March blows in, mean and harsh out of a cold steel sky.
I love this time of year, filled with promise, a mixed bag of weather-gifts lined up to tantalise the runner. The month is but a day old and already I've seen clouds race past my window east to west as if in time-lapse. Spring has sent advance scouts to check the lie of the land; here a cluster of snowdrops, there the first batch of Sussex lambs. All this and no spring marathon on the agenda; most odd.
March also sees an increase in my travel schedule; Estoril, Montreal and Shanghai set to halt the snail-paced progression out of Christmas sloth. I'll run when I can, keep the old cogs and gears clicking.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
After a week off followed by a couple of lazy mid-week lopes I decided to hook up with the Jog Shop Joggers this morning to see how they were getting on. Around forty runners gathered above the Marina, keen to get started. The routes on offer this morning were
One: The Big V (half the Big W) taking in North Face, Yellow Brick Road, Big V, Castle Hill, Death Valley and The Snake. In all just shy of nineteen miles of leg-thrashing hell. Not for me, this one. Two: NF, YBR, Snake, Double Back, Windmill Hill/ St Dunstans and back along the cliff-tops (around sixteen miles). Or Three: a straight Snake with a double-back to the Reservoir, Windmill Hill and cliff-top finish for a shade under fifteen.
It took me about one point two seconds to go for option three. This would be the largest group and would split at the top of Telscombe Tye into 'fast' and 'slow' packs. Sam asked me to take the front group. He would ride alongside the slowbies, watching out for strugglers/ injured runners.
The front group turned out to made up of me and three svelt and rather lovely ladies. It is, as some have said before, a tough job... We set off after the three mile preramble, charging up the steep climb out of Saltdean at a fair pace. I felt good, my enforced mini-taper and deliberately sparse running week leaving my legs fresh and full of running. We chatted easily about the races ahead. My mention of Bombay* raised an eyebrow or two, drawing comments about 'heat' and 'humidity'. Ah yes, part of my Master Plan: if I can suck up the heat of Mumbai** in January I should be better prepared for Cape Town at Easter. At least, that's the thinking; it could all go the way of all flesh before then but I feel it's good to have a dream.
Around twelve miles in I noticed the unwelcome return of my old mucker the Calf Strain. Fitting that this should rear its ugly head now, for today sees the running of the Steyning Stinger, the brutal Sussex off-road marathon that spawned the injury twelve months ago. Conditions today were benign by comparison with that rain-lashed swamp-fest. I felt a pang of envy as I looked across the hills where patches of sunlight danced between the rushing shadows of the scurrying clouds. I'd like to have taken on the Stinger Half today but the race, as with so many around these parts these days, closed its doors some time ago, already full to the brim with masochistic locals.
My companions today got stuck into their miles with great gusto. A biting cold wind raced out of the west to slap our faces on the steeper sections, adding a welcome spice to the challenge. In the low-lying valleys the cruel wind abated leaving the sunshine to warm our sweaty backs unmolested. Chantelle, someone I'd not run with until today, showed endless energy as she bounded up the Snake, arms rocking in a nice compact style. She gasped at the fabulous landscapes stretched out below us, and not for the first time I gave thanks that I live and run in this beautiful place. Behind us Jill and Holly (another newbie to me) worked hard to keep up. We took the sharp left-hand turn at the head of the Snake, taking the cinder track back down to the foothills before heading due south towards the reservoir. The hardtop road took us over a hill before stretching away in a gentle descent into Rottingdean. In the distance the English Channel glittered and twitched, bringing to mind that Cardiacs classic Cold As Can Be In An English Sea.
Home in around two and a half hours. My calf felt pretty sore, even after some determined stretching; looks like another visit to Evil Annie and her Screaming Chinese Cups of Pain Still, a steaming cuppa at Mac's, where Remmy and Simon returned after their epic long route encounter plastered in mud and looking horribly pale, soon had my spirits restored. Roll on next week when I hope to get a full session in.
(That's running session SP )
[SIZE="1"]* Pedants please note; generally I'm sticking with the old name for the city. My new friend Amit uses 'Bombay', and he lives there
** I reserve the right to contradict myself at all times.[/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
An evil, eviscerating wind scoured out of the west, intent on scrubbing all warm-blooded life from the blasted tundra. Even the tall grasses, normally golden strands waving on the breeze, were blanched white, bent in supplication in the face of such an onslaught. My recovery run, initially to assess possible fall-out from yesterday’s long'un, soon became a matter of survival. In no time my solid frontage became a frozen slab of lard. Sweat popped out on my forehead to fall to the freeze-dried earth in icy droplets.
The calf whined a bit but was no worse than sore. History shows this needs to be dealt with sooner rather than later so I'll schedule a visit to the Iron-fingered Lady in the near future. Otherwise the inevitable stiffness faded after a couple of miles, blood finally warm enough to bring life back to tired limbs. Today’s track du jour was always going to be a pick-me-up, and Mr Cooper obliged with back-to-back classics. First up ZZ Top with the classic Tush, followed, inevitably one might say after such blatantly misogynistic revelations, by ACDC with Shot Down In Flames. That Alice, he’s such a wag . . .
Rarely has a hot shower provided such intense relief; it truly felt like a thawing today. I could tell that the water was hot because the bathroom filled rapidly with steam. However it took several minutes before I could feel the warmth (and then scalding heat) from the cascading water. The forecast this week is for ice and snow. Bring it on.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I've been listening (on line) to a fair bit of Planet Rock lately, esp. the fab Alice Cooper brekky show. I discovered this is syndicated out of the U.S. and that he also does a five hour night time show 5 days per week - that's 8 hours of Alice Cooper radio every day! Of course it's all pre-recorded - he just records his links and a computer auto-inserts the music at broadcast time, but it's still an impressive feat, especially as he's still touring, AND (this will impress SP) he plays 36 holes of golf *every* day (handicap of 4)!
The guy's a workaholic. Just like our famous Sweder, here.
Mid Life Crisis Man Wrote:Good luck with the calf mate - look after it.
I've been listening (on line) to a fair bit of Planet Rock lately, esp. the fab Alice Cooper brekky show. I discovered this is syndicated out of the U.S. and that he also does a five hour night time show 5 days per week - that's 8 hours of Alice Cooper radio every day! Of course it's all pre-recorded - he just records his links and a computer auto-inserts the music at broadcast time, but it's still an impressive feat, especially as he's still touring, AND (this will impress SP) he plays 36 holes of golf *every* day (handicap of 4)!
The guy's a workaholic. Just like our famous Sweder, here.
I'm breaking into a sweat just thinking about it.
Hmm, when I saw Alice Cooper's sensational Welcome to my Nightmare tour back in the mid-seventies, complete with stage-spanning spider's web, across which our ghastly hero clambered, spitting venom, dripping blood, bellowing out his apocalyptic nihilism, it never occurred to this quivering 18 year old that one day I'd be thinking: "Wow, Alice Cooper plays 36 holes of golf a day and has a handicap of 4. That's really cool".
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
El Gordo Wrote:Hmm, when I saw Alice Cooper's sensational Welcome to my Nightmare tour back in the mid-seventies, complete with stage-spanning spider's web, across which our ghastly hero clambered, spitting venom, dripping blood, bellowing out his apocalyptic nihilism, it never occurred to this quivering 18 year old that one day I'd be thinking: "Wow, Alice Cooper plays 36 holes of golf a day and has a handicap of 4. That's really cool".
Yeah, I've got mates from way back who used to hump bass bins with me for a variety of long-haired ear-destroying rock bands going through similar trauma.
'So, this Motorhead roadie who used to neck a bottle of vodka in the afternoon, chain-smoke 60 per day and sleep rough in mailcarts on railway stations between gigs is a long distance runner eh? As Girlschool would, indeed did say, yeah, right!'
I bailed out of my morning run thanks to a combination of an early meeting in The Smoke and a late night spent feasting on the re-run glories of the Champions League.
Hats off to Arsenal, the first team from England to tame the mighty AC Milan in their own formidable back yard. For twenty minutes it looked as though Milan’s maestro, Kaka, would carry on where he left off last year against the Rowdies. That night United had their pants pulled down on a very public stage, their tender European inadequacies cruelly exposed. Arsenal rocked and rolled and withstood the early pressure, growing in confidence before their own conductor took up the baton to gather his musicians. Pace, power and – yes, it has to be said – youth took centre stage. Milan’s elder statesmen, Gattuso, the peerless Maldini, aged visibly in the second half. You could almost see the grey hairs, like those of their coach, spreading like a virus. The ailment was not confined to the pitch; the Milanese, so used to dining on the finest footballing fare, stood aghast as their heroes were driven back by the wonderful Fabregas and his darting, weaving apprentices.
When Walcott came on, sadly the first Englishman to take to the turf in the match, Maldini seemed to shrink. Pirlo, surely having the most torrid time since he won his spurs, went from poor to simply wretched. It was fitting that Fabregas should score the opener with seven minutes left, a goal that all but sealed the tie with Milan needing two; entirely in keeping with the flow of the game that Walcott and Adebayor should combine to deliver the coupe des grace.
My own side were struggling to a barely deserved one-nil victory over Lyon at the Devilbowl. I’d resolved to flick between ITVs 1 and 4 to follow both games live, but frankly there was only one team worth watching and it wasn’t United. I should also say at this juncture that Lord Ferg had only found four Englishmen of his own to start the match; Brown, Ferdinand, Carrick and Rooney. It was a prodigious Portuguese talent, scoring his thirtieth goal in as many games, who stole the honours. I’m looking forward to Euro 2008 when Ronaldo and Nani look set to torture a few defences.
But the last word lies with the Gunners and their professorial manager. Wenger did a fabulous job of suppressing his obvious joy, speaking in measured tones about achievement, optimism and humility. His heart must have soared as he watched his charges embarrass the European Champions, playing with élan, a freedom of expression and attacking flair that will surely add a little spice to the chill wind blowing through Europe this morning.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I watched the second half of my beloved Uniteds game in true Dr Who style ie from behind the sofa. I sometimes think they enjoy making us suffer. AC's fans looked completely shell shocked to be beaten at home. Maybe they can get used to it :-)
Very gracious of you. I was going to post something earlier, along the lines of "you'll have missed a treat not watching Arsenal last night", but I see that would have been presumptuous.
Agree with all you say. When they want to be, they are very possibly the best team in the world. All they lack of course is consistency, and I suspect it may be this that sends the title devilbowlwards for another season. I'm a relative neutral when it comes to Arsenal, Liverpool, Manu, but there is something about Arsenal when they play like this that makes them just top of my mini-league. But I'd be happy for any of those 3 to win the CL. On the other hand, I'll be (in true footie fan fashion) 'totally gutted' if Chelsea do it. For this reason, I last night had my annual bet on them to win it. It's a bet I'm desperate to lose, but at least if they do, I'll be picking up £600 by way of some small recompense.
Perfect scenario -- A triumphant Olympiakos tonight and Barnsley in the FA Cup at the weekend.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
A swift lunchtime scamper across the downs. Amazing how much warmer it is running in the middle of the day - heat radiated out of the very ground that a few hours earlier offered all the hospitality of frozen pastry.
Mercifully the calf seems to have settled, though it'll face a more rigorous workout on Sunday.
Track du jour, Girlschool's light-hearted cover of ZZ Top's Tush. Nice one ladies
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I was woken by the rain, a million nails hammered into the bedroom window all at once. Oh joy. Six fifty-five Sunday morning, the best part of three hours slog through slippery Sussex hills ahead. The duvet clung like a selfish lover, wrapping its warmth around my wobbly frame. Resistance, as the Borg will tell you, is futile, so I dragged myself downstairs in search of honey toast, hot coffee and orange juice. What I got when I opened the dining room door was the strong stench of dogs bottom. The (mercifully) tiled floor was home to a series of gifts. Willow, our lovable spaniel, had evidently eaten something that disagreed with her. There are times when a good old-fashioned hangover can come in handy.
Thirty minutes later I leant on my mop handle and surveyed the sparkling floor. I had, for the tiniest fraction of a moment, thought about grabbing my gear and heading out, but of course my good nature kicked in and I got to work. Id left the girls upstairs, sleeping soundly after a day out at Move It!, 'the event for dance people'. Theyd arrived back at Lewes station laden with all manner of dance-related goodies. Their return cut short a visit to the Royal Oak with the Mighty Plodder and Captain Tom, and to rub salt into that painful wound it appeared I was now considerably less well off.
My home alone Saturday, sprinkled with top-rate sporting fare surveyed from my sprawled position on the sofa, had become a Lofus Horribulus. First up the Rowdies conspired to miss a bovine rear with a southern stringed instrument, going down to plucky, redoubtable Pompey and out of the FA cup. Lord Ferg's rant looks set to get him into a world of trouble, perhaps rightly so. To the scamps who called in to complain about his losing with bad grace I say show me a good loser and I'll show you a loser. Next up the inept band of goons known as the England Rugby Team showed me that, no, United had actually played rather well and were a trifle unlucky and yes, they could have played with a good deal less belief, application and skill. I abandoned Chelskis nailed-on demolition of Barnsley, hacking a few chores off my honey-do list before heading for a commiserating pint or two with the aforementioned rogues. The evening ended rather well. Half-way through the first pint of Guinness Captain Tom received a text message from a colleague that read Ha ha ha, poor old Chelsea! No! It couldnt be . . . but it was! Barnsely, I love you. To a man you have lifted this low grey cloud of sporting gloom. Of course the English cricket team were waiting for me, ready to wave a wet stick of rhubarb at the all-conquering might of, er, New Zealand. I hate Sky; I really must cancel my subscription.
Back to Sunday. Bleary-eyed, breakfast consumed I drove off to the marina where record numbers loitered. Sam must be chuffed; weve not seen crowds like this since forever. The skies over the eastern ridge had cleared, the rain abated, wind firmly shoving us outward on our warm-up miles. Chantelle, she of the boundless energy last week, joined the Serious Runners for a stiff 20 miler. The main pack would extend last weeks course to take in North Face and Yellow Brick Road and I was happy to act as lead hare. With only two midweek outings under my straining belt I felt rested, pushing on up Telscombe Tye with a few of the nippier Newbies in tow. Emma joined us. I remember Emma from last year, not only because shes a lovely girl, bright and bubbly, but mainly thanks to her impossibly whacky gait. Imagine you're running along and either side of you people are passing footballs to you. You play them back by flicking your foot out to the side, alternating left and right as you run. The visual effect from behind is that of a cats cradle. It looks wholly ineffectual, a sure-fire energyburner and almost certain to cause injury. Yet Emma is proof of 'each to his (or her) own'; shes one of the strongest runners in the group, invariably leaving me and others for dead in the run-in.
We scaled the North face and YBR without mishap. I felt great, full of bounce, pushing hard. We took the right fork at the top of the YBR, bounding across to the top of the W. I could see Remmy, Chantelle and Simon heading into the valley at breakneck speed. They looked like skydivers in free-fall, getting smaller and smaller as they dropped off the side of the world. We continued along the ridge and hooked left down the rock-strewn path to Death valley where the wind screamed like a ghostly express train rushing through the hills. On across exposed ploughed fields to the foothills of Old Snakey.
I didnt stop, chugging ever onwards, head down, determined to take respite only once we'd reached the summit. Twenty minutes later I leaned on a gate, sucking air into my lungs between greedy gulps of water. I spied a familiar blue windcheater moving up through the strung-out field below.
Hey Chantelle, what happened? Dont tell me youve left them all for dead!?
She explained that the bent-double clamber up the flint-rock path of the V had badly ricked her back. Sam, parked at the top of the V on his mud-splattered mountain bike, had growled for her to follow us and take it easy. We doubled back to the drop behind the Snake, turning right across the sheep fields towards the Reservoir. Newborn lambs were everywhere, sheltering behind or under their mothers, bleating in alarm as we thundered towards them. A gang of six leapt to their feet and scampered across the trail, little black socks going nineteen to the dozen as they raced away. We passed the reservoir and hit the road to Rottingdean, running well three abreast, looking for all the world like real runners.
About this time I got the first hint of an unwelcome and unexpected horror. In my haste to leave the still-airing house Id grabbed an old pair of running shorts. These were purchased some time ago when I'd been infused with a good deal more optimism about weight-loss. An ominous glow now emanated from my inner thighs. Oh great; three miles to go and Ive developed a nasty case of crotch-pot cooking. Short of ripping the shorts off my torso, a scene too ugly to allow into your head, there was little I could do except tug surreptitiously at my steadily warming groin in an attempt to alleviate the damage to my undercarriage. This activity could easily be misconstrued and with two fair maidens for company opportunities for a crafty fiddle were few and far between. I gritted my teeth and, in true British bulldog fashion, bore it. Up Windmill Hill (which I was delighted to ascend without pause) and across the top to St. Dunstans where the wind howled like a mad dog. I got us into the tunnel under the main road but as we emerged onto the cliff-top trail the chaffing stepped up a notch.
Great stuff you two why dont you kick on and finish strong. Im going to jog it in from here, see whos coming up behind. The girls bought it and before long had opened a gap of a hundred metres. I slowed, assuming a sort of John Wayne/ Max Wall stance, waddling for home, dignity in tatters, praying to all the gods that SP didnt drive past. Ten minutes later I hit the drop to the finish, relief flooding though me. My inner thighs were surely alight. I hoped they hadnt started shedding claret as this would be difficult to hide. A quick glance reassured me and I limped in to collapse on the grass next to Chantelle who was busy stretching her ailing back.
We exchanged sympathies, my own heartfelt as Ive recently been suffering from a recurrence of my own ruptured disc, an injury that has put paid to my plans to travel to Shanghai this month. Its one thing to sit on a cramped plane for an hour two, quite another to spend half a day strapped to a seven-forty-seven whilst your lower spine turns itself inside out. Montreal is in doubt too, though Ill seek further advice from my Witchdoctor before pulling the plug.
Eventually the searing pain in my groin subsided, a combination of me lying still and the influence of the cool grass. I realised there were two immediate problems to be faced. One, Id have to get up soon. The sun had broken through the blanket of cloud and it was really rather nice just lying here. Two, Id have to walk. I shuddered at the prospect. Another couple of runners came swooping in, one bearing a Garmin.
Hey, seventeen point six not bad!
What? Was that seventeen and a half miles?
Er . . . yes, seventeen point six. Two hours fifty-two.
Blimey, a little further than Id figured. Im chuffed (or should that be chaffed?) to have covered that distance, especially given my recent lack of mileage.
The time came when I had to stand up. Remmy cruised in, his nineteen point six tucked away without any apparent effort. You can go off some people. I hobbled over to my car, changed tops and drove the four hundred metres to Macs. Forty minutes later I revisited my Bob Hoskins/ Long Good Friday shower moment, standing under the cascading water, wincing as the heat found my glowing parts. I stayed there until the water started to cool, reluctantly clambering out of the tub to carefully towel down, finally letting out a sigh of relief as the cool Sudacream brought succour to my battered flesh.
A good outing despite the thigh-grating. No sign of that nasty calf strain either. Im missing out next Sunday the joy of freedom from the slavery of a race schedule! so expect to come back stronger in a fortnight.
Tomorrows recovery run could well be a b*tch.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
That recovery run had to wait a day or two.
First order of business this week was to fly to Cascais, a beautiful suburb of Lisbon close to Estoril, to view the site for a forthcoming Helicopter event. The outward journey proved an adventure, with BA cancelling half their scheduled flights out of Gatwick whilst Easyjet, my carrier of choice, merrily catapulted load after white-knuckled load into the churning skies.
Having returned home last night, driving back from Gatwick with the accompaniment of the ever-impartial Alan Green cavorting in jubilation from his press box at the San Siro, I ventured out for a damage assessment this morning. The outward 4k was akin to the trials of Sisyphus, the eternal rock-roller. The same savage winds that had earlier ripped racing at Cheltenham off today’s sporting calendar raged out of the south west. My own curse was to drag fifteen stones of lazy lard up a seemingly endless series of hills through a wind tunnel. I’d like to tell you what the track du jour was but I could barely hear a note against the incessant bludgeoning on my ears.
What you lose on the swings, I’m told, you gain on the roundabouts. I’ve never understood that phrase; I’m sure there are people out there who can explain it. It’s supposed to be an approximation of what the Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away or something like that. At any rate the Lord had seen fit to give me an almost impenetrable barrier on the outward drag, and he duly took that away at the turn, replacing it with the Mother of all homeward shoves. I turned at Blackcap, paused to catch my breath and took a step forward onto the downward slopes.
Next thing I knew I was at the gate to Landsdown Bottom, a mile and a half closer to home. Bloody hell, that was some ride! Uncontrolled, heart-pounding mayhem, remarkably dangerous, unbelievably exhilarating. Wonderful stuff.
On the injury front I’ve picked up (from Sunday) a bit of an odd one.
At the end of the long run I felt an unusual tightness across the top of my right foot at the ankle join. It’s just about where the tongue of your running shoe sits. I thought perhaps I’d over-tightened my laces, but the discomfort has persisted over the past few days and I felt it out there again today. I’m stretching the area by grabbing my toes and pulling my foot up my back (not a pretty sight!) and this helps in the short term. If anyone knows what that is or has suffered similar I’d love to hear from you.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Miserable mizzle, buffeting wind
Doleful cloud, mischeivous mud
Treacherous flint, industrious hounds
Windcheater-wrapped downland folk
Few and far between
Out too early for the second half
Seagulls loitered in the sheep field
Mercilous Rook cackled from his spikey perch
Draped in finest gravediggers garb
Alone amongst the thorn bushes
Five miles of tough, work-a-day hill plodding.
Just about a perfect morning then
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
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
It was no use. The sun came out, I'd singularly failed to get properly hammered on St Paddy’s day and there was a three hour window before my first meeting.
Glacial pavements offered serious threat to my well being as I shuffled up Rue de Bleury and Avenue de Parc, a straight climb out of the city. I’d elected for shorts and short-sleeved top. OK it was minus three, but the skies were clear and I simply couldn’t face another mobile sauna in my windcheater. This unusual apparel drew slack-jawed gawps from the rush-hour crowd. Oh well.
About a mile out of the city I reached the eastern entrance to the park. I’d studied a map of the ‘mountain’ last night and found that my first excursion had taken in but a section of the full trail. This route would allow me to enjoy the whole serpent, close to seven miles of climbing, slithering ice-trail up and around the miniature peak. Before long my chest and the formidable bulge of my inexplicably* burgeoning belly began to chill. I reckon there’s nothing better than clambering up a snowy slope with a large sack of freezing lard wobbling about around your middle. Unless of course it’s a trip to the Cabáne á Sucre – The Sugar Shack.
The Sugar Shack, like the Love Shack, is a li’ll ol’ place where people get together . . . and eat vast amounts of Maple Syrup. You probably know that most (90%) of the World’s Maple Syrup comes from Canada. Well, most of that originates in Quebec, and Sugar Shacks are outlets set amidst harvest centres. The method of producing this wonderful stuff hasn’t changed too much since forever. Take a drill, bore a hole into the tree trunk, hammer in a tap, hang a bucket off the tap . . . and wait. Eventually you collect enough watery substance from your trees to fill a large vat. Boil the liquid until it pretty much vaporises . . . voila! Maple Treasure.
Lets not let the machinations of syrup retrieval spoil a good story. The IDF team and representatives from fifteen of the world’s largest Diabetes-related pharmaceutical companies set off on an hour-long coach trip to La Sucrerie de la Montagne. The irony of taking the great and the good from the World Diabetes community to a sugar fest was not lost on me. The journey took us out of the city across the Two Lakes Bridge. These lakes are vast and, at this time of year at least, entirely frozen. At the weekends the locals drive out here, hitch up to their bottomless wooden huts and drag them out onto the ice. They park up, drill a hole in the ice, sit on a stool and dangle their rods waiting for a tickle. It all sounds jolly kinky to me, not to mention dangerous when one considers the ramifications of frost bite. Each to his own.
The frozen plains basked in a glorious pink-purple sunset as we ventured further away from civilization and into the wilds of Canada. This is wolf and bear country, home to huntsmen and maple gatherers and not much else. The sun wasn’t the only thing to have dropped in the last hour; away from the energy-pulsing cityscape the temperature plummeted. Finally we reach our destination, disembarking into the half-light to mount a large wagon fitted with skates instead of wheels, powered by a pair of large, disinterested horses. Gliding easily along the snowy trails we came upon a series of log cabins, interiors lit by dancing yellow and orange flickers suggesting large open fires and – oh joy! – warmth! We were greeted by the magnificent Pierre Faucher, accompanied by his trusty pet wolf. Oh yes, not only did the man sport a magnificent crop of impressive facial hair that, added to his considerable height and girth, made him appear every inch the mad woodsman, he had a pet wolf. Equally well-proportioned the beast greeted each of us with a good sniff before barging through to inspect the next person. Monsieur Faucher suggested we not engage the creature but to let it socialise as it may. No-one argued.
A swift tour of the facilities and an amusing explanation of the tree-tapping, sap-collecting, syrup-refining process before we got to enter the main cabin and – again great joy – sample the fruits of Pierre’s labours. Thick pea soup served with ‘bacon ears’ (they were delicious and I’m not sure they weren’t real ears) paved the way for a meat-feasters’ delight. Pie, meatballs, thick chunks of boiled ham surrounded by crudely mashed potato, beans, beets and pickles were set on broad, groaning tables. Once our plates were filled to bursting we were invited to take up bottles of maple syrup and liberally plaster our supper in the stuff. Now I know this sounds pretty nasty to some but I’m here to tell you it was to die for! I’ve sampled bacon with syrup before, having pigged out at American diners where one’s plate is host to pancakes, fruit and what we in the UK consider cooked breakfast – bacon, eggs and sausage. But this stuff was the Real Deal, freshly harvested local produce, and it was heaven-sent.
Of course there was dessert to follow and there’ll be no prizes for guessing the main ingredient. I opted for pancakes but dodged the Sugar Pie. Musicians serenaded the diners, a young chap on keyboards who also sang and a rather creepy, slightly hunched older gentleman in a lumberjack shirt who leered wordlessly at us as he played an old violin. It was all starting to get a bit Deliverance when Pierre appeared brandishing a collection of what looked like large wooden clothes pegs. They turned out to be Canadian castanets, held in one hand, drummed against one’s thigh whilst using the other hand to increase the rhythm or, for the more adventurous, to use one’s fingers to add flashy staccato. Pierre encouraged us to accompany the players and after a while (and a few glasses of beer, blissfully free from any sugar-based contaminant) we got into it.
As we struggled with our generous portions of pudding Pierre took centre stage once more. He brandished a woodsman’s axe whilst his son, another bear of a man, wheeled in a tree stump and a set of antlers. The Great Beard then went into what I can only describe as his Rowley Birkin ‘ Veey, veey Junk!’ routine. Pierre’s only coherent phrases were ‘Sugar Shack’ and ‘Prince of the Axe’ (pronounced, deliberately I’m sure, Ass). It seems it is customary at such gatherings to anoint a lumberjack and put him in pride of place at the head of the feast. For our purposes Pierre’s son would ‘select’ a ‘suitable candidate’ for the evening’s ritual. Worried glances were exchanged as the large man strolled amongst the diners holding a colourful sash above our heads. I suddenly realised this was a stitch-up. So it proved as my main contact at the IDF, Ronan L’Heveder, was singled out. He is French, lives in Belgium and has a ‘quiet’ sense of humour; some things are simply meant to be.
Ronan was invited to remove his shoes and socks, roll up his trousers and kneel before the tree stump. Pierre placed a large matchstick on the stump and announced that in order to prove his worth Ronan would have to cut the matchstick in two with the axe. However, to make the test truly worthy Ronan would be blindfolded. Having taken his aim - and a couple of lusty practice swings - a sash was tied around his head. Once Pierre was satisfied that Ronan could not see he picked up the discarded socks and placed them on the tree stump.
‘Okay, Ronan, we now see if you are worthy to hold the Axe! Swing with all your might! You have seven blows to sever the match! Everyone, call for Ronan to show great strength! Allez!’
And with that, to the amazement of the watching guests my customer, the hitherto logistical mastermind of the World Diabetes Congress, proceeded to chop his own socks into tiny pieces.
Tears of joy streamed freely down my face. I laughed so hard I almost fell of my bench and I wasn’t alone. We tried to cheer him on but frankly by the time the seventh, full-blooded blow struck what was left of the footwear most of us were in acute pain. At the last blow Pierre gave a mighty roar.
‘Bravo! You have done it!!’
He whisked the butchered socks away and removed the blindfold, revealing the perfectly severed matchstick. Ronan gazed around the room, nonplussed at the sea of red, weeping faces, unaware of what had happened.
‘OK, now, put on your shoes and socks and we can make the presentation!’
It was hard to stay upright as the poor man reached back for his footwear and held up the tattered remains. Of course Pierre had some replacements lined up and the ceremony was completed when Ronan posed with the gently giggling patron, antlers held to either side of his head, axe held across his chest and a look of total amazement painted on his wide-eyed face. Someone took photos; I trust they will have the good grace to share them.
These happy memories kept me warm as I chugged around a frozen Mont Royal. After pausing at the summit to snap some shots I set off for home, arriving at the hotel in 1:24, a shade over nine miles banked. It's been a demanding trip all in all, not least for my ailing back, but I wouldn’t have missed this for the world.
Time to thaw out and prepare for the journey home.
Allez!
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I Love the Garmin profile of your run - talk about the perfect mountain peak!
I didnt' know Canadians were noted for their sense of humour either. Sounds a fabulous trip.
Still, a steaming cuppa at Mac's, where Remmy and Simon returned after their epic long route encounter plastered in mud and looking horribly pale, soon had my spirits restored. Roll on next week when I hope to get a full session in.
)
