going as my GPS. Trudge, trudge, trudge through a carpet of mashed wet leaves under a rainbow canopy of autumn-draped trees. At least this offered respite from the rain. My gait was one of a ski-walker sans skis; all I needed was a pair of those pretentious graphite walking poles - I mean, what are they all about? - a bobble-hat and some huge wrap-around shades and I'd complete the image I was clearly after; utter plonker.

A while later I'd hauled myself to the summit. I shambled wearily over to the parapet to look down on a city so gloomy it could easily have been named Eeyoreville. A huge furrowed eyebrow hung low over the St Lawrence river, vaporous curls wrapping around the building-tops as if about to rip the concrete and glass out of the earth in a climax to come Lord-of-the-Rings-in-the-city epic. Below me the delightful hues of red and gold smeared soggily as if seen through a misted lens, offering a dash of colour to this interminable greyscape.

Fed up with the constant drip, drip of cold (wet!) rain down the back of my neck I dragged myself away from this vision of misery and started the long, winding descent off what I've always referred to as a 'big hill'. As I reached the perilous drop back down Peel I was thoroughly soaked, deeply cold and ready for some indecently hot shower action. 'My nose is froze, my toes is froze' I thought, not sure from whence that came (turns out it's from 101 Dalmations - thank you Dr. Google) but strangely warmed by the obscure reference to what I now know to be an early cinematic memory.

By the time the hotel hove into view I was too bedraggled and sorry for myself to care. I'd covered a shade under 9.5 kilometres in what felt like half a day and it wasn't even half eight yet. Still, a run is a run and it's my fourth in six days so I'm happy enough with that. And for not giving in to the climate-controlled lure of the top floor gym. More of this outdoor stuff on Thursday I fancy; I do hope the sun’s up for an early outing.