October 26, 2010

A Running Moment

I breathe heavy. My feet are shuffling fast as I push myself along the wet corridor of the running track. My heart is pounding in my chest and I feel heat waves permeating through my wet clothes. The daylight has already made way for darkness, and whatever warmth there could've been in this late day of October has been replaced with cold and dampness. It's raining.

The heavy music pumping in my ears is insufficient to cover the sound of my effort. It resonates in my skull and accentuates the beat of my blood hitting my temples. My mind is gone. I am an animal. A roaring beast unleashed on an empty track in the cold and the pouring rain, gripping my feet like claws against the ground only to push harder against the wind that whips my face.

I clench my jaws. My open hands fold to fists as my elbows squeeze tighter and my back straightens. A group of track runners are attempting a fast loop just as I’m passing by. They are tall, fit and fast. Cheetahs.

As I reach them, some spread apart to make room for me. I am side-by-side with the first two runners, breathing heavy but ready to give it all. I accelerate slightly, anxious to feel their reaction. They keep up, but don’t pass me. I’m going to give this a shot.

100 meters. The runners behind me are now a couple seconds away and the front pack is steadily distancing them. This is going to be a three man thing.

200 meters. It seems everyone is trying to keep as close together as possible. The runners are much taller than me and I feel unnerved by their presence so close. I must resist a strong urge to accelerate. Stay steady.

300 meters. The stride is lengthening, the speed is rising and the tension of the last stretch is approaching. I give up to my instinct and push harder, knowing full well I might be burning the energy needed for a last sprint if my opponents decide to dash for the finish line. Fuck it, too late now.

One last straight line opens up as I exit the curve. I’ve come ahead of the closest runner. I feel like my whole body is about to explode. I’ve passed the point of controlling my breath or my movements, my legs are frantic. I have no soul. I rage forward, out of pure emptiness. I can’t feel the world around anymore, only the stomping of my feet and the pinching rain crashing against me.

As my last stride pushes me beyond the finish line, I feel like screaming but can’t find enough air. I let my body decelerate to a jog and spend half of the next lap running with closed eyes, exhausted, exhilarated.

When I open my eyes again, I have regained control and balance and my breathing has slowed down to a normal effort. The cheetahs are gone. All I see ahead is a black silhouette, alone under the white light of the high flood beams hovering above the track. Regular puffs of pale steam pushing on each side of his head. A lone runner.

Steady, he has the upright posture of barefooters and a solid stride. His hair is dripping from a mix of sweat and cold rain, but he looks unbothered. As I close in, I can’t help but smile. He’s wearing a black hoodie with an inscription that reads “Conviction” in the back. You sure need a whole lot of it to be out here tonight, I think to myself.

I change tracks to get closer. He notices and turns his head, both wrinkling in effort and sporting an indescribable smile all at once. In a heartbeat, I raise both my arms at him, clench my fingers into claws and let out a loud roar. I don’t need to talk. He knows precisely what I mean.

I complete one last lap to cool down from my rage run, just in time for the lone black runner to reach me again. He’s also exhausted, but shining with joy. He lifts his soggy head, smiles and asks if I’m done.

Daniel Roy is delightedly satisfied and ready to call it a night, and so am I.

October 22, 2010

A Promise

I will not try to be a parent, a hero, a teacher or someone you look up to. I won’t pretend I have the answer to anything, really, except maybe to a couple questions you might have about your training.

There will be no power struggle between you and I. You will have no standard to live up to or reputation to uphold, nor will I. We will just put on our running gear and head out. You’ll tease me about not wearing shoes, and I’ll remind you who finished the last run out of breath, bitching and moaning. Then we’ll scoff and smirk and give each other looks and hit the track.

I will not judge you or your actions. I will simply care for who you are, in this very moment. And that’s a runner. With talents and flaws, strengths and challenges, hopes and fears. Exactly like me.

I’m not offering you much, I know. You will be the one making all the efforts. Making sure you attend our evening trainings every week. Waking up on Sunday mornings when everyone else sleeps. Watching what you eat a little, maybe trying to catch some ZZZ’s every once in a while to be in shape for a run. Phoning me a couple times to give me the lowdown on your individual schedule.

I know I’m not doing much. I will simply run by your side. Every step of the way. Under the sun and in the rain, freezing my ass in the snows of winter and sweating my soul in the heat waves of summer. Handing you Power Beans to keep you going and stealing sips of your Gatorade. Giving you advice you’ll grow to both love and hate. Cheering for you or kicking you a bit, whichever you need.

We’ll stand together at starting lines and revise our race strategy, jumpy and excited. We’ll cross some finish lines, exhausted and exhilarated. If all hell breaks lose and we hit the wall, we might even DNF together. And if we do bail out, we’ll come back. Together.

Sounds like a lot of work, doesn’t it? Don’t kid yourself, it is. But if you hang tough, if you stick around, if you give this all a shot, you won’t regret it. You’ll wake up very early on a late summer morning after a nervous sleep; you’ll grab your backpack and come meet me and the Doc and all the gang at the sports center. We’ll head out for the bridge, line up with thousands of other athletes and wait for a starting gun we’ll have spent a year training for and dreaming about.

And about four hours later, you’ll never be the same again.

And that’s a promise.



The second season of Étudiants dans la Course (the Quebec version of Students Run L.A.) begins next Tuesday, October 25th. Support us by cheering the group at local races or by donating to Dr Julien's foundation that runs the program.

October 19, 2010

Salut, Cuniot

Je t’ai jamais dit que j’écrivais un blogue, t’aurais beaucoup trop râlé parce qu’il est en anglais. T’aurais dit qu’avoir des amis non francophones partout sur la boule, c’est pas une raison de pas écrire en français. Mais tu m’aurais pas engueulé, parce que tu m’aimes bien. Tu m’aurais versé un de tes fameux petits pinards, tu te serais allumé un autre de tes étroits cigares étranges et tu m’aurais raconté des histoires.

T’aurais pu me détester, je t’en aurais même pas voulu. Je suis débarqué dans ta vie avec mon marteau et mes projets, ma grande gueule et mes conneries. Je t’ai réveillé, certains matins, en appuyant sur ta vieille sonnette collée. J’ai même fracassé ta fenêtre de salon avec un madrier. T’as jamais bronché.

Même cet affreux jour gris où je me suis ramené pour t’annoncer que je reprenais ton appartement, tu m’as même pas jeté à la rue. On s’est assis, on n’a pas dit grand-chose. Tout ce que j’ai trouvé à te dire, c’est à quel point je me sentais dégeulasse. T’as gratté un peu ta barbe, puis tu m’as dit de pas m’en faire.

Tu es toujours resté dans ma vie, depuis. Qu’on se croise dans la rue, sur une terrasse ou que je vienne t’écouter dans un de tes récitals délicieux, t’as toujours eu une petite minute et quelques bons mots pour moi. Tu me prenais le visage avec tes mains un peu ridées et tu m’embrassais des deux côtés, à la Française. Puis tu allais me présenter à d’autres comme «l’un des deux frères qui m’a mis à la porte», en tournant un fer gentil dans une plaie que je cachais mal.

Est-ce que ça te fait drôle, que je te tutoie? À moi, un peu. Mais j’ai pas pu écrire sur un autre ton. Trop de distance.

C’est Jamil qui m’a appris la nouvelle. Dans le fond du parking du Gainzbar. Il pleuvait.

J’ai jamais écrit en français sur FlintLand. Aujourd’hui, mon ami, je le fais pour toi. Pour te témoigner mon respect et mon amour, et parce que j’ai pas eu le temps de te dire au revoir.

Salut, Cuniot. T’avais raison : j’ai vraiment été chanceux de pas tomber sur un vieil acariâtre.

J’espère qu’ils ont du pinard, au ciel.





En mémoire de Alain Cuniot (1919-2010)

Écrivain, comédien, poète, charmeur et homme magnifique

October 12, 2010

Astray

I want to sit in the sun
Astray by the pond
Hold you for a while
Just watching you smile

I yearn to stay there
Silent and so close
My nose in your hair
While life around flows.