It’s a windy Tuesday in June and I have just completed a three kilometre jog. I walk for a minute and jog for two, winding through the K streets of my little neighborhood and then I use the same pattern as I tackle the dreaded Duncan hill. I am fully out of breath part way up and tempted to stop for a nap, as I struggle up the steepest part of the incline, trying desperately to maintain my footing over the rocks and pits of the arid dirt. I cannot keep up, so I downgrade to a walk and crest the hill entirely exhausted.

How did I get so out of shape? The wind, at 26 kilometres per hour, is at my back which should give me the extra push I need, but it’s not enough. I used to be able to grind this hill without much problem only a few years back when I was training for my two events. In 2017, I opted to embark on a Triage of entry level endurance events, completing the 10 kilometre sun run in April, and then a Sprint Triathlon only a week later. July I was to enter the beginners level Gran Fondo, but for whatever reason, did not. Instead I decided to focus on an open cycling regimen, tracing the Trans Canada through five provinces until I completed just over 4000 kilometres. That summer, I put in 1000 clicks and felt I was in top form. Everything seemed to be going well for me then; my work, social life, finances, my health. What a difference a couple of years makes, and, perhaps, a few months of laying around eating Peanuts in the shell. The real pandemic is that we now have an entire nation in need of a physical reboot; the Gyms will be running twenty four-seven once we get to phase four of the reopening plan.

As I sit here now at my desk, I take note that the wind has accelerated to 29 kilometres, and I am nervously studying the state of my big old maple out front. Two of the large limbs have snapped in the wind over the past two years, narrowly missing my car and my house. It’s an old, ill taken care of tree with sun scald and rot throughout and I am currently in the process of getting quotes for it’s removal; Arborists are difficult to nail down this time of year and I am not going to attempt the job myself. The leaves are beginning to blow off the branches now, and I can see it’s limbs begin to sway. It will only take one big gust of westerly to snap the big one which now hangs alarmingly over my roof. I see in the forecast that the wind subsides around 4 pm; if we can just hang on until then!

On my wall map, I am book-marked close to Frilsham, England, at 125 kilometres from Bristol. I have been jogging with my eleven year old this past week, as a way to broaden his physical curriculum in lieu of his, and every other kids, absence from school. As well, it’s nice to have a running mate, though I am finding it difficult to keep him in a straight line. I seem to look around and he has skirted off the beaten track somewhere and I have to exercise a full peripheral in order to locate him. I see him through the woods running precariously close to the rushing water of Penticton Creek and by the time we have made it home, Marshall has run an additional half kilometre by zig zagging around me. Oh, to have the energy of an eleven year old again!

When I was a young Cub Scout, many years back, I remember the “challenges” that were offered in order to qualify for badges. These badges would be sewn onto a red sash and each week we’d flaunt our accomplishments during session at the local church down the street. The more badges a kid had, the higher his status would be on the totem pole, garnering him more respect from the troop and less likely to be targeted at Dodge-ball. Knocking out a highly decorated achiever was considered disrespectful and could put you in a heap of trouble during role call, so, better stay safe and peg off the newbies and the underachievers. These practices served as apprenticeships for some people; eventually weaving the foundational rigors of future Corporate and Political Cronyism, which is alive and well thanks to complacent leadership and unchecked egos. Bullies always stick together; they find each other through the years and end up in our offices, arena’s and yes, even a few of our our cop shops.

Returning to my original point:The “Challenge” badges consisted of an individual sport, which could be anything as long as it was approved by the Troop. Mine was a fifty mile run. Not all at once, of course, but a daily regimen of a mile per day. We were given a card with fifty boxes which we stuck on our fridges, each box representing a mile and one step closer to the allusive target. Each morning I would wake up, choke back a nasty cod liver oil pill and head off on my awkward jog around Wanless park. In those days a mile around the park felt like a marathon and I could hardly wait to make it back so I could pour myself a healthy bowl of white sugar and Corn Flakes. One morning, somewhere in the early stages of my challenge, my mother decided to join me. Not only did I have to stomach a run around the park in my Adidas sport shorts with the racing stripe, with the taste of cod liver oil refluxing into my mouth, but here now was my mother waddling along beside me in true”mom-form”. My mother, love her to death, looking back now I realize how lucky I was to have parents who were as involved as they were, but I was a teenager and my priorities boiled down to only a couple of important matters; looking cool and seeing how many simple carbohydrates I could stuff down my gullet in one sitting. The latter, I can do easily in the privacy of my home, but my Mother is running with me, which is a sure way to taint the fragile membrane of my budding adolescence.

I see now, why my eleven year old keeps a healthy distance from the grey-bearded man with the Maple Leafs cap who follows him.To be seen by a group of classmates, as he turns the corner onto Killwinning with his father in tow, could devastate his image perhaps for life!. How would he rebound from such a travesty? On our first run, my son sported a black vinyl jacket, beige long pants tapered at the ankle, and the reveled “hat backwards”. The next day, I made him wear shorts and a t-shirt; the hat backwards I accepted as a symbol of his fledgling independence and mild rebellion, which were virtues as important in my youth, as they are to him. So, I get it.

The running portion of my journey is coming to a close and I will soon be transitioning back onto my bike, thank God! My feet have not adjusted well to the their daily pounding and they seem to hurt much of the time. Many foot baths have ensued and I think a good set of custom orthotics are in the near future; I have had this issue corrected in the past and it’s made a big difference. I have recently refitted my bike with new tires and tubes and, honestly, I can’t wait to take it out on the road and put in some real miles. This Saturday, rain or shine, it’s time to rechristen Eastside road and put some new wear on my wheels.

In closing, I am happy I have had this time, during self isolation, to refresh, reload and refocus. I have spent many valuable days with my children, finding out what makes them tick, without the obstructions of a nagging task list to deal with. I miss my customers a lot, and a few of my colleagues as well. ( I emphasize, a few). It’s time to map out the next few months and hit the ground running. It appears we have crushed the allusive “curve” here in lotus land and doors are beginning to open again, which means “opportunity” but, I think I’m going to go after it differently this time. One of the things I have considered, after spending as much time with my kids, is that one day I won’t be. One day my house will be empty, with the exception, perhaps, of an anticipated life-partner, but void of the sounds of children with all of their make-believing, all of their messiness, all of their unreasonable demands and even though there are days when I look forward to the freedom of an empty nest, I know in my heart, I will miss this considerably.

With that knowledge, It is now time to take the summer, perhaps farm myself out into the culinary world as an extra hand, make some new friends and consider my own “start-up”. Most importantly, I should run alongside my children for a little while longer. Who knows when the day might come when my feet won’t move anymore, my running mates have faded into their own worlds and all I have left are the ghosts of days gone by…

Let’s ride.