Author: shanemills

Customer service seems like it should be a simple concept.  But far too often it looms out of the grasp of those who should be embracing it. Have we become a culture where we expect poor service and thus condone it?  Bloody hell, that best not be true.

Yet that is what seems to be slowly happening, as we quietly accept feeble assistance and are grateful for any attention. It’s an ethos being created by corporate co-ordinators who worship sameness and is slowly filtering down to employees. The end result being that even a minimum level of service now seems to be exceptional.

Take the fake Starbucks, which for all purposes appear to be a fully-functional operation – it’s got the logo, the treats and the inane music. But it’s not real – as it can’t accept rewards. One of the main reasons for giving your custom to the Seattle monolith is the accumulation of reward points and being able to use them when you want. If the store is unable to process those rewards, it’s not a real Starbucks. Put a sign up, call it Joe’s and say ‘Proudly Brewing Starbucks’ and then Buck is your uncle; but don’t pretend to offer a service you can’t, it’s devalues the brand’s reputation and is wildly annoying.

When food or drink is involved, I’m a simple man. Never send food back, don’t sniff at the wine or snap fingers for service – basically a server’s low-maintenance best friend. The one attribute I can’t abide, though, is lack of acknowledgement. The idea that a variety of folks can wander by and not greet because it’s not their table is asinine. It takes nothing to say ‘have you been helped?’ or ‘here’s the menu?’ Walking out of places seems extreme and a step rarely taken, but I do take it when ignored for more than 10 minutes (sometimes 12).  It’s happened more than once in Victoria.

Then there’s retail. It seems there are only two extremes: willful negligence by the staff or obsequiousness that is embarrassing for all concerned. And that’s it.  Snooty service is not restricted to high-end stores, sometimes it’s like class war reversal is in play. The more utilitarian the store the more the customer is left to their own devices.

Not all retail is like that: some, which maintain a family tradition to the business of service, know how to find that right balance. Which is pretty basic: ask if assistance is needed, if answer is no, then back off and watch to see if further aid is required and which point try again. If you’re lucky, you will find a guy/gal who understands these rules and will offer suggestions and, more importantly, stop stupid purchases. Not everything looks good, not everything fits and not everything is meant to be worn off the runway. Finding someone who will stop a sale today means they’re worth buying from tomorrow.

Now, I expect that at my regular clothing haunts, as you build up something approaching a relationship, but it recently happened when purchasing spectacles. The fellow simple said no: I was ready to whip out the credit card but he declined the sale saying the fit was wrong. Now that’s customer service. That’s why I will go back to Diamond Optical.

Maybe it’s just in this new world of pop up stores full of trendy, disposal goods, where quality doesn’t matter, that the ritual of trade has become a throwaway at the altar of quick turnover. Or I’m just an old codger who thinks everything used to be better, dammit, and get off the lawn.

Ah, darling dear: Language can be so loaded, lethal even, all depending on who is using the words. Take the word darling, if you would. Should 50-something males keep that restricted to referencing blood relatives? Yes is probably the answer, to avoid risk of seeming creepy. But a 50-something female doesn’t likely face the same restrictions. But where it is now very odd to hear is when young servers use the phrase – ‘here you go darling’ or ‘here you go, dear.’ And not just at the pub, 20-something baristas throw the phrase around like they’ve been working at Mel’s Diner for 30 years.

To Sir, how it hurts:  There is the moment when the transition to adulthood becomes clear. It sneaks up on a person, happens in unexpected ways and is almost always unintentional. For instance: being 25, playing tennis on public courts and the ball in play rolls behind another court. There is protocol, no running and grabbing the errant strike, wait for it to be returned. But when the ball is returned, it’s clear the teen is well-raised as it comes accompanied by a cheery ‘here you go sir.’ Oh, the dagger delivered, more accurately than any ace.

Spring ahead, really: The argument that we’re no longer an agrarian society and thus DST has outlived its usefulness doesn’t really matter. Who doesn’t like a little bit more daylight at the end of a long shift? The only annoying part is waking up and having misplaced an hour. Oh, not to mention having to reset all your timepieces.

Fuel failure: Okay, side-effect of losing weight and going from dump truck-sized tire for a belly to more like a motorbike street tire is the possibility of a fuel failure. The stores are now not at as well-stocked and hunger pains add new element to gutting out the run. So, next week need to add to the pre-run meal of yogurt and power bar, here comes the oatmeal.

The Troubles: One of the best new finds has been Adrian McKinty’s Sean Duffy novels, set during the Irish Troubles and featuring the Catholic Duffy working for the Royal Ulster Constabulary and living on a Protestant estate. The new one is out, now bought and ready to be devoured. But it raises a question: so engrossing is the series (sort of the same with Greg Horowitz’s Orphan X series) shall you take the plunge and purchase the author’s other books? What if they’re shite? Do you risk devaluing your affection for the series you like?

Marathon or not: The first problem is the distance: 26 miles. Funny how we use the old school distance for the marathon; as it sounds so far, so challenging, so nuts to attempt and saying 26 miles is universally understood. Everything else we use the metric measure – 5K, 10 or 21K for the half. Even for the ultra we would go 50K. But 2 followed by 6 and an M, damn imposing. Then there’s the idea of being in your head for that long; look how chaotic – lacking any sane progression – these thoughts are. Adding another hour makes it seem like the wall is not the challenge but not hating yourself by the end of it. Who can take that much time alone in their head.

Blah blah blah: Of course, work intrudes – how can it not. You can’t outrun work, sadly. But a positive upshot of trying to push work to the side, for a short period of time, is by not dwelling on it that when you do return to the topic – no avoiding that – there is often greater clarity. No, really, trust me. Had some great work ideas come to me this week while out running. Just can’t tell you.

Tie or not to tie: Speaking of work. Part of the job means occasionally pictures are taken and you’re in them, not the subject, just on the periphery. One of the oldest rules for staff is don’t upstage the boss. But watching Sean Spicer and Steve Bannon gives me pause. Spicy’s ties are so awful and it’s not like he’s going for outrageous; but the ties and the boxy suits give shivers. Bannon clearly doesn’t care – he’s got the whole evil genius thing down. Looks like he really wants to channel Ray Winstone in Sexy Beast. Looking at that pair and The Orangeness they work for (who can’t tie a tie to save his life and is King Willem of Netherlands jealous the House of Orange is being upstaged?) makes you wonder whether no tie is acceptable. Though, that only lasts for a fleeting moment: sharp suit, sharp tie still kills. That’s a wall worth climbing over.

How many times in the driving rain do you wish you were on a bike to get home quicker? Zero.

For a music fan, Van Hagar was a massive disappointment that stripped the band of originality, put the best guitarist in the world behind keyboards and sounded too much like Poison. For fans of musicality, showmanship and craziness the best version featured Eddie Van Halen on guitar and David Lee Roth on vocals – they drove the band to exalted heights of wicked licks, fearsome vocals and an intensity driven by not knowing what might happen next.

But for all that, Van Hagar songs are the best partner for runs. Without starting an ugly spat over the merits of Van Halen vs Van Hagar (alternative true fact, Gary Cherone era never happened), it’s fair to say the latter featured a more pop-orientated, commercial sound. While the former was awesome to bang your mullet to, the Sammy songs are much better for pounding the pavement and settling into a relentless pace. It’s kind of like the difference between Peter Gabriel’s Genesis and then Phil Collins as the band’s lead singer; very few people like both versions.

The, pardon the pun, genesis of this reflection develops over the course of a 30 kilometre run: what songs motivate, which rhythms are best to run to, does a certain genre lend itself better to keeping the pistons moving or is there a genre that doesn’t work at all.

And the realization how individual that taste is – death metal anyone?

In what other zone can Mary Chapin Carpenter, Def Leppard and the late great Stan Rogers all mesh together to form a seamless wave of sound? But for me, those three are staples on the list. It’s a chance to mix, match and marvel at what motivates.

Now, there are purists who suggest running should not include ear buds – especially during races. There are races that ban them, which eliminates many from participating for what is the lamest of reasons. To those purists, I say pshaw and phooey. If you are so worried about retaining the roots of the sport, stop eating gels on the course and, while you’re at it, ditch the shoes. This is amateur racing; it’s about finishing the path – plodding along as you put one foot in front of the other – and enjoying it. If a few tunes help to make it easier, then that’s a good result.

Not everyone agrees. A writer I like a lot, James Fell (@bodyforwife), writes in the Chicago Tribune that when racing, in contrast to training, that music can disassociate you from your task on hand – like achieving a personal best. He recommends leaving the iPod at home.

But I find music assists in bringing clarity to the moment. That when I need a boost I flip to Def Leppard or Van Hagar, to gets the fists pumping. When it is time for a steady rhythm, then some Stan Rogers or Mary Chapin Carpenter or Jamie Cullum fills the need. Hit the hills with Texas (great Scottish band) and a little Betty Carter ‘Don’t Mean A Thing (If It Ain’t Got That Swing). Need to slow it down just a wee bit, then Dean Martin and George Strait work a picture together (as do Kid Rock and Sheryl Crow).

See the finish line: Toby Keith helps push the limit, as does Bryan Adams. Plus, there are utility players such as The Police, Barenaked Ladies, Guns ‘N Roses and Garth.

Not to mention one-offs from The Wannadies, Tom Cochrane and Daniel Powter, who when strategically deployed, are as effective as any gel (well, that’s a presumption as I’ve never tried the gels during a race).

Coaches can advise on many matters: training schedule, nutrition, when to add hills or switch to fartleks, when to rest, how to wrap sore parts… but the one thing that is all yours – the music you want to spend 2.5 hours with. So throw caution to the wind, mix it up and run to your own beat.

Ed note: Yes, all the songs/artists are somewhat dated but I’m old school and believe in paying artists for their work. So everything on iPod was either purchased CD or from iTunes, from back when I listened to music more regularly and my computer didn’t take hours to perform simple functions. If you have playlist suggestions, open to any and all ideas.

Turns out I was on trend. Pure chance, mind you, a happenstance due to dogged loyalty that has lasted nearly 40 years. So allergic to trendiness am I, the moment may have already passed. But it doesn’t matter to me and my Stans.

My Stan Smiths are, as the British call them, trainers. They are dazzling white out of the box and wrinkled and tired at the end of their life; an apt metaphor really for everyone’s journey.

The choice, way back when tennis absorbed my life, was between purchasing one of two Adidas brand shoes – one named after American Stan Smith (who won two majors) and the other named after Australian Rod Laver, widely considered one of the greatest players of all time. The Stans, obviously, won. Back then, price probably played a role but since then they’ve become the one staple of my wardrobe that has survived the decades.

To me, they have been great for court, tennis and squash. They were amazing the summer I spent shingling roofs, with unparalleled grip. When others drooled for Air Jordans, I stuck with Stan. Other attempts to jazz up runner were lame: no buttons to pump them up; no garish colour schemes; and no soles so high a broken ankle seemed likely to occur. Just simple and sleek, that was Stan’s secret to success. They were timeless, with shorts, pants and suits.

Over the last 40 years, I’ve cycled through quite a number of Stans. Each time there was a growing fear they were becoming harder to find (in Victoria, when I first moved here there was one small running store that carried them) and Adidas just might scrap the line.

Seems like little fear of that now.

Stans now come in a variety of designs, some by acclaimed designers who are putting their spin on this classic shoe. They come in black and brown and you can design your own. But I say nay! The traditional version – white leather, green trim and unadorned by anything else – will always be the one for me.

But it did make me think if there was anything else hanging in the closest that was about to make a comeback and make me look hip. Turns out, not really.

Levis, never really went out of style – more of a question about how blue the jean is and how wide the leg. Slogan t-shirts, making a comeback for sure but most of my slogans are a little dated and not ready for prime-time anymore.  Mao collars are funky, if you can pull them off – couldn’t do it last time, so not going to try this time. Maybe turtlenecks, but it is tough ensuring the look doesn’t look too college professor-ish.

So it turns out being on trend was a one-time occasion. Which is fine, my Stans and I will just keep waiting till the next time the classic look makes a comeback – when I will likely be as wrinkly as the shoes.

There was a time, back when I was regularly polluting my body with cigarettes (folks christened it Shane-smoking), that a very large drugstore chain instituted a policy that everyone wanting to purchase a deck had to show proof of age. One time, this blue-haired lady, resting on her walker, was digging into her purse looking for ID; which seemed stupid to me. When it was my time, I simply said: I was alive the last time the Maple Leafs won the Stanley Cup. The smokes were quickly handed over, no ID required.

To be precise, I was exactly 17-months-old when Johnny Bower got his name engraved on the Cup for the last time and possess no firm memories of the mug being hoisted. Since then, I’ve suffered through watching the Leafs in black and white, having Harold Ballard as an owner, being tantalizing close to victory and then, let’s call it, a drought.

Through all of that, I’ve remained loyal to Leafs Nation. One of my prized memories was eating in an Orillia diner and my dad spotting Brian Glennie and we got his autograph (he was no Salming, but, boy, he could deliver a devastating hip check). Now there is a glimmer of hope… real hope, for the first in a generation. And my advice to all Leafs fans… stay calm and let the kids play.

Because what would be horrible is to turn into a Red Sox fan.

There was a time when it was easy to associate with Red Sox fans. A strong, proud franchise who couldn’t win and then they had to win. Subsequently they turned into, sadly, Yankee fans.  It would be tragic to follow that path.

Now, I fully understand the journey from frustration to passion. Mention the words ‘Kerry Fraser’ and I will still become enraged, yelling ‘I hate that guy’ at a volume higher than required. That memory is indelibly burned into my mind – I’m sure we can all agree that Wayne Gretzky should have been in the box for drawing blood but I can’t let it go almost 25 years later.

For the most part, however, as a Leafs fan I like to make the crack about the franchise’s futility first, just to get it out of the way. But the past two years have been odd, a concerted effort not to gloat required.

Last season, as fans of Canadian teams bemoaned the on ice products, there was a calm amongst those who back the Buds. We reveled in each loss, got wary with the occasional win and erupted that day when the number one pick panel revealed a Maple Leaf. It seemed the Shanaplan was working. First a new coach, then shipping off expensive parts that weren’t working, followed by true tanking – all part of a design that has worked out.

This year has been exciting and full of accompanying dangerous stretches for fans.  Matthews, Marner, Nylander, Reilly and crew – they don’t win them all but they are undoubtedly one of the most exciting teams in the NHL and that means Leafs fans are in danger of becoming smug. Or a Red Sox fan.

So seven tips to keeping your zen:

• Don’t be to insufferable (as a Leafs fan, others will already consider you insufferable so it’s really a matter of not raising the annoyance level)
• Accept others have unhealthy hatred for Leafs, as such they will not enjoy the success (unlike the Winnipeg Jets, where everyone would go ‘awww, isn’t that nice, they deserve to win’)
• Don’t plan a parade route, even in your dreams.
• At important moments, you get one fist pump and shout. Then, silence. Let the play speak for itself.
• Never forget the pain. The putrid years, the seasons of hope, there’s always next year. Well, next year isn’t quite here, so let’s not jinx it.
• Don’t be an ass. Just enjoy and exult in the moment.
• Pray every night for Mike Babcock’s good health.

It’s not cheating, let’s be clear. But by living and working where I do (five minute walk separates them), means it is very easy when heading out for a run just to follow the lines laid down by the TC 10K or the Victoria Half-Marathon.  So, when race day arrives it means the hills, flats and tight turns are already known. This weekend was the first race, though, where the course was a complete unknown.

So there was some trepidation in lining up for the Running Room’s Victoria version of the Hypothermic Half. How fast to start? Was there some killer hill on the course? How icy was it going to be? How undulating was the terrain? All questions that couldn’t be answered until the first circuit on the course was finished.

First, the good news is about halfway through the first loop it dawned that running around the Victoria airport meant there was likely not a lot of big hills, as that’s not really conducive to landing jets. As that thought was rattling around in the brain, the first hill made an appearance. Nothing too bad, followed by a slight dip and then one more hill, before heading back down to flat countryside (an aside, first time I actually saw Patricia Bay).

The second odd thing was there was stretches where no one was in front of me (running without my glasses limits how far I can see). This posed the challenge of pace. My friend Catherine’s advice is not to worry about time on long runs, so that kept popping into my thoughts and I had to swat it away. This wasn’t just a training run; it was a chance to see how training was going.

Third, though, I wrote earlier about how Victoria is a funny place for a hypothermic half due to the generally mild winters, there were a few wintry moments. Overall, great day for a run and the volunteers had done thorough job of clearing snow from the trail; however, there was a few spots of black ice and tiptoeing at reduced speed was called for. And shout out required:  as I was passing one of the worst spots on loop one there was a few young guys showing up to clear it up; on next pass, so much safer.

The lessons learned:

Trust your training. I chose to run longer training runs and that paid off. At that point when you’re thinking ‘really,’ I knew I could do the distance.

Be more faithful to stretches. Hit and miss best describes the attention stretches, particularly those handed down by the physiotherapist, were given. Twitches and tinges were periodic reminder to do better.

Mix it up: On one of shorter training runs was thrilled to finally get below 5 minute per km, but that was during a speed drill. That wasn’t something I thought I could maintain long term, but this race, by believing and having mixed up training runs, never went above that rate – though came awfully close!

Kick it: No one is going to confuse me with Mo Farrah or Usain Bolt, that is settled. For personal pride, just wanted to have some kick left – so was happy that last kilometer ended up being one of my best.

At the end, it was an excellent way to kick off the 2017 running season. A new challenge, familiar distance and wee bit of winter combined to make it worthwhile. And a personal best.

So, I’ve been mulling over whether to write this, wanting to give the fellow involved the benefit of the doubt. Recognizing it is entirely possible he is new to cycling and didn’t comprehend the faux pas he made, there was no need to get him into trouble with the Brotherhood of Bicyclists (BoB). You see, he was polite – acknowledged he was cutting in front. I know, I know. It was unexpected. He probably is unaware of how he so terrifically violated BoB’s rules.

However, another interaction with a cyclist – more on that to come – led me to pen this piece. First, a disclaimer: what follows is not about those with baskets on their bike or who are spotted toddling along behind children.

It is entirely possible my passionate aversion to BoB is unfair to the majority of the members. But that doesn’t change my aversion (as it is mine), which begins with the clothes.

As a fan of footie and regular viewer of the Spengler Cup, I appreciate that advertising on jerseys is a regular occurrence in Europe. I myself have more than one Manchester United jersey, which comes out and on while watching a match. It doesn’t come out, however, when hitting the pitch – as I’ve never actually played for Man U. So zipping around the Galloping Goose dressed like a star of the tour seems odd to me – unless you really are Ryder Hesjedal.

As a driver, BoB can be extremely frustrating. No, you don’t have the right to drive six abroad and then use the Senior Trudeau Salute as folks try to pass you. For some reason, BoB believes that Sue Storm is along for the ride and providing them with a magical force field that protects them from things like gravity and subsequent collision with the earth.

Also in this category is the very real sense that BoB doesn’t believe the rules of the road apply to them; that speeding in spandex exempts you from obeying things like stop lights and conceding right of way.

The interaction that spurred this rant into reality was with a cyclist while I was walking. The light turned green, I began walking and the cyclist raced through the light and a meeting was just averted. Under my breath, I muttered it was a red light – her response was ‘I know.’

That sense of entitlement to road ownership by BoB is largely what drives the antipathy towards the collective. Yes, I’m sure some are nice. But when BoB congeals as a mob, they are as scary and one-minded as the Borg and seek to destroy.

Victoria Mayor Lisa Helps has been big on bike lanes, even joining in a little video to encourage people to support the idea. Now, usually, I am not a fan of them. But I have reconsidered – BoB definitely needs an opportunity to travel their own road, safely and free from interference of others. And that’s where they should stay and only there.

Just like the Stanley Park walkway, we could make the Goose safe for walkers, strollers and runners. BoB gets their lane, everyone else gets their own.

One final annoyance: these new lights that some BoBs are sporting – no matter the time of day – that continuously flash. They’re the most gawdful invention and inspire me to want to commit an act of violence and rip them off the bike as it goes by. It’s daylight. Everyone can see you. Stop the flashing, please.

Some say seamless galoshes, but to me galoshes require sitting to put on and then zipping up. They used to have a more colloquial name; however, another protection product has now secured the monopoly on that term.

I call them overshoes. And they are cool.

When you wear overshoes, people stare. Not in a mean way, more slightly curious. They have questions and comments, which often blur together. ‘Haven’t seen those since my grampa wore a pair? Are those your grampa’s?’  ‘I didn’t even know you could still get those? Where do you get those?’

But I have come to appreciate overshoes for the most practical of reasons: they keep my feet dry and shoes clean. It’s the same reason caps are essential part of wardrobe – to keep thinning hair dry and glasses clear.

Living on the west coast means a fair bit of rain is featured. It has also meant this winter a remarkable number of slushy days in Victoria. So the overshoes (almost  slipped and called them by other name) are often needed. My dress shoes have thus avoided salt stains, general sogginess and accelerated decay thanks to a small investment.

There are alternatives – here on the west coast hiking boots go with everything, including apparently suits. But I can’t bring myself to do it. Back in the day, in community theatre, one of the first lessons taught was footwear helps set your character. You walk differently in tennis shoes than in dress shoes; policemen on the beat have different trot because of the boots they wear; what’s on your feet should match rest of you. I’ve since developed a passion for shoes, some even say obsession.

So sling your arrows, scoff and guffaw at the stuffiness and old-fashionedness of overshoes and caps. I will remain dry, tip to toe.

Some have asked about name change of site and, no, it’s not a political statement. Upon reflection, I Used to Be carried a certain negativity – that somehow life won’t measure up anymore. Instead, The Right Side reflects that being 50 is grand, that life is still open and full of challenges. Whether it’s running or playing rugby or trying out new foods, it feels like 50 is the right side of life.

Originally designed for benevolent purposes, no really.

Balaclava. The word inherently has an edge to it, a dangerous one. To hear the word is to imagine all manner of violence and avarice, sometimes simultaneously. The image bank of robbers in Snatch or British SAS storming the Iranian Embassy in London or a raft of terrorists ingrain the belief of the beleaguered balaclava as a tool for menace.

But no matter, there were times this week when a balaclava I wanted… not for reasons nefarious or random acts of violence, simply as a survival tool. For the first time, in a very long time, I’ve been running in the winter, in the cold, in what the rest of Canada enjoys and those who reside on the south coast of British Columbia rarely get to experience.

Cold is not new, having lived in hot spots like North Bay, Kapuskasing (at the time the cold weather testing capital of North America), Timmins, Quesnel and Prince George. These are places where the art of layering is so vital – is it a three sweater day or a four sweater kinda day?

Years of living in Victoria – which Wikipedia describes as having ‘a mild warm summer Mediterranean climate’ – might have diluted the toughness but definitely not the stubbornness. Mocking those who wear parkas in the City of Gardens, while flowers bloom, never grows tiresome. Trips up north are always welcomed, no matter the season. The difference being it is one thing to walk around the downtown or sprint to start the truck, and then back inside while it warms up; it’s another to be outside and running for a length of time.

Now part of this desire to run in such crisp weather is due to ensuring the Christmas season does not interfere, too much, with training for the next run. It’s called the Hypothermic Half, put on by Running Room across the country.

Here’s the nub: everyone’s been cold, everyone can conjure up a concept of hypothermia and what it means – toes so cold you don’t want to remove shoes in case digits fall off; hands that no longer seem like they have opposable thumbs; teeth that make a noise like Washington’s wooden teeth chattering. Everyone in Canada knows what hypothermia means.

However, I’m racing in Victoria where it’s more of a theory than a practical concern. Where are some of the other races?

• Calgary
• Edmonton
• Ottawa
• Winnipeg
• Halifax
• Regina
• Eden Prairie, Minnesota (Never been; sounds cold)

There’s a good chance the race in Victoria will see people in shorts and singlets, not due to some Polar Bear Dip induced moment of mania, simply as that will be the weather. People will be on the golf course, for sure. So guilt dictates trying to feel a hypothermic moment.

Which brings about the balaclava moment this week, as the first time out the door it’s about -12 in the Interior, then add in the wind chill and it’s like -14. And, yes, it’s a dry cold. It’s the hair in the nose freezes, cheeks feel like knifes can be sharpened and eyes are crying – all before hitting the end of the driveway – sort.

These are my lessons, admittedly unscientific, learned about winter running:

• Layering is vital. Don’t be brave. My running pants alone were not going to do it; so I threw on a pair of track pants to add all important second layer. Up top, couple of shirts with a good running shirt closest to body. Gloves and a good toque.
• Sunglasses can be extremely helpful. For those who have not gotten out into the colder climes, it is often associated with the sun – which is bright – and the reflection causes sun glare so spectacles are good. As well, the glasses act as a protector for your eyes from the cold wind.
• Reduce your stride. The surface will not be uniformly flat, it will be full of edges and you’ll never quite know where there might be a sliver of ice (and it only takes a sliver to send you sailing). So shorter stride will improve your balance and impact when running.
• Chances are per KM time will be down a bit. The unevenness of the route will make that inevitable and slightly slower is far better than wildly injured because the need for speed sent you crashing.

Having spent a week running in the great white outdoors, I can say this and I’m not going to tell any porkies – as an experience, everyone should try it but as an every-day occurrence? I’m happy to live in the place that does not require a balaclava to enjoy a run.

So, the guilt is assuaged and I will carry no shame around the Victoria Hypothermic Half, only respect for those doing it in far tougher conditions.

Ryan’s resting blank face (above), my resting blank face (below)

Ryan Reynolds and me has been a thing for a bit of time, especially when he’s filming in Vancouver. The kind: you look like his slightly older, slightly less fit brother. The less kind: his dad. The ugly: oh, you’re the stunt double after he’s horribly disfigured in Deadpool. To those people, I say… whatever.

We have so much in common: an undeniable love for British Columbia; the derring –do to wear dangerously tight tights; he looks great with his shirt off, I look so much better when I’m covered up. The list goes on.

But there is one attribute, above all, that unites us: it’s our resting face.

I’ve known for a long time that I don’t have a friendly visage, no one looks and goes he looks nice. On an airplane,  I’m the guy the person next doesn’t speak to except for ‘Can I get out, please?’ and ‘Sorry, can I get back in?’ It’s the reason I don’t like going door-to-door, who wants to see this blank face when you dinner is being interrupted.

And Ryan has the same problem. There’s the now-famous pic of him and wife Blake Lively celebrating a holiday with Taylor Swift’s crew, where everyone looks so ‘happy’ and Ryan looks like thunder. Many thought it was a commentary from the Canadian on the absurdity of celebrity; turns out that’s what his face looks like when relaxed and unaware of the camera.

What does this have to do with running? Well, it’s about the wave or the nod. It’s about runners acknowledging each other as they’re out getting a run in.

At first, I wondered, was it me. Was it this resting face that doesn’t exactly invite contact as I lumber along? But then no, some runners will acknowledge.

The acknowledgment can take a variety of forms: a slight nod, a raise of the hand or, for some, the full wave wear they appear to be signaling a right-hand turn. But they do it.

So, I’ve been trying to understand why it’s not more prevalent. Is it an age thing? I’d say no, young and old seem to do it equally. Is it about fairweather runners? I’ve noticed the more inclement the weather the greater likelihood of getting the nod. Is it an old protocol that newer runners don’t know? Could be, if you don’t read Runners World or take a clinic at Running Room (it’s a Canadian thing, Ryan gets it), that this act of generosity is overlooked.

But does it really matter? Did my long run today and as I’m slow, I had plenty of time to contemplate that question. And I say it does.

Each time you come across someone on a path all you know is what you see – super fit, just blew past me, looks like me, just starting out. But what we don’t know is what they’re dealing with. Is the super fit trying to recover from injury and get back the form they once had? Is someone blowing past as they work towards a PB in race two weeks from now? Is the person just starting thinking about quitting because it’s too hard. Most runners have experienced all of these scenarios, no matter you’re fitness level or experience.

That’s why the nod, wave, peace sign from the waist is so important – it’s simply a good luck, keep running and you’re not alone salute of support.  And no matter where you are on your run – spring in your step at the start or staggering along to the finish – it’s nice to know you’re part of the community.

So, if someone in Victoria (occasionally Vancouver) who looks slightly like Ryan Reynolds with blank face gives you a nod, it’s probably me.