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End of Week 1 of Campaign Beard 2017

So, events have transpired that have reminded me of – I’d guess you would call him my step-dad. I say guess, his name is Gord, because when you’re 20-years-old and your mother remarries you’re not looking for a new father figure. So it’s Gord.

He was a character, for sure. His tattoos were a lesson about carefully choosing the wording. His forearm had the familiar blue-inked anchor of many an old naval guy but his bicep was adorned with the name of his first wife – Grace – which was also my Nan’s name. I found it disturbingly funny.

Fashion was not Gord’s strong suit, his preference being for bowling shirts – which made sense as he very much enjoyed the game and had the whole Flintstones-esque paraphernalia that goes along with such an addiction. When Shea’s Bowling closed its doors, it was a tough day in the Foster household – as five-pin didn’t cut it.

There was also his left arm. It was preternaturally tanned; like a piece of lumber left outside in the sun and then finally treated. But only his left arm. His right was the yang to the left’s ying. The right could blind you with its lack of colour.

And the difference was attributable to his being a cab driver. He rolled around the streets of Barrie with his arm perched on the window, taking the pounding from the sun as a cigarette dangled from his fingers.

As a cabbie, he was perfecly suited for the profession. Loquacious, he was. I remember the former MLA for Prince George-Mount Robson telling me she had been on business in my hometown, struck up a conversation and Gord wanted to know if she knew me. No matter who you were, once a passenger in his car he treated you as an equal right up until the meter stopped.

What prompted the Gord memories was another trick he taught – the taxi stop, where you basically roll through the stop sign and then, after a quick check, keep going.

Spending a week now in Vancouver provoked this trip down memory street. As I walk and run on the city streets, drivers very much seen not to understand what the white line in front of the stop sign means. It’s a stop line, it’s where you bring your vehicle to a halt. Then you look, then you proceed. It’s relatively straight forward concept.

As well, I’ve also noticed folks well-equipped and well-prepared for the weather – brollys at the ready. That’s great. But then don’t walk under the canopies that are protecting the rest of us, with your umbrella at full extension. It’s kinda rude.

On the matter of umbrellas, sometimes the hint is in the name – as in golf umbrella. They are ideally suited for keeping the bag dry on the course, they are a dangerous impediment to others as you traverse city streets.

Okay, that brings us up to date on the last week. The campaign beard continues… it is at the ‘it might look alright stage,’ if had it a bit pepper and less salt. It’s not itchy, no place to hide snacks and the worst is yet to come.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Day 0 – of the Campaign Beard. It won’t end well.

So, the game is now on. Afoot, as a Sherlockian might say.

Now, the most popular way to portray politics is not as intellectual challenge; except for the odd reference to chess and how pieces are moved around the board as politicians try and remain a few moves ahead.

Instead, usually, almost without fail, politics is illustrated as a sporting event. For instance, today a report – I’m sure – says the flag dropped to start the race.

Horse racing, the Sport of Kings, is the favourite by several lengths for reporters. Though boxing always fashions an appearance, as candidates go for the knockout punch or drag themselves off the mat. Every once in a while athletics makes it in, as someone is said to be running a long, lonely race. Plus, whether hockey or football (soccer), the occasional own goal makes its presence felt.

The sporting analogy is an apt one, to be sure. Old-timers will remember Alan Fotheringham, a Chilliwack boy who made good and arguably made the back page of Maclean’s famous. He’s the first person who I heard say that sports reporters make good political reporters as they’re used to covering games, which might explain the glut of sports metaphors.

Back in my journalism days, when Paul Ramsey chose not to run again, I was asked to speak at his roast. Memories are vague but comparing the relationships between press and politicians as akin to the WWE springs to mind – what it is now labelled sports entertainment. No one disputed the comparison.

Fotheringham also said: “In the Maritimes, politics is a disease, in Quebec a religion, in Ontario a business, on the Prairies a protest and in British Columbia – entertainment.”

So there is a long and proud tradition of compressing politics and sports. For those in British Columbia, the focus is now about the next 28 days as May 9 will be when voters decide who has the honour of forming government.

During this time, expect no day-to-day insights into how the campaign is going. No Roman-a-clef moments a la Primary Colours. No expressions of angst or assurance.

There may be posts on the Maple Leafs, the best political books/movies or other random stuff. Like the superstitions that I have developed over the past few campaigns, superstitions that cannot be trifled with.

To begin, the fresh-faced fellow you see before will soon transform. It’s the beginning of the campaign beard… this is day 0. During the remaining days, I’ll update with pictures. It won’t be pretty. That I promise.

And Go Leafs Go.

 

 

 

 

To borrow from Jimmy Carter, I have lust in my heart. Lust to be a Luddite. Dare to dream that one day a meal could be had out that isn’t interrupted by a flashing blue light. A passion burns to return to an era where work stayed at work and only hard copies could follow home. Alas, the discipline needed to make such an occasion is not possessed by yours truly. Call it addiction or compulsion or devotion, my phone is never far.

For some it will be difficult to imagine a life that doesn’t involve being tethered; where instant reaction isn’t expected and communication isn’t through technology. But as much as it is now accepted part of everyday life – when the madness is, well, maddening – it was not always so.

In the embryo days of my career, home was Kapuskasing – a pulp mill town that still thrived but was beginning to show some wear around the edges. Queen’s Park, the seat of the provincial government in Ontario, sat some 10 hours down the end of Highway 11. So when requests for information were made, by telephone, the response was: “Sure, we will pop that into the mail for you.”

Then you waited. At the mercy of Canada Post, who then didn’t have the same reputation for prioritizing service as they do today. Fax machines, when they were introduced, seemed a wildly powerful tool for sharing information.

Now this pause in the search for truth may seem barbaric or quaint, depending on perspective, but there was also a benefit.

One of my journalism mentors was Bob Grainger, who always spoke, let’s call it forcefully, against letting new reporters write columns. “They don’t know shit from Shinola,” he would growl. “They shouldn’t be spouting off on the people they cover.” At the time, I thought he was being needlessly old-school – after all he was from the business side of the business. But the pause that came by having to check the mail each day or ensuring the person was at their desk when you called, allowed for reflection and an opportunity to unjumble all the information before putting out for consumption.

That’s a lesson I still apply to this day: take a breath, make sure whatever you’re going to say is correct and then go for it.

Tethering has advantages, for sure. The ability to connect when out of the office for a walk or coffee or a golf game – all of it is gold. But some people take the leash too far.

Now, I’m not most the gregarious guy, but on occasion conversation is good and should be encouraged and celebrated and, most importantly, reserved for the right venues.

But just because technology allows us to have conversations wherever and whenever we choose, doesn’t mean we should. Sitting in a waiting room is not one of them. The rest of us don’t want to hear your conversation, it’s simply not that interesting. We don’t want to relive the events of last night on the lash with you; we don’t really care about Fred’s rudeness at work; we can barely suffer through ‘okay, I’ll pick up the milk, anything else?’ Same rule applies on public transit or while you’re wandering around the downtown looking for new kicks. It’s your choice where to have these exchanges – so choose wisely.

Then there was the awkward moment this week where the fellow in the loo had his phone with him, at the urinal. Why? No one is so important that you’re taking that call at that moment. What could possess someone to stand there and have the screen glowing in use? Was it a sexting moment? Was he face timing someone to show the rash had cleared up? It’s a lesson to us all: don’t be that guy.

Technology has benefits. Twitter is a great broadcasting tool, Facebook keeps folks connected, Google settles many an argument at the local pub and I’m sure Snapchat is awesome.

The PVR is one of the greatest inventions – as an example there is no need to get up at 5 a.m. to watch the Manchester United match (though, in order to watch in real time, it means 90 minutes of not being able to surf for fear of having the score revealed).

It’s all about the balance. Try writing someone a letter, instead of an email. Use your voice, literally, and call that friend to reminisce. Make technology work for you, instead of working at its behest. And don’t always succumb to the flashing blue light. Now, excuse me, I’ve got to check my email.

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.