from Jim

Rumon and Mike will be in the air right now, heading in our direction. They’ll touch down sometime in the late afternoon and will be quickly slotted back into their lives. Perhaps by Sunday night we will have had a chance to sit down, pint in hand, and wrap this adventure back around. I’m looking forward to a full debriefing, bristling with its uncensored battles and photos in full, their brimming stories and updated fashion. Maybe I should have started growing stubble a few days ago, or pressed the collars of my shirts, anything to brace myself for the bit of London that will wash over us when they finally land, when they finally stop.

Here, my days are getting earlier. Today I was up with the light, tying up my shoes and heading to Beacon Hill park for a Times Colonist photo shoot. My legs felt still tangled in my sheets as I ran through the camus and along the trails behind the petting zoo, and I am sure to find both feet on the ground when the shots go to print, one arm thrust to the side for balance. The Times Colonist 10km is now only three days away and I feel less and less fit with each one that passes. This is usually a good sign, and must be the body’s way of allowing us to accept anything on race day given how wretched we felt during the lead in, thereby taking pressure off and allowing us to simply run.

I wouldn’t say that I am looking forward to Sunday’s race. No, I wouldn’t say that at all.

I feel as though my beginner’s luck is over (Sun Run) and now I am moving through the valley, the dip in performance that accompanies increased training as the body searches for equilibrium. A well timed taper will see me come out of it by Saturday, Sunday at the latest. A poorly timed one will leave me hurtling through the streets on Monday morning, unable to stop in time for women, for children and dogs. I will shake my head as I look at my split, wondering where that was yesterday but I won’t think about it for long because I will be busy leaping over the gaggle of Japanese tourists that has gathered by the Terry Fox monument, and will need to be alert that I don’t carry this speed right into the ocean.

I have gone easily this week. My sleep has been poor and my body hurts on four corners, so I backed off on the running to compensate. As one stress goes up, another must come down or we risk going over the edge. Once you are over, it is difficult to come back. I am tired, sleepy tired, and am in desperate need of some proper nutrition. I shouldn’t really be writing this from a cafe. A few raisins recline on the plate beside me where a cinnamon roll once stood and this London Fog is making my head feel thick. I have let myself go over the past few days, so much so that I don’t know that you would recognize me. You would pass me in the street and would take a quick second look. There was something familiar about that man, you would think, but you would remember that it was an old classmate of yours, someone you knew from a city you once lived in a number of years ago.

This doesn’t worry me. Two days of effort, or non-effort, will bring me back. Another litre of water and one of those sleeps where you don’t remember lying down, one of those that you wake up from and panic that you have missed dinner, your show, the hockey game, your alarm, breakfast, your shift of work, that important dinner meeting and finally, the race itself. I will be fine.