Running for Beginners

I started running because it's good for me, and because I live next to the best running route in the world, and because I have like 10 extra hours a week to fill now that I don't have a 1.5 hour commute to work, but mostly because my best friend started training for a marathon and I am a competitive asshole super supportive. Whatever the root cause, I'm loving my new hobby: you might even say I've got a case of the runs!

It's been pricier than I thought it would be. In my younger days, all you needed to run were a pair of legs, a song in your heart, and a mean gym teacher who wouldn't let you sit out with fake cramps. In today's internet superhighway economy, it turns out you need a lot of stuff for running, and socks with cartoon bears on them from the Night Market —that may or may not have been "designed" for "children"— probably aren't going to be great performance enhancers.Walk into a running gear shop(pe) and you'll be overwhelmed by options: Shorts with pockets! Shirts that "wick away" sweat, presumably to some sort of moist parallel universe! Sneakers with arch support (that's runner-talk for "feet")! I hardly know where to begin, but to me, as a runner, the most important thing when shopping for gear is comfort. The second most important thing, as a runner, is making sure my butt looks good and the third thing is that my shoes need to be a fun colour. It's important to have standards, as an athlete (and runner).

It's nice to run the SeaWall, because other people are always out and about; running near other runners inspires you to keep going and try your best and blah blah blah, and tourists on rollerblades blocking your path provide a metaphorical reminder about the obstacles we all face in life on the way to achieving greatness/burning 300 calories. There are also dogs everywhere, which is pretty great, although some of the smaller ones could be a tripping hazzard or get puppy organs all over your brand new pink (pardon me, "Fireberry") shoes were they to be horribly crushed with a misstep. 

I've been using an app called Map My Run recently, which is a cool way of tracking your mileage, having a vaguely Australian robot yell at you every few kilometres, and getting sweat all over your phone all in one fell swoop. Other runners I see sometimes have a belt full of water bottles strapped 'round their bellies: those morons don't even realize we're running right beside an ocean full of delicious wet water.

Getting the Most Out of Your Run

• Envision a treat or prize at the end of your route and try to get there as quickly as possible!
• Carbo-load the night before, and bring a pocket full of macaroni to snack on during your jog!
• For a quick energy boost on long runs, shoot Gatorade directly into your veins!
• Ask a rapist to chase you!

Remember: You're only one workout away from a good mood and smug sense of superiority. Gotta "run"!

Jog ya later,
Stacey "I'm a Runner Now" McLachlan

Parade CV

I may have accidentally agreed to walk through Burnaby for three hours this Saturday in chicken wings and what has only been described to me as a "fun hat". This will somehow not be my most demeaning parade experience.

As I like to work into every conversation I have, I used to work on a honey farm. This may conjure images of smiling, hearty staff clad overalls and pigtails, brows a-glow from an honest day’s work, hawking golden jars from a charming roadside stand, plain but sturdy. In reality, the fluorescent-lit retail front for the commercial pollination operation was manned by a bunch of feeble twenty-somethings and owned by an enthusiastic former police officer who subsisted solely on bee pollen and four hours of daily sleep. Like any independent businessman, he spent a lot of time scheming. “We need to install a tarantula habitat for the kids to look at when they visit! And we’ll build a tea house right next to it!” he would explain to us while emailing blueberry farmers on his Blackberry and driving the forklift to unload an order of jars. “Also, please buy 6 litres of chilli for our festival concession stand; we’ll put some honey in it and say it’s a special recipe and it’ll sell out like crazy. People love eating chilli in July!”

Along these lines of promotional reasoning, we wound up booking a spot in Cloverdale’s annual Santa Claus Parade, the theme of which appeared to be Big Rigs Covered in Lights. Our white company PT Cruiser didn’t really inspire awe in comparison. Cloverdale is the kind of town where Big Rigs matter, too: they are a weird patch of Middle America in the centre of Western Canadian suburban sprawl. The resident teenagers chew tobacco. The neighbourhood is mostly known for its flea market, annual rodeo, and cameos on WB superhero teen dramas. Now you’re all caught up.

While we may not have had the star power of those stupid show-off truckers, what we did have was a second-hand queen bee costume made of Styrofoam and fleece (blue, inexplicably), and boxes and boxes of honeysticks. I was nominated to inhabit the suit, while two of my co-workers donned beekeepers’ garb and another drove the logo car alongside. We would hand out honeysticks and not run over any children. It seemed simple enough. Unfortunately, though, as Einstein’s Theory of Relativity states, parades move faster than they appear to from the sidelines. And as you also probably recall, his theory of Winter Coats Worn Underneath a Styrofoam Body Suit proposes that you will be very, very sweaty very quickly as you sprint through the streets trying to keep up with the rest of the pack. Empirically, I can say that both hypotheses check out.

Pre-parade, armed with smiles and gluctose.

My vision limited to the queen’s gaping, lipsticked maw, I probably stabbed a few children in the face as I briskly jogging through the black December night, attempting to dispense treats and not get run over by a glowing-green 18 wheeler. My beekeeper comrades seemed to fare better. Dressed in breathable cotton jumpers and mesh hoods, they spread joy, not terror to the public. I am disoriented in my now-sauna-like mascot prison, unsure of where the parade was going. I have been running steadily after what I am hoping are the taillights of our Cruiser and I’m sweating profusely. The sweat is plastering my hair to my head and my bare palms (which admittedly, do not do much for the overall realism of the costume, but comically oversized gloves were not provided) are making the honeysticks slippery and gross. I thrust them into the general direction of toddler-shaped people; I keep forgetting that mascots don’t talk, which is particularly unfortunate due to my exercise-induced heavy breathing and gasping. “Come visit soon!” I wheeze creepily, the suit’s dummy arms (the attention paid to anatomical detail by the costume-maker was impressive, particularly considering their laissez-faire attitude towards the general consensus that bees are “yellow” and “black”) accidentally brushing a snowpant-clad leg, causing parents concern that perhaps this so-called “honey farm” was a threat to the family values time-honoured by the Road Truckerz Association.

Co-worker, also terror-running.

Eventually, every parade must come to an end, and no one was gladder than I. We peeled off our costumes – some more odourous than others – and piled back into the car, sucking on any leftover honeysticks that weren’t embedded in some poor Cloverdalian’s eye. The line to leave the parade essentially retraced the route it had taken, but with fewer lawn chair spectators. It turned out to be six blocks.

In sum, I am very cautious about the amount of "fun" this so-called "fun hat" will be providing this weekend. Stay tuned . . .