Category Archives: Sport

First Thing Sunday Morning


Posted by Patrick Okens

“Beep-beep.” The gentle alarm on my phone becomes more insistent. “BEEP-beep.” I open one eye. “BEEP-BEEP”. I reach for the Blackberry’s glow and turn off the device, which reads 6:30am. Outside, the wind’s roaring, rattling the window panes a few feet from my head.

January dawn over Lake Ontario.

January dawn over Lake Ontario.

As the old WHAM lyric goes, “It’s cold outside but it’s warm in bed.” Sadly, I don’t have an object of temptation to keep me horizontal, so off come the covers and I sit up. At my feet is the heap of running clothes I dumped beside my bed last night. It’s an effective trick to bypass the “my gear is too far across the room” excuse. Mechanically, I put on the layers of lycra, and apply anti-chafing Bodyglide to my toes.

Across North America this morning, thousands of other runners are rolling out of bed. It’s Sunday, which for most marathoners means long run day. It is the one day of the week where most people can best afford to spend time and energy running far. On my training program, my long run time will top out at 3 hours 20 minutes in March, but today’s assignment is 1 hour 50. Marathoners need to condition themselves to spend that much time on their feet. According to Raymond Britt’s analysis, average finishing times in North American marathons are usually 4 hours or greater.

I go to the kitchen, and let out the dog for his customary morning barking fit. I peer through the window into the dark and see only my bed-headed reflection, and a thermometer that reads the wrong side of freezing. Pre-run food consists of yogurt with chia seeds, some peanut butter (yes, scooped out of the jar) and tea. Note the soft/liquid consistency theme. I know my digestive system well enough to avoid solid food before running(which usually takes me at least 1.5 hours lead time to process).

The dog is let back in, and I step out into the unfriendly roaring darkness – twigs and small branches strewn across the roads and sidewalks. My route is a long out-and-back along Lake Ontario. Strong gusts buffet me front and back, but mainly from the side, causing me to lurch sideways. The kilometres pass. The sky lightens, crisp and clear. My cheeks sting from the cold wind. Other runners, muffled against the elements, nod acknowledgement in cold morning camaraderie. It’s no paradise. But it’s no hell either.


At the Szechenyi Baths


Posted by Patrick Okens

Dec. 29 – Budapest, Hungary

I came to Budapest for the water, but I was not the only one. The city is famous for the many thermal springs which attracted first Romans and Turks, then Hungarians, and now tourists.

Prepaid ticket in hand, I approached the magnificent 98 year-old Szechenyi Bath in the city’s central park. It is a venerable institution in Budapest – the Maracana Stadium of bathing, one of the world’s biggest spa complexes. And unfortunately, like the Maracana for a Brazil futebol match, it was packed. The anteroom, all columns, domes, mosaics and statues, resounded with confused foreigners trying to get in and resigned cashiers and gatekeepers explaining that there were insufficient lockers to accommodate the Holiday crowd.

After an enjoyment-sapping long time, I finally got a locker key and headed into the men’s change area. In my swim trunks, and clutching a towel, cap and goggles, I ventured to the outdoor pools. There was enough uncertainty involved in this process – wandering semi-naked through areas where most people were fully clothed – to discourage me from looking for the smaller hot pools.

In any case I was interested in actual swimming and the main pool offered that. Swim caps were mandatory, a rule rigorously enforced by vigilant whistle-blowing monitors. “Ah bon” I heard more than once after a guard gave a stern hand-to-head gesture “il faut avoir un bonnet.” I did my lengths guided by underwater lights. Around me, a variety of figures moved through the water, some stately and ponderous, some twitchy-limbed. I would pause, cold air embracing my exposed shoulders, and look at the dark night sky. Contemplating the pale yellow glow of the graceful building, it seemed amazing to me a century ago, a monarchy had produced such a lavish structure for public recreation.

Workout done, I moved into one of the hot pools that flanked the main pool. Dozens of bathers lolled in the steaming water, an enormous natural jacuzzi. Excited tourist families, embracing couples, matronly ladies chatting. Geysers bubbled and frothed from the bottom, and bathers improvised an astonishingly strong whirlpool. I had noticed a sulfurous smell earlier, but no longer. I looked around me at relaxed, happy people, and thought “hot water is civilization.”