Just another everyday run.

Canmore is a small-ish town, nestled in the Canadian Albertan Rockies, about 1 hr from the metropolis of Calgary. A former mining town, it is now the centre for Nordic skiing with superb facilities, catering for all abilities. Peter took me out on a course last time I was here, the thin crisp snow cripping under your skis with the magnificent backdrop of towering rocky mountains. I fell over of course, he didn’t, but that’s another story. The weather does not do much here, except get very cold in the winter and nicely warm during the summer. Not much in the way of precipitation, or sunlight depending on which side of the valley you end up living. Welcome to the Rockies.

But what it does do well is sport. It has moved on from its mining heyday, remnants still dotting the surrounding area. Hosted the skinny skiing portion of the 1988 Calgary winter Olympics It’s only a short drive from historic Lake Louise and Banff, both big winter and summer resorts. The Bow Valley is as well known for its cross country ski and snow shoe trails. In other words, it’s a year round resort, for in the summer months the visitors flock to see the glaciers (admittedly getting smaller on an annual basis) and hike or bike in the mountains. I saw proof of this when I went out for a run this morning with our two eager hounds. And saw evidence of a mysterious emerging underground movement.

I left at 0730, dark. Dogs pulling at the leads. Cold? Yes, somewhat. I thought, but not too bad. As I ran along the railway path, the massive figures of buttresses loomed out of the moonlit sky. Unbelievable. Small snowflakes were coming down from somewhere unknown, and the town was just waking up. A few trucks, a lone cyclist who greeted the two dogs dragging a warming up runner clad in longs, gloves and hat. I met a runner, which surprised me, who was looking for a bridge. Not the bridge I was looking for, I hoped, as we were headed in opposite directions. I could not help this figure find his bridge and he thought the loop I was running on was ‘quite a way’. He looked cold, and I decided that I may well be underdressed for the occasion. His thin body was under numerous items of black clothing, including a balaclava, only his eyes and nostrils on view, with white frost decorating him. Darth Vadar with dandruff lives!  So we went on, me finishing the ‘long loop’ which was not that long, but pretty stunning. Ice flows flowing along the river, dogs intrigued by them but not allowed to venture near.

I returned to the warm flat where we are staying, some 90mins later. I realised I was cold, and had frost burn on my belly and legs. Ooops. The temperature? -23C. Thought it was cold! But the underground movement? Hopefully someone can help me. For freshly painted on a wall in town were the sinister words, ‘Find the Friut’. Who knows what will happen next in the town where sport never seems to stop.

Tim

Capital 'W'

Snow puts a capital W in Winter. Without snow, there is no winter. Hence the small w. Some people are crying ‘Global Warming? Global Cooling more like!’. Parts of the US, for example Carolina and even parts of Australia have seen snow for the first time in yonks. Vancouver Islands ski resort of Mt Washington has the worlds deepest ski base and 5.5m. wow! However, there is no denying that weather is distinct from climate, and the world’s climate is warming. Sorry.

Most dream of snow, being blocked in by snowdrifts metres deep. There is a magical notion to the purity of snow and what it brings. I remember only too well the magic of being snowed in whilst winter skiing in Norway: Arriving late at our longed-for cabin, howling gale, blowing snow, to a hut no warmer than the outside. Dig out the front door, light the fire, get some ice for water. Generally speaking it takes a full 24 hrs to make a cabin warm and if the snow does not let up, the heat in the cabin will be put to good use the following day. Alone, in the wilderness, not a soul around. The storm subsides and a magical playground is revealed at daybreak. It’s an image of dreams. Indeed, Christmas day back in 2004 was spent like this, with my buddy Clive, snowed in at a mountain hut just north of the Hardangervidda plateau. 

Yet the beauty hides its dangers, its power to destroy. Avalanches attempt to kill all within its path, with no exception. Some are lucky enough to be rescued but they are few are far between. It’s the lure of the mountain magic, the thrill of the white expanse and the joy of being which brings some humans out to play, despite the dangers.

Natasha, Bonny, Tasky and I have played lots in the snow this winter, on the disused rail trail below us and the surrounding area. Craig, an old time environmentalist in New Denver, keeps ringing to see if we can go into the mountains to play on our skis with him, but it never seems to work out quite right. I only managed it once last year, but am determined to make the venture work. As much as I detest skidoo’s, a motorised sledge crossed with a motorcycle, we are looking to buy one, for without a means to get into the mountains, the wondrous Alpine experience will continue to allude us. Meanwhile, my eyes stay trained to the weather forecast. I’m hooked by it, an hourly fix. The avalanche.ca site too, but I never seem to be able to put my assumed knowledge and amassed toys to the test. There is a hut near here, 17km up a former logging road, accessible by skidoo, or a very long ski in. I’m eager to get us up there, dogs n all. Someday soon.

The onset of snow does bring local challenges, such as snow clearing. Once embarked upon, one rapidly realises its qualities: damn heavy, cold and wet. I’m working out a routine for clearing the snow around the house and driveway, but alas always seem to forget the roofs! So, the roofs are duly cleared, and the ground cleared once again. I’ve always been a bit of slow learner. Our old snow blower mounted on the front of a small garden tractor broke down the other day, so a replacement had to be rapidly found. My back is simply not up to mass snow clearing. The annoying thing is that I have found a buyer for the tractor/snowblower, but the parts to fix it are not in yet. Indeed, has the mechanic even ordered them? Welcome to the Slocan Valley.

We had a quiet Christmas, with Natasha’s parents spoiling us rotten once again with wrapped gifts. Without them, the tree would have looked a bit lonely. My Auntie sent us some Marmite Chocolate, but I was left wondering why people are intent on ruining two perfectly good products. However, my nightmare of 2008 returned with Christmas and Boxing Day being wiped out with a migraine. Damn things. I stopped drinking tea once again, and this only brought on a caffeine withdrawal headache! Can’t win eh? Anyway, the snow is beckoning; we are off to Canmore (Rockies) tomorrow to see the New Year in. Gotta pack! Fun times….

Marmite Man

The meaning of life....

Just what is the meaning of life, the universe and everything? The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy (a trilogy in five parts) is, for me, an all time great. It gives me the strength to believe in the ‘cock-up’ theory and not let ‘conspiracy’ take over my mind.

My best mate in Canada is a Jehovah’s Witness. Early on we arrived at a mutual understanding and respect for each others belief and I learnt to respect that he listened to my non-believer, bunker like mentality on life. He believes in God’s creation, I believe in Darwin. But we also have a tremendous amount in common. I miss his company, for he lives in Port Hardy, some two days travel west. I came to realise what makes us humans different to all other life forms on this planet: that as a race we have the capacity to choose. We make decisions, rightly or wrongly, and have to cope with the consequences, be they local or global.

Since coming to West Kootenay, I have had to try and adjust to a slow pace of life, action and communication.  Lesson learned - don’t ever say to someone ‘It’s not important, no hurry’. I won’t bore you with our stories, but there are plenty. We both love living here, love our house, our surroundings – but the weak link? As ever, people. I remind myself of Douglas Adams – conspiracy lives, but cock-up fills our daily lives.  Looking back at our time in the UK, our lives were never filled with constant door knocking, parties and people orientated holidays, but good friends were always nearby. In past blogs I have made reference to missing my UK work buddies – in living here, I miss good friends. OK, I’m slightly down by not working at the moment, no income (not even via the Government), my truck is forever being repaired, all Natasha’s income goes on expenditure, no buddies to play with, but I think that it is fair for me to admit to having a hard time with my social surroundings.

I like people. I think I’m pretty good with people. I want a people orientated job. Here, people hide away, keep themselves to themselves. Very pleasant and always pleased to see you when bumped into on the local ski trail. But why is it that people find it so hard to communicate, to consider others, involve? What’s this got to do with Douglas Adams? I sincerely believe that the world is not out to get me. There is no local conspiracy (contrary to what some locals believe). I have to adapt to my new surroundings, fit in as best I can. But boy, it’s hard work. I won’t bore you with stories etc….  We all make choices – the beauty of living.

And running? Once again, a saviour. I’m running well at the moment, the hardest part putting running shoes on your feet. Natasha is running too. Outdoor training is not possible, so the dreaded running machine it is. But put the music on and get playing with speed and incline. I’ve started to consider a May marathon, as opposed to October. As Natasha says, at least I’ll have a summer that way! All dark times pass. Hugh once called me a mindless optimist. I draw on that strength. We all know the answer is ‘42’, but what was the question?

Till the next time and keep the communications up!

Tim

Desicion making

This week has seen the start of winter proper. Whether it will stay with us in its present cold, white form remains to be seen, but for now let’s love it! I left Smiling Hills in the dark in the first winter snowstorm last Tuesday, only to realise that I had little time to catch the ferry across Arrow Lake, my link to destination Canmore, some 6 hours east. I thought I was prepared for winter – I had the shovel, the Rab jacket, chains, winter tyres, the ‘just in case’ sleeping bag, thermos – but to drive in the snow, in a hurry, in the dark, in an unweighted truck was an interesting introduction to my favourite season.

I made it in time for the ferry with three whole minutes to spare. But at what point do you stop pushing, testing the limits? One driver a few weeks back remarked to me as we watched the ferry depart without us ‘It’s not worth the extra push for the ferry, for the ditch is never far away. And then you will miss not only the next one, but the ones after that.’ Wise words indeed. Point taken. Lesson learned, hopefully.

The drive over was not bloodstained, but was hard work. I saw at least four accidents, the most alarming one being a big new truck having slid on ice in an avalanche tunnel into and under the back of a (presumably) slowing BIG articulated truck. Through the intact windscreen, the unharmed driver could clearly see what remained of his trucks engine and radiator. Fortunate driver or what? He won’t forget his introduction to the winter of 2010/11.

The journey was in many ways unremarkable, but remarkable in every way. The mountains peeked from the clouds every so often, the falling snow changing in intensity and purpose. I watched in awe, as I do every winter, the swirling snow across the road in front of me, dancing to the tune of the wind. I was reminded of my ski expeditions in Norway: head down, into the wind, thoughts privy only to me, pretending the swirling snow about my feet was indeed white sand in a desert. Sculptures, patterns, ever changing, never still. But the one thing that sadly struck me was the sheer volume of huge articulated trucks on the road, ferrying goods for us all to consume. And boy do they drive fast?! The railway runs parallel to the Trans Canada Highway virtually the whole way, for the best part empty. Having said that, when you do spy a train powering its way slowly through the scenery, you simply have to start counting the wagons. Losing count is easy.

I stayed in Canmore for two nights to pick up some brand new, disease free, bee keeping equipment. Very exciting. I was treated royally by Hammers supporter Peter to food, track skiing, treadmill running and good company. He was on cloud nine as West Ham had beaten Manchester United 4-0, any football team’s dream. The news darkened as it was announced that England, the country wedded to football, failed to make the grade as hosts for the World Cup. 2018 winner, Russia, slightly understandable. But Qatar, 2022? Who they? I wonder whether any women will be allowed into any of the 5 brand new 'to be relocated' stadiums? Speechless. But at least the future looks good Down Under, as the bi-annual 'leather on willow' battle commences. For the Ashes, cricket's most celebrated rivalry dating back to 1882, is starting well for our boys. 

Tim, 5 December.

Inspiration, part deux

I’m returning to the theme ‘inspiration’. On my morning run with the dogs, I once again was given the chance to think. Strange how this daily slot enables the mind to function: your heart pumping, legs in motion, ears and fingers cold, feet crunching in the snow, eyes about three metres ahead looking for trouble. And yet, the mind freely wanders.

We have been plagued by bad internet connection this last 24 hrs, and yet it’s a freedom forced upon you. One of the last messages I got yesterday was from Pete. ‘I've written my first page of a Blog - you've inspired me - http://petesinspain.blogspot.com/’ and then my line to the outside world went dark. Me give inspiration? Crumbs – it’s usually the other way round. But what is it that we find inspiring in others? Yes, their actions, but what of the mind? Is it blind determination? Eloquence? Wisdom? Humour? Courage?

My world surrounds me with daily inspiration. My mind wandered whilst watching Tasky run alongside me, his head completely level, so level his bear bell around his neck was still. Yet his legs pumped in fantastic motion.  He and Bonny have a focused zest on activity. Inspirational.  I’m opting not to mention names, but my buddies have all inspired me – some have endured destructive divorces, some thrown out of their marriage and surviving with a smile. Some have repaired marriage splits. Some continue to nurse their sick but deeply loved children on a daily basis, ensuring a quality of life which was otherwise out of reach. Selfless actions.  Peter (as opposed to Pete) sent me a link of a guy who completed the Ironman (swim, cycle, run) with his wheelchair bound son. The image of him swimming in the lake his son in tow in a rubber dingy haunts me. Inspiration or what? I digress slightly. My buddies. Some, despite their Eeyore outlook battle through every missile thrown at them, and still continue to stand tall. Some find life simply damn hard, yet remain alive. Many have come through bereavement. That’s tough. My former work colleagues in Leeds, bar none, and all my UK buddies - I think of them often, despite being away from them all, and miss them dearly. Irreplaceable. Uniquely inspirational.

For me, inspiration is about focus, for without this talent goes nowhere. Focus requires dedication, determination and bloody mindedness. Yes, my buddies all have these qualities. Do I? I believe I have little talent, but I can focus. Natasha has had to pick up the sugar depleted mess at the end of events she has supported me in. She inspires me. So perhaps inspiration is not only about focus, but having the ability to bring it all together, which presumably involves others – teamwork maybe. Lest we forget those who enable, for without the team, the individual cannot perform.

I have learned in life that it is way easier to give than to receive. So I’ll gracefully acknowledge Pete’s words. Thanks, and I’m glad that I have inspired you!

Tim
ps we were off-line for 6 days. How crap is that?!

my favourite season

I am really enjoying my running at the moment. Its great being injury free – long may it last. My blog is proving a real success, now double the following. One being me the other being Robert from Tyneside. Same name as a teenage friend of mine. Scottish, and my mum never liked him. Wonder what he doing now?

On Sunday, my hamstrings were horribly tight after what I thought was an unprompted speed session along our rail-trail, so last night I thought I’d just go out for a simple jog (not a word I enjoy using as it conjures up images I’d prefer not to disclose). Anyway, what I did not bank on was winter. By ‘eck did it rain! I did not know where I was running, as I opted to run in from a nearby town, Nakusp, as the winter tyres were being fitted to the car and truck. So for an hour, I jogged with the dogs (off lead where possible, though Tasky played deer investigations for 10 long minutes. He came back covered in bush, looking quite pleased with himself – quite a comical sight for sure). Id forgotten what horizontal, cold wet winter rain felt like. But there is something about running in the rain which appeals to the soul and heart. I love it. I feel brave, adventurous; doing something that no-body else is doing on a night that most others are tucked up safe indoors.  It snowed on the drive back home, and the dogs peered up over the back seat wondering what I was giggling at, with a big childish Tim grin. Winter!!

It’s strange how memories fade. I have been watching the snow level descend over the past weeks, this lowering white veil slowly enveloping the landscape. It’s like nature fore-play: teasing, enticing, exciting. But, true to life, what fore-play masks are the pitfalls: blizzards, storms, power cuts, snow clearing, cold fingers, impossible night drives. In many ways, though, that’s the likeable challenge of winter, my favourite season.

Bonny and Tasky disappeared again this morning whilst I was shoveling in crush rock into the truck from some disused road maintenance site. Bonny came back with a foot in her mouth, seemingly asking permission to take it home. A deers foot, with a large portion of the leg attached. Tasky had one too. The more grizzly side to living in a semi remote area in North America. Hunters. Could I do it? No. But is it a more sustainable form of meat production? Probably, yes. It is bad enough dealing with half dead mice in the house, whose liking for pecan nuts in the mouse trap gets the better of them.

I’ve been scratching my head on how I can use a sentence sent to me in an email this last week, by a local villager. I have failed, but it’s a cracker. So here is my email sentence of the week. May it make the women of the world laugh!

“I'm sad that being a male means he is only good for meat.”

Tim

Inspiration

Why do we do what we do? If we don't get paid for doing something then we must be doing it for love, guilt or some other, perhaps more sinister, reasons. For example, I don't particularly like just going out for a walk, but Natasha does. So we do, and invariably I enjoy most aspects of it. On the other hand I feel totality when I am running freely in the mountains, lost in thought. I also try to be a bit careful in what I eat despite my love for food. 

But, conversely, why do we decide not do things? Expense? Unhealthy? Illegal?! Or simply perhaps a lack of drive. I have always maintained that I am a lazy person, always ready to take a short cut. For example I will happily make one nearly impossible journey from the car to the kitchen, overladen with shopping bags, rather than two way easier ones. Why make life easy for yourself when with a bit of effort you can make it nigh impossible?!  How often have we not gone out running because essentially we just don't want to?

Anyway, my point is that sometimes you have to combine the reasons why you chose to do something with the very reason why you chose not to. My good friend Bryan, a Geordie for his sins, has run off and on for most of his time on this planet. He's certainly not in the best shape of his life. Because of family responsibilities, transport challenges and essentially being skint, much does not get ticked on the proverbial 'to do' list. But for reasons best known to himself, some months back Bryan decided to get off his lard arse and train for the Amsterdam marathon.  Now, I gave up marathon running at the young age of 18, having completed the Bristol and London marathon. Never again, and I have never budged. But last week Bryan completed the Amsterdam in 4hrs (+ 29 frustrating seconds). Blimey! Good old Bryan! The word I have missed out in my opening paragraph is 'inspiration'. All of us are at some point inspired by an action or a person because of what has been done. Because of a single, simple action by one determined friend, I have now decided to train and run the Victoria marathon in Oct 2011. Never say never, but I'm nervous already.

My mate Marmite

I'm a Marmite kid. I just love the black, salty mass. Fresh bread, a coating of hard butter. A layering of Marmite. What more could a man ask for? Their advertising campaign was, for a long time (is it still?) based on 'Love it or hate it'. Fantastic. Still true today. To watch a naive Canadian tuck in to a spot of the Black Nectar still provides much amusement - their face screws up and expletives usually follow. Fine by me.


But recently I asked my good friend Hugh, who himself likes a thin layering of Marmite, to send out the last of our household belongings from the UK he has been harbouring for the last four years. Last week three boxes duly arrived (their journey and retrieval is a story in itself I might one day relate) containing millions of polystyrene balls, a few treasures and low and behold, a crate full of Marmite. But how much is too much? Is that possible? As a kid, my mum bought a huge tin of it which we used to fill up the old glass jars. Amusingly, the Marmite jars are the same shape as they have always been thanks to the public backlash when they tried to introduce a cheaper straight jar (looked to much like the inferior Oz version, Vegemite). This tin, I remember, was just caked with dried Marmite and to this day I have been on the search for some similar bulk buy.

Let me introduce Ziggy. She owns a way-out Print Shack in Chesterfield, UK. 'You say it, I'll print it' she says. Test her at your peril. Now Hugh and Ziggy are good friends, but she is a bad influence on Hugh who is gullible (a rather amusing accusation leveled at him one day). Anyway, suffice to say that, thanks to the generosity and madness of them both I am now the proud owner of the equivalent of one massive tin of Marmite. 6kg of it. Thats one thick spread. Heaven. Or is it Hell? Thanks guys.

Sporting legacies

On first sub zero run this morning, I reflected on a recent conversation regarding the Vancouver 2010 Winter Olympics, for which I volunteered on the anti doping team as a chaperone for a month and loved it. Here I was, once again pounding the pathways, doing something I loved. Indeed, I have spent today basking in memories whilst unpacking old pictures of my teenage running. Blimey I was thinner and way fitter back then! But no-one can take away the purist pleasure of my running history, though I have never done anything remotely remarkable. I believe that I have consistently underachieved in running, but enjoyed even the most painful of events or training runs. Sounds perverse, but its true. Running for me provides a release from something I know not. I'm free - I'm the person I want to be. The Who's 'Roger Daltry belting out 'I sing my song to the wide open spaces....' often fills my mind when covering the trails, especially in the mountains.

Back in December and January, I defended the Olympics from the staunchest of critics. There is no other event on this planet which allows athletes of all disciplines to compete, socialise and live under the same roof. There is a aura which surrounds the Olympics, be they summer or winter. There is no other. The cost? Too much. The politics? Too controlling. The International Olympic Committee? Dinosaurs. But I'll still defend the movement. I harped on about the legacy Vancouver was creating, for communities, athletes and spectators. Inspiration. "I'll be there in 2014..." whispers an inspired 16 year old to themself. It's moving. It's an event like no other. But I'm now strangely deflated. Anti doping is only active due to the cheats. No cheats, no doping control. Simple. It's all about keeping sport clean. I had lots to say, lots of opinions about the anti doping team I worked on - which is to be expected. But the legacy? A quick story.

On my return I immediately signed up as a chaperon for the Canadian Centre for Excellence in Sports. They control anti doping across the board in all sports here in Canada. No one even returned my phone calls or emails. I eventually spoke to someone, months later. They took my details. It was now June. In September I received an email copy from a colleague who is a CCES accredited chaperone, asking for all to contact the centre if they wished to be on the call out list. Why had I not got one? Unswayed, I rang. No, they had not got my details. Would I like to provide them?

Some legacy the Olympics left behind. Another bureaucratic set up, a barrier for involvement in sport. Sport needs to be embedded into the grassroots - no runners like me, no mass involvement in sport. No future. CCES need to get their act together. Meanwhile I'll continue my running in the fields.

The Thursday Buzz

Life is bitter sweet. I keep bees as I love nature. And I love honey. Bees are so natural. But oh so vulnerable. I bought second hand gear which had supposedly been disease free, but I suspect they were not. So the Americans invaded by their millions. ? American Foul Brood. Nothing to do with moody Americans, but devastating to bees. Started with four hives, now down to one weak one. I hate to think how much each of my 16 jars of honey has cost, but the cost is way higher than the money value. I was heartbroken to burn bees and their hard work. Next year I will come back with new gear and with experience under my belt.


The Bed & Breakfast suite is working, so at least something is happening.
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