While the getting is good
“I wanna reach out
And touch the flame
Where the streets have no name.” – from Where the streets have no name, by U2
Greektown had a fresh-scrubbed stillness as I ventured out just before dawn. It’s my favorite time of day to be out running. Footfall on asphalt, few cars cruising. On this big city Sunday morning, I tried not to think about what lay ahead and mostly succeeded.
In fact, the streets all had names, and they formed an 80km squiggle westward along Lake Ontario, as shown on Google Maps. Rather than entering an organized ultramarathon event, I went DIY-style.
The solitude was short-lived. Sunday is long-run day for many in Toronto. I had tapped friends to relay each other along the route, and there were gratifyingly large flocks of runners also drawn to the lakeside; a 10k race in progress at Ashbridges Bay, energetic packs of youthful, meet-market groups, lithe elites and determined plodders, all doing their thing.
Rudyard Kipling and me
“If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’ “– from If, by Rudyard Kipling
Victorian manly man Kipling, famous for The Jungle Book and Kim, infamous for “the white man’s burden”. He was all about the stiff upper lip.
What old Rudyard would think about the unlovely auto-body shop-festooned thoroughfare that bears his name, I can’t guess. Any rate, I wasn’t thinking of him much, as I reached Kipling Avenue where it intersected my route. Approximately one marathon done, another to go.
Nearby there was a college, a church, a medical clinic, and a cenotaph, which was all rather on-the-nose. But by then I had a bigger problem – Stan Rogers’s earnest a cappella rendering of “The Northwest Passage” on repeat in my head.
It made grim sense – the song references a tragic hero enduring gruesome hardships in his quest for discovery. I just hoped that, unlike the ill-fated Franklin expedition, I wouldn’t be eating my shoes before perishing, never to be found, in the wilds of south Etobicoke.
It never got that bad. I had friends waiting in nearby Port Credit (only 6km away!) with a re-fill of food and a change of shirt. Onward!
The road to Dumbasscus
“As he journeyed, he came near Damascus, and suddenly a light shone around him from heaven.” Acts IX, The Bible
Feats of endurance are often touted as transformative events that reveal character, where the human spirit triumphs over pain. I confess to wanting some of that. It’s part of why I took on training for something so unreasonably long.
And lo, as I neared the Petro-Canada Lubricants plant on Southdown Road, I had this transcendent revelation, which I now give to you:
Slow Down, if you want to get to the finish.
Well duh. Sorry, that’s all I got.
I probably didn’t need to run 7 hours straight to gain this wisdom, and which you also already know. But as I switched from “Run 9 minutes, walk 1 minute”, to “Run 8 minutes, walk 2” it seemed sublimely profound. Anyhow, I was still moving.
Hedonically adapt this!
“The hedonic treadmill, also known as hedonic adaptation, is the conjecture that humans quickly return to a relatively stable level of happiness (or sadness) despite major positive or negative events or life changes.” – Wikipedia
Bonus revelation. Wow, do I quickly take shiny new accomplishments for granted! By the time I reached Oakville, not having pooped my pants or collapsed into a ditch, I knew I had it almost in the bag and briefly felt elated. My furthest ever distance run, hurrah!
But still, as my final running companions would attest, I got cranky about having to persist for another two hours. The wheels weren’t off, but the screws were loose.
About 10 and-a-half hours after I started, I reached my parents’ home – the suburban finish line. After hugging their weird kid, they went off to cook some broth and fetch painkillers while I sat in the neighbour’s pool. My legs deserved it.
Running on freedom
“Come on with me, tramps like us
Baby, we were born to run” – Born to run, Bruce Springsteen
I could probably have gone the distance unaccompanied, but where would have been the joy in that? And really, aren’t we better off when there are people along our paths who get us going, keep us moving? Having community is what makes us free.
Here’s to the F*ckaround Fifty Miler crew:
Christiaan, the most experienced runner I could get. Him running leadoff was like asking a concert pianist to turn your sheet music while you plunk out ‘Mary had a little lamb’.
Michael, fresh from knee reconstruction surgery(!), whose wry asides on the Leslie Street Spit kept my mind off the long road ahead.
Elizabeth and my sister, Nina, who merrily cycled along, and never once tempted me to run faster.
Satinder, still rowing in his eighties, a model of endurance and active living.
Miron, a courageous running neophyte, who hung in there all the way from Cherry beach to the CNE grounds.
Andrew, Christine and their kids Julia, Natalie, Kate and James, whose home was a cheerful aid station. I’m glad I got there. (And I’ll be back to pick up my sweaty shirt.)
Albert, whose quick thinking guided me to a Tim Horton’s when it was urgent.
James, whose psychiatric assistance included talking about everything and anything.
Gary, Hilary and Kyle, who cheered on despite not being available on the day.
Parents Peter and Jocelyne, who hastily corrected their hand-drawn 50km congratulations sign to reflect the correct 80km distance. Again, thanks for the broth and analgesic cream.
Neighbour Teresa, for letting me gingerly ease myself into her pool, where I could contemplate present and future life choices.
