Running in North America 2 - Montreal

[Sweder]

I loped off another 6 miler this morning, driving my bulk against fearsome wind and rain through the grubby, deserted city streets. For the last 2 miles or so I 'wrote' (in my head) an account of the run in a film noir stylee - you know:

The dark morning rain washed last night's filth from the oil-stained city streets as I left the hotel. The night-heat steamed from the sidewalks, carrying the stench of cigarettes and alcohol up between the office blocks and into the overcast skies.

I shivered, remembering the bar on Crescent where I'd rubbed shoulders with the night crawlers, interlopers and hookers working the smoke-filled rooms. We'd just gotten started, the black nectar working it's magic, when we were rudely interupted. The asshole hadda step outta line, checking out the two dames huddled in my booth, shootin' his mouth off like he owned the joint.
What were two lovely ladies like these doing with this haggard old wretch?
He found out, PDQ, left with his tail between his legs. . . .

and on and on it went.
It sounded great in my head, I could even hear a lone sax meandering along in the background, and the whole thing fit the mood of the morning; the leaden, overcast skies, the insessant rain with water racing across the tarmac, diving into the drains. But now that I'm sneaking 10 minutes during a very busy day unloading trailers at the Palais des Congress, I can't be arsed with it. Some things you should write down right away. C'est la vie.

The bit about the jerk coming onto the girls in the booth was true.
I dined with the FDI crew (the event organisers, my clients) and invited three of the ladies to accompany me on a mission to find beer in the party pub zone on Crescent. We found Ziggy's - they served Guinness and had the added bonus of enough room for us to squeeze inside, the weather already turning sour in the late evening.

We'd been there for a few hours, chuckling about FDI's past - Mexico City, Kuala Lumpur, Sydney was the best yet, and the wonders of New Delhi last year. I'd managed to tuck away a few pints of vital fluid when this guy, born in London, raised in Perth, Western Australia, proceeded to crash our party and bore us to tears with tales of selling steel in North America. I don't know how it happened, really - one minute we're laughing and joking, the next here's this chancer sliding into the booth with a cheesy grin and more hot air than a party conference. He was young (30's), fit, ruggedly good-looking, well dressed . . . if he'd played nice I'm sure he could have taken the girls on after I bailed. But no, he had to play the tosser, so he had to go.

After several uninterupted minutes of flagrant self-promotion he finally stopped to be greeted by stony silence. The penny dropped. He turned to me with a rather unpleasant, drink-fuelled sneer (not unlike that remarkable expression achieved by John Voight in Anaconda):

'I bet you wish I'd piss off, huh?'
'Yep, 'fraid so. You crashed our party, you've bored us to tears and it's time to go', I offered in a calm, measured tone (at least I think it was).
'Here here' and 'sorry' from the ladies.

He left. The girls felt I'd handled things well, though I generally loathe confrontation, especially in bars and most certainly in North America, where you never know who's armed and who's not.
One more for the ditch and we hit the road, the clock pressing 1 am.

The run this morning went well. I met up with Paul Wilson, the congress manager and a good friend for many years (Paul was my first corporate sponsor when I ran the London Marathon in 2003). We'd agreed a 7am start at his hotel, so I crawled out of bed at 6.30, flicking the coffee machine on as I stumbled bleary-eyed towards the bathroom.

It took me 5 minutes to lope down University, arriving right on 7, and we set off on a 2 mile loop around the docks, heading back along St Antoine West, through Old Montreal. Paul bailed at the Delta Hotel and I took off up University on the half-mile climb to my crib.

Running up that hill, puffing and sweating, the long climb (twice) up Las Ramblas in Almeria sprang to mind. No snakes here, Nigel, just a slight drop of pace and gently does it up the slope. I got to the hotel drenched, my Adistars a-wash - I could feel my toes 'pruning', they must've looked like old grannie's necks - eeeeuuuwww! But I felt good, my pace was steady, so I pushed on, hanging a right on Kennedy. I turned south on St. Denis, a lovely street stacked with bistros and bars. I laughed out loud as I spied and Ice Cream parlour called 'Sucre Bleur!' - fabulous name. Down the hill to Rene Levesque and west to Rue Jeanne Mance. Right again, north and uphill, finally back to the hotel.

I dripped through the lobby, map sodden, mobile doused in rain and sweat, my Reading Half vest clinging most unkindly to my cold, pink and somewhat corpulent torso. The concierge greeted me with a grin, and suggested I might like a new city map, but perhaps I'd like to pick it up later.

Total run time 53 minutes, (gu)estimated 6 miles (possibly more)
Soaked but happy. Now it's back to grind. C'est fini, la comadie