Running in North America 2 - Montreal

[Sweder]

A complete lack of time means the full tale of running amongst the vines in South Western France must wait awhile. Attention turns now to my current locale, Montreal, for I am here for the FDI World Dental Congress. It's a huge coming together of evil - people who have trained all their lives to pull, scrape, file, fill and drill teeth. Happily I only co ordinate the international transport and destination logistics for the event, although dealing with Canadian customs can be a bit like pulling teeth. (Eyethangyou, I'm 'ere all week - TSSSSH!)

Friday 19th August - 3.5 mile city plod
I arrived in Monteal last night and crashed spectacularly early in my hotel room. Awoke this morning at 6am, the sun peeking over the cityscape outside my 20th floor window. A cup of coffee, running gear on and I was out the door ready to embrace the quiet city streets.

Armed with my mobile/ stopwatch and a very shabby map I set off in the general direction of the Palais des Congress. As I reached the impressive modern frontage, repleat with stained glass walls, I was hailed by a fellow jogger. This chap, it turns out, works as aircrew for Air France and is also out for his first ever morning slog around Montreal, and is lost. He's French, and so holds a distinct advantage over poor mono-languaged moi. However, he was sans map, so the advantage this morning was all mine.

I invited him to join me. We continued south towards the docks along la Rue St Pierre, past the neo-Gothic Catherdral Notre Dame (that's really what they call it - a rather modest facsmilie of the fabulous Parisian original). Downtown Montreal has a San Francisco-esque profile, although the gradients are more forgiving for the morning plodder.

The docks, I reasoned, being set around water, should be relatively flat. They were. A mile in and my new companion, in his late 20's and thin as a rake, started puffing like an old man with an opium habit. I slowed a little, and after a minute or two light conversation became possible.

The fellow has spent a lot of time in Charlotte, Carolina, training with ex-pat Rugby Players who, seeing as he was the lone Frenchman in the group, predictably christened him 'Froggie'. I delighted in this revelation, and resolved to use his new monika, much to his chagrin.

The dockside offered a cinder track/ cycle path, and we took it west away from the rising sun. Our conversation turned to International Rugby, Froggie lamenting the poor performance of the French coach, Bernard Laport. We agreed on the following:

1. French indiscipline costs them more matches than lack of skill
2. Frederick Michelack is the new star of Northern Hemisphere Rugby
3. England miss the duffers who bailed after the World Cup triumph in 2003

Blimey! 2003 . . . I was in Sydney just 3 weeks before that tournament started, for this very same congress. How time flies.

The track looped back after a klick or so, and we followed it's course. As we passed University, the main uphill drag into the downtown area, I noticed a good deal of yellow barrier tape ahead. Beyond this a collection of police cars, TV crew vans and various uniformed personnel littered the road and sidewalk. Discretion overcame curiosity and we turned North and homeward, crossing via Rue St Jaques to Rue St. Laurent. Froggie had tired on the incline and waved farewell, destined for a shower and the evening flight to Charles de Gaulle. I pushed on, increasing my pace and looking for my cross street. President Kennedy Avenue duly appeared, and I wheeled west toward the hotel.

35 minutes, with stops, various speeds (Froggies don't like hills, it seems) equated to around 3.5 miles or so - at least that's what I'm booking. I reckon I'll get out 2 days out of every 3 (a few hangovers expected this week as this congress brings a few old friends together). I'll aim for 5 miles tomorrow - oh, and I may look up the local Garmin dealer; I've had it with this guestimated mileage malarky.

[Sweder]

I'm a reasonable guy. Happy go lucky, roll with the punches, never get too heated about anything much. But I have a complaint, a rant if you will, and it is one echoed by travellers the world over.

Hotel showers. What's the hot-dang, dogone deal?
No two are alike, they are deliberately designed to frustrate the most adept fan of the Krypton factor, and they are absolutely dedicated to making sure you leave your room late, burned, frozen or unwashed.

In this day and age, when politicians are bemoaning the ease with which each generation breezes through exams, surely the toughest test on the planet is the Degree in Hotel Shower Management.

How to handle a new hotel shower:
1. Wake at least 30 minutes before shower required
2. Attempt to locate 'on/off' and 'hot/cold' controls
3. Operate assumed controls in the manner you surmise to be correct
4. Find the plug and empty the partly-run bath and start again
5. Now that the water is coming from the shower-head, adjust temperature controls to 'medium'
6. Remove apparel/ towel/ smoking jacket and climb into shower
7. Exit shower rapidly to avoid scalding/ freezing to death. Keep voice down as you emit string of expletives - it's still early
8. Adjust temperature controls (I know the settings look all wrong, but just look at the nasty heat-rash blooming on your chest) and return to shower

At this juncture the smart amongst you will get on with it and have your shower. Or, as some always must, you can fiddle with the water spray settings on the showerhead (unless you're in the former Soviet Union, in which case you should leave the mouldy hosepipe alone).

I could go on ad nauseum about waterflow (you either have to run around in the bath to get wet or harness yourself to the wall to prevent expulsion through the side of the building), but I can sense your will to live looking for the exit. Suffice to say I managed to accrue a good number of the above post-run; at least the longer run tomorrow is possible - I took the precaution of making notes.

Merde! Ill plus!

[El Gordo]

Ah yes, hotel shower syndrome. A subject close to my heart. I'm always amazed by the number of variations possible, and the lengths to which bathroom equipment manufacturers will go to ensure that grubby end users suffer. I don't want to dwell on this too much as it's likely to distress me just as I'm finishing work for the week, and it will endanger my peace of mind for the coming weekend in the mountains of New Hampshire. But suffice to say I've been near traumatised by the frustrations of trying to get water - of any temperature or colour - to emerge from some hotel room showers. And if and when I do eventually crack the code and get something wet to appear, it only opens the door to the next problem, namely velocity: either too much or too little. And after that? temperature of course.

I feel your pain, Sweder.

[Nigel]

Count yourselves lucky, guys. Last time I arrived in Calgary (sorry Suzie), having learnt that my luggage was still at Heathrow due to a baggage handlers' strike, and having spent all evening buying new kit, I had to call the hotel plumber at 11pm (7am UK) when I couldn't get the bath to STOP running.

Enjoy Montreal, Sweder. Try a lap of the warm-up track outside the Olympic Stadium. Greats like Viren and Juantorena (and, er, me) have strode majestically around it before you....

Back to that paella.

[Sweder]

Thanks for that, Nige. I'll plod off down Sherbrooke East tomorrow morning and do just that. Always an honour to follow in the footsteps of El Niguel. Meanwhile, back to my own agenda for this evening, carbo-loading Black Nectar style . . .

[El Gordo]

I'll be right behind you, Sweder. Following an excess of beerlessness this week as I've tried to bend my head around 4.5 days of technical training, tonight I'm off the leash. I'm a little restricted in that there is nowhere much within walking distance from here, so it looks like I'll be hitting tHe hotel bar, were at least I notice they have Sam Adams Boston beer on draught.

Cheers!

[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

[Sweder]

The equaliser.
I'd planned on at least a 3 miler this morning, but my US agent and long time friend Mike Kovac arrived in town in search of Guinness. I had taken on the black nectar on Friday night and lived to slog 6 miles saturday morning. Last evening saw Guinness strike back with a vengance. That and a breakfast meeting with Mike at 6.30 am put paid to any thoughts of a run. Just as well - my runners remain sodden following yesterdays deluge. Of course the sun was up bright n early this morning, barely a cloud in the sky.

We'll see what tomorrow, or perhaps more importantly, tonight brings.

[Sweder]

Managed a swift 3 miles this morning through the old town and along the dockside, setting off under blood-red skies at 06:30. Heavy-legged from another night on the town - subsituted the occasional G&T to cut down the Guinness intake, which helped a little.

29:35 for a little over 3 miles.
If I can average 3 miles a day this trip I'll be delighted.

[Sweder]

Well, you might have guessed from the lack of midweek updates the social side of my visit to Montreal is in full swing. Running is certainly on the back-burner, with Wednesday night - Thursday morning proving to be the pinnacle of the revelry. Happily I managed some sleep Thursday night, but with a 'ghoster' (all-night working) on the cards Saturday/ Sunday tomorrow morning looks like my last opportunity to get the boots on.

Mont Real, the mountain rising behind the city, has a number of excellent running circuits.
I hope to get there tomorrow, though I'm not holding my breath.

[Seafront Plodder]

Don't feel guilty me ole fruit.

Judging by the activity here we'all shirkers at the moment.

Myself included.