Author: shanemills

When it is discovered that I like to run, there are always two questions. But they are, for me, the wrong ones. The real question is: why would I stop?

Most recently, it was while enjoying a rich dinner in a San Francisco eatery. This place is a place that travellers drop into and locals use to commemorate milestones – for us it was both. First trip to the City by the Bay and the marathon (first outside of Canada) completed. The couple seated to the right were celebrating her birthday.

Conversation began with usual information exchange: where are you from, why are you here, what do you do. The fellow was an ex-Marine, with ink bleeding out from the tight line of the short-sleeved shirt established around his bicep. He was fit, without doubt. Those arms the size of my thighs, maybe bigger. But to him, the 26.2 distance was something mythical, he wasn’t fit enough to manage it. Except, there’s different types of fit. Told the fellow that, as an example, pretty sure I could only manage one chin-up, while he could do a host of them – even with me hanging off his back.

His partner asked the ‘what do you think of for such a long-time’ question. Which is a fair question. Music helps. So does just taking in the scenery, seeing new things or old sights in a different light. But the alone time is just that – it’s your time. For someone who is a bit of an introvert and doesn’t mind the silence, a long run can be fruitful. Questions asked and answered; some real, some fantasy (yeah, Leafs can win Stanley Cup this year – which category is that?)

The answers to the common questions, even as the word come out, don’t sound that convincing. Trite, almost. As if read in a running magazine. It’s difficult to explain the why and then it dawns: forget the ‘why do it’ and focus on ‘the why stop.’

There are four reasonS reasons to not continue the journey that running leads me on.

Slim: Fairly obvious one. Shedding pounds was the major factor in leaving the couch and trying to get around the block. And it has worked. Down probably 75 pounds. Feel healthier, possess more energy and clothes fit. It wasn’t all the exercise, as it had to be done in conjunction with diet. MyFitnessPal was an invaluable tool in tracking diet (throwing up a few shockers as to what is healthy and what isn’t), as was SkinnyTaste cookbook that showed food doesn’t have to have taste and texture of drywall to be healthy.

Sober: It’s called a beer belly for a reason. Pregnant women used to compare own progress against static size of mine – won all early rounds, I did, and even beat a few who are just about ready to birth. To say a drink was appreciated was an understatement – a side-effect of two careers that have drinking culture while remaining largely sedentary (journalism and politics). Running has meant discipline. No need for one or two every night, at pub or at home. Have to get some mileage in or go to yoga. A friend saw the screenshot on my phone – ‘a picture of yourself, really?’ Yep. It’s a shot of latest race as reminder of the steps taken and not wanting to go backwards, especially when perched on a barstool.

Sane: Maybe it is a result of being an only-child but solitary time is not frightening. In fact, it is welcome – a respite from the craziness and quickness of the world. Always being bombarded with information and stimuli, a run offers a break. Doesn’t matter if it’s just 30 minutes or three hours, that time on the pavement is yours. And the data being absorbed is restricted: some tunes and what your mind generates (guilty, I am, of flooding my own mind with material when not running as the Samsung is always pointed at face, with fingers redirecting from website to website as tangents pop up).

Non-Smoker (mostly): Okay, hesitated here. For years, was a Shane-smoker – which is lighting one up off the end of the other. Then quit. Then Vegas and recaught the bug a bit. So went from a cig snuck on a night out to full bum mode to ‘owe you a pack, so let me give you this one’ mode. The worst part is I didn’t really feel it in the lungs. But the legs is where it made its presence known. Poison seeping through. As an old man running, only have a few years to make improvements and no need to self-sabotage. So, yes, refocusing on being non-smoker.

There was one question that was more unspoken in early years – you’re a runner?

People were too kind to explicitly phrase it that way, but the eyes don’t lie. This fellow with chipmunk cheeks and hosting an industrial-sized tire around the waist is a runner? Does he carry his health card with him?

The worst part is they were kinda right. In my mind, I knew I was a runner; but the body had forgotten what it once could do. Pride wanted to skip the run/walk part of getting back into shape; reality had different ideas on how long it would take. Some of the early jaunts around the neighbourhood were harder than anything done now. They set the foundation and now can build on it.

So the why I run is simple and so is why there’s no stopping.

Spooky. That’s the image that is now ingrained of San Francisco after a three-hour tour. And, to be fair, not entirely spooky – also sinister. San Fran is a city that has its secrets shrouded.

Having never been to the City by the Bay – an image was built through books, movies, television and Hearst history – the city’s rep was odd combo quirky and techy, liberal and elite.

What would Sam Spade think of Lyft? Probably a thumbs up. Full House is likely thumbs down. And Bullitt – he’d want to drive the Mustang but would understand why Steve McQueen deserves respect.

When the decision to travel south for first destination marathon was made, San Francisco was easy choice; but six months ago picking the distance was difficult with options of the full or two separate halfs that largely replicate the full route.

At this point, was still hoping for Boston qualifying time at BMO Marathon in Vancouver, which alas did not come to pass. However, it wasn’t worries about times that led to the full marathon, it was much simpler: why go all that way and not see the whole damn city. Run over one of the most iconic bridges in the world and traverse world famous neighborhoods like Haight Ashbury. Only made sense.

The plan was always for this adventure to be equally about travel and running: dubbed it travrunning.

Key component of planning was the race. What secrets would the early morning give away that are overshadowed by the vibrancy that ensues as the population comes to life. Very few, it seems.

Starting the race along the waterfront is cool, with mist mingling with fog before sweat even breaks. The Bay Bridge can be seen, fairly crisply.

As the route winds through Fort Mason, after first incline, there’s a downhill and a glance to the left reveals a residential enclave. A chance to see if anyone in San Fran is up this early. Thwarted, though, by the fog- the ground floor seems to separate from the stories above. No lights are seen through the curtain.

From there on to the Golden Gate Bridge, with a couple of hills acting as welcoming party. Approaching the bridge, nothing suggests it is an icon- it would appear to be a flat Soviet-era design. Once the deck was accepting the pounding of thousands of pairs of feet, a little of the majesty is sighted. What isn’t? Alcatraz. I know it’s there but from the vantage point of the bridge, The Rock has disappeared.

The rest of the race follows a familiar pattern: the immediate is stunning, the promise of more only hinted at.

Another thought: Vancouver is sited in a spectacular setting. Stanley Park, the bridges (particularly Lions Gate) and the mountains create a visual allure few can match. Drawback: Van doesn’t have the history and heritage buildings that would incite people to climb massive hills of concrete.

And while it seems the race has taken precedence over travel, not really true. Culinary treats have taken center stage. John’s Grill has best chops ever, plus the legend of The Maltese Falcon. Market Bar on waterfront, toned down tourist trap. Kokkari was the best Greek food, playing into no stereotypes. Anzu served up a brunch earned after 26.2 miles (we weren’t only competitors dining). And Gary Danko is on agenda. Plus with two more days there are some brewpubs and small eateries. Along with Jays game in Oakland.

Verdict is clear: travrunning will continue. Maybe even Boston, now that the qualifying time is secured.

Vacationed in another country? Check. Travelled out-of-town for a race? Check. Then why is the mind racing with abandon as a combination of the two is nigh? It’s much more taxing, lists are made and items crossed off, then double-checked; damn, going to need a break to recover.

This is where we are at, dear travellers and runners. Tomorrow a flight to San Francisco will be caught, Sunday a marathon will be attempted, Monday a Jays game captured and Tuesday evening back to Victoria.

Normally, packing for vacation is easy. Pair of shorts, one pair of linen pants, swimwear, some t-shirts, one dressier shirt for dinners and rain jacket. Oh, a hat as well. Plus couple pairs of shoes – espadrilles, sandals and running shoes. That’s the standard for the annual trip somewhere hot, damn hot.

And all of the races outside of Victoria have been in Vancouver – so a journey by ferry or seaplane, requiring only one night away from home. But even then there’s a backup for everything: socks, KT tape, Voltaren, hats, shirts, ginch and shorts. Call it a superstition, but I like to be prepared. However, the closeness of home and familiarity with Vancouver shears it so no real peril exists.

Combining the two, though, is proving exhausting.

There’s only so much suitcase space and conflicting needs. And the fault clearly lies with San Francisco.

Putting the race aside, for a moment, the city is a smorgasbord of attractions. As a lover of crime noir and Bogie, dining at John’s Grill is a necessity – so can’t show up in flip flops. Then there’s the fine dining aspect, where Gary Danko is on the agenda and that requires more than dress shorts. Staying downtown, walking the neighbourhoods and hitting restaurants like Kokkari Estiatorio and Anzu before scoping out funky bookstores & boutiques, then some comfortable shoes and shorts are required. Then there’s just the weather: sun or rain, warm or cool – stay awhile and it could be all of the aforementioned according to people who should know. So need jackets and umbrella.

Then there is the race itself. In the definitely must pack category: singlet, sleeved-shirt, warm-up jacket that can double as rain protector if needed; shorts, back-up shorts, compression shorts, two pairs of socks (one thicker than other); and the ‘bag’ – which contains all the accoutrements needed to prepare – oatmeal (taking my own), granola bar (again, taking one my system is acquainted with), tape for knees, some Vitamin I, bandages, gels and Nuun for water bottle.

See the challenge? Air Canada allows one-checked bag and one carry-on bag. Still not accounted for in what must be lugged aboard: running shoes, utility belt and caps. Plus, want to take my man-bag with me. And need a few books for the flights.

But then, like a dream, an email from Aeroplan, that answers the question I didn’t know I was really asking.

Wanted to race to the music player and start blasting Jeff Buckley’s tribune to Leonard Cohen. The answer to my prayers. Carry-on bag and man-bag are each allowable – which means nothing gets left behind.

Then an idea: what if the carry-on bag heads south nearly empty and becomes full as time goes by in San Francisco? Looks like a lot (of $) might get left behind in the City by the Bay – with apologies to Tony Bennett.

But now, it is too late to worry. Time to be adventurous and see what happens. Bags packed, race ahead – that’s the plan.

Grocers and missionaries. That’s what flits across the mind’s screen when short-sleeve shirts are mentioned. One looks uncomfortable in the air-conditioned store, the other impossibly comfortable in the heat of the neighbourhood. And that’s why short-sleeve shirts have always been anathema.

Now, Michael Douglas did wonders for two-tone collars in Wall Street and sparked a whole fashion trend. In marked contrast, the vastly underrated Falling Down had the reverse affect – the uniform he wears marks him as a beaten man and no one wants to voluntarily don that garb.

In fairness, one man made the white short-sleeve look authoritative – Ed Harris as Gene Kranz in Apollo 13. Other than that, not so much. It became a costume that identified folks as drones, many even replete with pocket protector.

Perception is changing this perspective, due to age and heat in equal parts.

Here in Victoria there’s been something of a heat wave or as much of a heated stretch that can be inflicted when there is a constant sea breeze that flutters from flirtatious to ferocious. But it was warm. And the workplace is a 100-year-old rock pile that doesn’t accommodate modern convenience to keep everyone cool.

So short-sleeves are welcome aid in getting respite from the sun’s tender touch, as direct contact is better than sweaty cotton. Those are the practical reasons.

With age, it seems, comes a lack of fussiness. Rules that must be strictly adhered to can be slightly altered to circumstances. But one hard and fast rule: collared shirt at work, so no one confuses you for a tourist (to be fair, tourists often look like they are headed for a day at the beach and that is acceptable but only if you’re taking up residence beside water). With that non-negotiable, long sleeves do seem cruel and polos, while offering versatility, often lack any panache.

Drone no more, however, as white short-sleeve shirts are no longer the sole choice open to those battling the temperature. Where dress shirts tend to express personality through colours (white, blue or daringly pink) and the occasional pinstripe (sometimes a pink one), today’s summer shirts offer colours and patterns that would be verboten with a suit and tie. And that’s what they are: summer shirts.

If your residence is the Caribbean or similar climate, then disregard and consider them appropriate for the year long.

For the rest of us, it’s a time to indulge. Colours that work because the skin pigment has some tone, a chance to wear a stripe horizontally or odd geometric shapes are all fair game. Up until just about Labour Day.

The relaxation of rules, of course, only goes so far. Some tenets are unbreakable. Unless you are wearing a white short-sleeve shirt, then a necktie should not adorn the neck. It just looks weird and creepy. If a grocery store manager, missionary or NASA administrator, then white shirt and black tie is perfect. Also recognize which shirts work tucked in and which don’t. And Hawaiian shirts are awesome – when in Oahu. Cuban collars are great on holidays.

There, feel better already. Enjoy the sun, soak up the rays and feel the wind blowing the heat on arms unsleeved. Bask in the warmth while being cool.

Oh, one more summer rule, no matter how trendy it appears – socks and sandals, no.

Highs of past, hope for new ones

There was a time when this humble scribe trod the boards of local theatres. Not out of an abundance of talent, mind you; more because a male willing to do community theatre was a rarity and snatched up with nary a query. At the same time, the Prince George Cougars were moving into a new home and for that inaugural year yours truly was the rink announcer. This collision of passions made for interesting and, shall we say, spirited conversations.

For the creative types, it was frustration in being hosted in an old facility that harboured a host of idiosyncrasies and severely hindered the scope of production, if you were lucky enough to use it. In contrast, the Cougars (recent arrivals from Victoria) were being showcased in a facility that cost $21 million to construct in 1994.

One night, after rehearsal in a church sanctuary that was used for performances, the director – it was Crossing Delancey being staged – asked why such sums were expended on an athletic endeavor but not an artistic one. Simple answer: you can’t draw 6,000 people for 36 nights.

This conversion of passion into structure has been at front of mind lately. There’s the World Cup, there’s Wimbledon and, of course, the signing of John Tavares to the Toronto Maple Leafs. It’s a reminder of the very good reason the word fan is derived from fanatic.

Now lots of people are devotees of experiences other than sports: gamers, cosplay, knitters, ballet, stamps, fashion or the Society for Creative Anachronism. But none of those have the ability to unite in the way sports do. Every four years, we rekindle an interest in obscure winter sports. When the Canadian women won soccer bronze at the London Olympics it was shared coast-to-coast. And those old enough will remember the Blue Jays capturing back-to-back World Series titles.

This edition of the World Cup has ably demonstrated the power of sport to unite. Walk into a pub and the shyest will join the celebration, fist pumping and obscure facts pouring out to fill any gaps. As an England devotee, moments of pure terror have mingled with sheer bliss. Against Colombia, the tension as the lineup began for penalties was excruciating but best shared.

It was the same with the signing of Tavares. A legitimate superstar who is still in his prime doesn’t ink a contract in Toronto – it simply doesn’t happen. So when it does, there is a tendency to want to start charting a parade route.

Some teams manage to be ‘lovable losers’ – such as the Chicago Cubs for all those years and, to be honest, the Saskatchewan Roughriders – and some are just losers. That category would host the Maple Leafs and England, rich teams that live, seemingly, on past glories. And the timelines are eerily similar.

The Leafs last drank out of Lord Stanley’s mug on May 2, 1967 and Bobby Moore hoisted the Jules Rimet Trophy on July 30, 1966. For both of these occurrences, your correspondent was alive. When England won my first breath had comes seven months before; the last Leaf win came at the ripe old age of 17 months.

Since then, mostly suffering. Glimmers for sure. Leafs of Sittler and MacDonald, of Gilmour and Clark (damn you, Kerry Fraser) whetted the appetite; the Three Lions were even more tempting – as the teams of Gascoigne and Lineker gave way to the Golden Generation. But heartbreak always.

From a boy growing up and watching the Leafs in black & white to a year living in England when the memories of winning were fresh to a familiar pattern: they look pretty good, think they might do alright, they suck, and what did you expect.

Butt of jokes. Squads cringe-worthy in badness. It builds character for the true fan. And the suffering is part of the payoff.

Take American football: if you’re a recent fan of the Patriots or the Packers, I feel bad for you. There are dark times to come and be prepared. As a Steelers fan, yes there are the six Super Bowls; there is also Bubby Brister, Kordell Stewart and Tommy Maddux to name a few who came between Bradshaw and Ben.

That’s why this World Cup – and waiting till after the quarters and publishing before the semis was deliberate – is so much fun. There was talent there, obviously, for England; there was a likeability and toughness due to the way many of the players fought into the top echelon; and then a path opened up – partially by the players and, yes, by the football gods who decided Germany, Brazil, Spain, Portugal and Argentina should go home early (not to mention Italy and Holland not qualifying).

So Wednesday will be a moment to bask – this time they didn’t suck. And that’s a win. Then there’s 82 games with Tavares in the blue and white of Leafs Nation. Another win.