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Dear A-Trak,

Dear A-Trak,

First off I want you to know that this isn’t a big I-love-you for Nike. The last wearable product I owned from the Pride of Beaverton was a pair of electric green Air Force Ones that made for long-lasting and supportive skateboarding shoes, circa 1997. Since then what little non-conformist strain I possess has caused me to resist joining Mr. Knight’s consumer cult. Partially it’s because I’ve run for ages in Asics. And partially it may have something to do with a prototypically Canadian suspicion of joining the latest thing. I realize Nike has been around for ever, and that this may not make much sense. But there it is.

Despite my antipathy for all things Air, Swoosh and Shox, I began picking up the company’s “Original Run” running mixes back in 2006. (Info about them is tough to find on the web, for some reason. They're easier to find on iTunes--just do a search for Nike.) Around three-quarters of an hour long, the "Original Run" MP3s are original mixes produced by well-known DJs. The first one I bought was by James Murphy, a.k.a. LCD Soundsystem. The result was disappointing. Murphy’s 44:53 came out with a lot of hype, and sure some people really liked it, but to me it sounded flat, like a rehash of ideas and beats that weren’t quite good enough to make it onto Sound of Silver or its predecessor.

Nike’s mix from the French house producers, Cassius, was disappointing—it didn’t feel paced for a run. It didn’t grab you. It resided too much on the dance floor to be able to make a transition to the running path. And Aesop Rock’s had some interesting production, particularly that demented stomping beat around the thirteenth minute. And at first, his intense rhymes complimented the workout’s intensity. But none of the rhymes seem to be about anything. They weren’t stories, or even anecdotes; just syllables strung together in rhyming couplets, and over a 10k running course they failed to divert my attention.

And then, A-Trak, this summer you released your running mix. Despite my misgivings, I took the MP3 to the battered track at Central Tech to accompany me on a timed 10k run (or 25 laps of the 400m track). I had never before run a timed 10k accompanied by music. My previous best 10k for this round of training was a comparatively slow 47:50, and I was curious about whether listening to a running mix might help things… To get my mind off the pain. This time around I hoped to finish under 47 minutes. I was targeting 1:52 a lap, which would have put my finish time at 46:40, or about 4:40 per kilometer, slightly slower than Boston pace.

From the beginning, your mix sounded more rich than the others. Rather than weaving together a number of disparate song-fragments into one long mix, you seemed to approach the mix as a single composition—one with an electro theme accompanied by a stomping pace that fit well with my running gait. My first five laps I averaged 1:52 per lap, and again for the next five laps. But around lap 15 fatigue was threatening to scuttle my target finish time. I ran a 1:56 lap, then tried to speed up for the following lap and only managed a 1:53.

In any 10k run on a track I find the laps 15 to 20 the hardest. Particularly laps 18 and 19. You’re well into the run, but too far from the finish for that to be any solace. Luckily, A-Trak, exactly at the right moment, starting around minute 33, you came in with a peppy, pinging beat and a hyperactive baseline and a voice shouting, “Go!” And, hilariously, it worked. It was remarkable: Suddenly I had an energy burst. Your mix told me to “Go!” and I did. Encouraged by the electro I visualized myself as a robot, free of pain, and cranked out a pair of 1:49s to get back to my pace.

So, A-Trak, I am writing this letter in gratitude. Your mix isn’t perfect. There are two climaxes in it. I’d prefer a more traditional arc that builds to one big climax at the end. Also, at only 43 minutes, it’s too short. To my mind, a running mix should last for at least as long as an average person’s 10k run, which puts the ideal length around 50 minutes. But all that is quibbling. By the time the mix ended with that great Endtroducing drum clatter, I was into my final laps, and I cranked out a final lap in the mid-1:40s to set what was for me, on a 10k training run at Central Tech’s track, a new personal best: 46:39. And I credit it to your running mix, A-Trak. Thanks.

Hugs,
Chris

Running is dumb

A quartet of questionable intelligence, all of whom ran this weekend's East Toronto race, the Midsummer Night's Run: Me, Jeremy Busch, Mike Deneau and my sister, Julie. Photo by Barb Busch.

Running is stupid. It’s a stupid activity and the people who do it are dumb. Take me: I run, and the only reason I can determine why I do run is that I am really, like monumentally, dumb. I don’t enjoy it, particularly. Well into the training for my fifth marathon I must admit I remain a little mystified why I feel compelled to tie on my shoes and conduct an activity that causes me such startling levels of pain.

For example, did we ever talk about these things I’m doing, these Yasso 800s? No? Here goes: Yasso 800s are supposed to help you predict your marathon finish time. Basically, you try to run lots of 800m sprints in the number of minutes and seconds that is the target time in hours and minutes for your marathon. For example, this year I’m trying to do the Toronto Waterfront Marathon in under three hours and sixteen minutes. That means, for Yasso 800s, I should try to run my 800m sprints also in 3:16, except for the sprints the 3:16 means three minutes and sixteen seconds. Running wisdom suggests that if by the end of your marathon training you can run 10 Yasso 800s in your target time in minutes and seconds, then you’ll probably be able to hit the equivalent marathon target time in hours and minutes.

Last week was my fifth week of doing Yassos, which means I had to run eight 800m sprints, trying to get each one under 3:16. My sister went with me to do them—she, too, is in training. Yassos are a suspenseful ordeal. As you’re sprinting through your double-laps you’re wondering, can I keep doing this? Can I keep this up until the end? The previous week my 800 times started around three minutes and crept up to about 3:11 for the final one. Not bad. Well within my time. It made me feel pretty good. Maybe these things were working.

This week, my first lap felt fast but my time came in at 3:11. Which for a start time is terrible. So for my second 800 I pledged to run the cobwebs out of my legs. Instead, all I could think about as I ran was, why the hell did I eat that big lunch from Café Brasiliano? All the way through the last lap I could feel the garlic in the macaroni burning up and down my esophogaus. I came in at 3:08. OK, not bad. Except the next one, the third one, I came in at 3:18. Crap!

“If I don’t beat 3:18 this time, I’m quitting running,” I told my sister. And off I went. This time burning my esophagus was what I ate after I ate all of Café Brasiliano’s garlic macaroni, which was a chocolate bar, specificially, a Cadbury Crunchie. Which was stupid. A character trait I’ve already admitted applies to me. It’s like some kind of nutritional suicide, my relationship with chocolate. I knew I was going to have to run Yassos that afternoon. And yet I went ahead and gobbled the chocolate bar anyway. Why? I have no idea. Because I’m an idiot. But then I said that. Anyway, the time was 3:15. Whew. Following reps were 3:20 (eek!) then my stopwatch died on the next lap, then I used my sister’s stopwatch for the seventh one (3:16), then the final was, holy hell, talk about horrible: 3:35.

I chalked up my egregious performance to not having recovered from the 30k I ran the week before. Then this Saturday night I ran another 30k, a race on the east side of Toronto called the Midsummer Night’s Run, which starts at 6:30 p.m. and then finishes after dark. This time I made it to about the fifteenth kilometer without seriously contemplating suicide. Then my legs tightened up. Not just my hams, not just my calves… every part of my legs.

Which got me wondering why I do this stupid activity, this running. Why not do something else? Something that hurts slightly… less? Last week, including my Yassos and my big 30k run, my total mileage was 65k. At an average pace of five minutes per km that works out to 325 minutes, or almost five and a half hours. Per week. I started thinking, what if I practiced five and a half hours a week at something that was actually fun? Like, cribbage? Or poker? Sleight of hand card tricks?

“Quit it.”

This was my friend, Jeremy Busch. And this was on the home stretch, around the 25th kilometer, when, to get my mind off the pain in my legs I took to shouting swear words until Jer asked me to stop.

Around the same stretch a couple of guys on the boardwalk nudged each other as we ran past. “Either of you guys have a cigarette?” they asked Jer and I. Then they cracked up. Jer and I discussed which form of homicide would best suit the two of them.

“Just four more kilometers,” Jer said.

Which meant, 20 minutes, give or take. I had a headache. Separated from the rest of my body was my legs, which strided back and forth on the edge of cramping. And because I was on the edge of cramping, I was paying too much attention to my gait, which meant my upper body was too tense, which meant my shouders and traps and neck muscles were clenched. Which made my headache worse.

Jer and I finished in 2:32. Not quite the five minutes per kilometer I wanted, but pretty darn close. I went home and crawled into bed and tossed and turned the whole night, I think because I was hungry. I didn’t feel right again until the next afternoon, after I’d done a really slow 5k and eaten the biggest Hero Burger on the menu, which looks sort of obscene, it’s that big, but boy did it taste good.

And then today, Monday, I’m back to normal. It’s like someone’s hit my reset button. I got on my bike this morning, off on an errand to take some books back to the library, and a thought popped into my head as I pedaled: “I feel like a run.” And I do! I am dumb! Remarkably dumb!

The Weekness

Whoa, one of the things the Gods of Parenting don’t tell you is how much different the first week will be for your second child compared to your first. Myron’s first week was bliss. Natalie stayed in bed, recovering from the birth and working out the mechanics of breast feeding and saying things like, “Dude, I seriously cannot believe this kid came out of my—.”

And I'd be like, "I know!"

I also took care of her. Which didn’t seem to involve much work. We did a lot of crossword puzzles. We read lots of magazines and books. Every so often Natalie would pick up the kid to feed him. Diaper changing was a marvelous novelty. We were on 24-hour surveillance for smiles or any other indication that Myron was responding to external stimuli. And we were getting to know each other in our new roles of father and mother. The only time I left the bedroom was to go downstairs to fix up some food. Like I said, it was bliss.

Things have been different with Penelope. Same as after Myron’s birth, I took a holiday intending to care for Natalie and get to know the new baby. Except Myron interfered. Sure, I was caring for Natalie—doing the stair relay with the meals and the magazines, same as last time. But on top of that, I had to amuse my now 23-month-old first child. Who, as it turns out, wasn’t all that certain about the new addition to the family.

On August 3, the first night after Penny’s arrival, we gathered together to read Myron a bedtime story and he had a freak-out. By the time we figured out the cause he had lost maybe 30% of his body’s water content, he was crying so much. He wanted Natalie to read him his story. And only Natalie: He wanted Penny and I out of the room. There were other changes. Suddenly he would detonate if I didn’t let him pour the milk into his morning oatmeal. We have these special Band-Aids for Myron, that have Dora the Explorer’s cousin Diego on them. Myron gets them when he’s hurt. But suddenly, Myron was asking for “Diegos” at random intervals, several times a day. It was hard not to interpret these bandage requests as symbols of the hurt he felt, now that he had to share our attention.

To free up time to care for Natalie and Penny I relented on Myron’s TV-watching ban. Now, for like an hour at a time he sat in the family room and stared, transfixed, at the TV. He cried when I turned it off. “Elmo,” he would say. “Elmo!”

So my kid was now a TV vegetable. And I was a bit of a wreck, too. The laundry was piling up. The house was a mess. And between trying to amuse Myron and getting to know Penny, I wasn’t spending enough time with either child. Not to mention Natalie. Stuck up in our bedroom with Penny, Natalie was feeling lonely. And overwhelmed.

Back when I started telling people the news about the second pregnancy, I tended to get slight variations on the same reaction: “Oh, you must be so excited.” I was, at first. And then I got anxious. What I was afraid of was exactly what happened when Penny was born: My family changed, in a manner I wasn’t certain I liked. At moments of weakness, I felt nostalgic for the time before Penny’s birth, when I had only one kid, when we’d had a routine, when things were normal.

Which was insane. Which of course made it worse. On top of everything else I was mad at myself. What sort of a horrible reaction is it that your second child is born and you… feel sad. Christ! The poor kid!

My mom saved the situation. She came up from Windsor for a couple of days and promptly showered Myron with attention. The two of them went out on these all-day field trips and allowed Natalie and I to focus on Penelope. We debated on middle names and decided she looked like my sister, Julie. I was able to get some, but not all, of the laundry done. And Myron came home from his Grandmother Excursions beaming and excited to show us all the stuff my mother had bought him—a new teddy bear, an armful of children’s books.

On the fifth day after Penelope’s birth, my mom returned to Windsor. That evening Natalie and Penny and Myron and I were in the parents bedroom. Natalie was feeding Penny and Myron and I were wrestling. “Diego,” Myron asked, looking at me. “Diego.”

As I headed to the bathroom to get him one of his Band-Aids, Penelope started fussing. She was in a full-bore crying session once I returned and gave Myron the bandage. It took him a minute to get Diego out of his wrapper—a chore he’s very proud of being able to do himself. He was about to put the bandage on his bare leg when he reconsidered. He leaned forward toward the still-crying Penelope and put the precious Diego on his sister. Specifically, on her foot.

That night, the four of us gathered in Myron’s room for his bedtime story. He stroked Penny’s head as he listened. And the next morning, when he wandered into our room at his usual 5:15 a.m., he did something unusual: Rather than crawling in next to me, he wanted to snuggle up against Penny. Natalie put a pillow between the two of them, to safeguard the baby, and it was in that position that the four of us slept for another hour—no longer two parents and a kid; now, with Penny’s addition, a family, with one more person to care for, sure, and also one more person to love.

Solzhenitsyn and South Ossetia

What would Solzhenitsyn have thought of the current, escalating conflict between Georgia and Russia? I ask the question after a weekend spent reading and mulling the consequences of what's looking to be an ever-more-alarming skirmish. Observers have been struggling to find historical precedents for the invasion, in an attempt to provide some perspective. For example, in a remarkable op-ed in today's Wall Street Journal, Georgian President Mikheil Saakashvili (pictured above) compares the invasion to Afganistan in 1979 or the Soviet crushing of the Prague Spring in 1968. In an equally impressive recap of the history of this conflict, James Traub in yesterday's New York Times makes a more chilling comparison: Citing the conventional widsom in the Georgian capital of Tbilisi, Traub compares Putin's invasion of Georgia to Hitler's invasion of Czechoslovakia in 1938. 

Regardless of precedent, Russia's aggression has provided a portal into the Kremlin's power dynamics. Foreign policy is supposed to be Russian President Dmitri Medvedev's territory. But it was Putin who parachuted into North Ossetia over the weekend.  it's impossible to conclude that anyone else is manipulating the Russian military's puppet strings. Taken in sum with TNK-BP and other non-democratic, anti-free market developments, Russia's invasion of Georgian territory, and the attacks on the cities of Gori and Tbilisi, are disturbing indications that Europe may once again be home to a fascist dictatorship.

Would Solzhenitsyn have agreed? The great author died the first weekend of August. The following weekend saw the long-simmering antipathy between Putin's Russia and Saakashvili's Georgia explode like a north Toronto propane storage facility. For all of Solzhenitsyn's enthusiasm for democracy, he also was an enthusiastic Slavophile, one who derided Gorbachev and Yelstin but regarded Putin with comparative approval. Possibly, Solzhenitsyn would have approved of the invasions of South Ossetia and Abkhazia, justifying them as simple protections of Russian interests. Again possibly, he may even have justified Russia's bombings of Gori and Tbilisi as further protectionism. (This was, after all, a man so hard-nosed he criticized the American pullout of Vietnam in the early '70s for the weakness it displayed to the world.) 

And that is, perhaps, the most troubling aspect of this slow-motion calamity. Slavophiles like Solzhenitsyn are disturbingly willing to neglect democratic precepts in their single-minded quest to reassert Russia's superpower status. Brash aggression plays better in Moscow compared to the slower, painstaking democracy that seems best situated to solve this problem. The situation does not bode well for other areas where Russia believes its interests are in danger: Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania, for example, as well as the Ukraine. Unfortunately, this one seems likely to get worse before it gets better. 

My new daughter

Hey, so now I have a daughter, too. She arrived last night at 7:51 p.m. My wife, also known as the toughest woman alive, gave birth to her second nine-plus pounder, at home, no drugs. The official weigh-in was nine pounds, eight ounces. Her name's Penelope. Cute, huh?

Resolved: More Public Safety

On Wednesday night a fellow on a Greyhound bus in Manitoba took out a Bowie knife, stabbed his seatmate 40 times, decapitated him, brandished the head to onlookers, and then apparently went back to the body and... ate it. This incident has caused concerned citizens to discuss what they can do to prevent this sort of thing from happening in future. Some MPs have suggested the idea of a knife registry—that is, asking people to register every knife they own with some sort of new government agency. 

Clearly, that's a great idea, but I'm not sure whether it goes far enough in its attempt to eliminate all danger from all aspects of life. I mean, sure, there are a lot of knives out there. Just yesterday I appeared on my front porch with three razor-edged implements: Two butcher knives and one paring knife. Conceivably, I could have done any number of really bad things with these kitchen tools. I didn't; in fact, I was attempting to get them sharpened by the guy who drives around my neighborhood in a van, ringing a bell and stopping and sharpening knives for just anybody. At the low cost of $5 / knife that means there were a lot of people yesterday going around Little Portugal with newly sharpened knives. Which was a scary thing to contemplate. Did decapitation stats increase in Metro Toronto police's 14 Division? I don't know that for a fact. But they could have. They could have. And that's the point; that's why we need a knife registry. Too many people going around with implements that could cause other people harm. 

Like I said, however, the prospect of further random violence got me thinking about another potentially dangerous implement that could be used to inflict harm: Hands. These "hands" are complex anatomical mechanisms on the extreme end of a persons' arms. They can be flattened to deliver a chop or a slap, or, more devastatingly, hands can be clenched to make a fist, which is then used to punch, usually other people's faces. Hands can also choke. And particularly cruel perpetrators have been known to use a hand's thumb and forefinger to do that flicking thing where the attacker gets the hand really close to the victim's ear and then flicks the ear lobe. That fricking hurts. To avoid the possibility of this sort of unpleasantness, the federal government should immediately take steps to create and maintain a hand registry that tracks all potential and future fists of fury.  

Finally, the federal government should move immediately to conduct a feasibility study examining the possibility of screening passengers for hands on any public transportation. Not just buses—we're talking passenger trains, subways, streetcars: You name it. And until that happens, I'm going to think twice before taking any sort of transportation that puts me next to anyone else with hands. Because other people are crazy. This decapitation thing, it just goes to show: You can never be too careful.