Things I have learnt about old-fashioned running.

I've run a few marathons, now and again. Never placed though. I think, however, that, I may have stood a chance at a top-ten place in the marathon at the 1904 Olympic games in St. Louis, where:

-The first to cross the finish line was a runner who actually quit after 9 miles and was just going back to get some clothes. The crowd was amazed at his time, and he let them be, including taking the gold medal. Which he didn't keep for long.

-The second to cross the line did so legally, but heavily poisoned. In those days, it was pretty common practice to feed athletes strychnine (mixed with brandy, of course). He almost died.

-The fourth to finish was a Cuban postman who didn't have any real athletic clothing, so just cut his regular trousers into shorts for the race. He stopped off at an orchard during the race to eat some apples. They were rotten, so he had a nap. He still came in fourth.

-The ninth to finish was chased nearly a mile off course by angry dogs.

The Hoke, the poke.

I didn't write this. But I wish I had:


The following is from the Washington Post Style Invitational contest that asked readers to submit "instructions" for something (anything), but written in the style of a famous person. The winning entry was The Hokey Pokey (as written by 'William Shakespeare').

O proud left foot, that ventures quick within
Then soon upon a backward journey lithe.
Anon, once more the gesture, then begin:
Command sinistral pedestal to writhe.
Commence thou then the fervid Hokey-Poke,
A mad gyration, hips in wanton swirl.
To spin! A wilde release from Heavens yoke.
Blessed dervish! Surely canst go, girl.
The Hoke, the poke -- banish now thy doubt
Verily, I say, 'tis what it's all about.
-- by "William Shakespeare"

Written by Jeff Brechlin, Potomac Falls, Maryland, and submitted by Katherine St. John.

This melancholy London

London can get me down.

My general guideline is: I'm not happy unless I can run for 10km or less and be out of town, in nature. London, at 1,759square-km, doesn't qualify. It can take over an hour and a half to get from Paddington station to Harry's house in South London, crawling darkly and anonymously down the Northern Tube line. This is the same amount of time it takes to get to London from Bath, on the other side of the country.

The Tube is a brilliant idea brilliantly executed. And I think the Tube is the main reason for my problem. I don't know where places in London actually are, I know where they are on the tube map. I have no idea what the stretch of city between King's Cross and South Kensington looks like, except underground.

Which is why this weekend, I empowered myself over London. I brought my bike, and didn't use the tube once.

Suddenly, streets and neighborhoods have real, physical meaning, beyond coloured lines on a modernist map! There is light, there is connectivity, and, my goodness, there is nature. Nearly every neighborhood has its own preserved reserve of green, a place where, even in the midst of over seven million people and buildings forever, you can breath.

And there's no congestion charge for bikes!


"No one is healthy in London, no one can be." -Jane Austen

Extra extra

When you're an extra for the BBC, they feed you on a bus. There's a double-decker bus that's full of tables and doesn't actually drive anywhere and you go there, with all the other extras, and eat all the great, free food they give you to make you not feel bad about just being an extra.

There's going to be a program on BBC1 soon called Bone Kickers. It's like a British/Welsh/female version of Indiana Jones, or so I'm told. And one of the episodes has American journalists in it. And, because I'm Canadian, I sound American, so I got to be one of them. And eat on a bus.

And buy the first (and most likely only) business suit I've ever owned. Because they feed you well, but you provide your own skirt and jacket, thanks very much.

Sorry Tim, sorry Brad-Scott.

I probably owe an apology to my many violin playing friends. They are, for the most part, good, kind, smart people. (For the most part.) So, I'm sorry I may have insulted them on BBC radio this morning.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/bristol/content/articles/2008/02/
finetuned_feb08_feature.shtml

Mind you, I'm not sorry about tricking our drummer into promising me cake.

Drum cake!