Around the Bay 30k - The Betrayal of the Bunny

2:32:15 (chip time) 102/452 AG, 819/2963 OA

After all was said & done, the bunny was only human.

This past winter felt like a long one, and when Sunday, March 27th, broke clear and cold - around -8C with a northerly windchill yanking it down to the double digits - I was resigned that today would be no different from so many other weekend morning runs in the last few months. Except this time I'd drive a short distance before starting, and there'd be about 6,000 others joining me. Luckily the race headquarters was open to us - Hamilton's cavernous Copps Coliseum was a giant hive of activity until the 9:30 start. By this point the sun was shining down on our horde of shivering souls. Piles of snow and ice skirted the sides of the route and made finding one's stride an exercise in patience.

A few zigs and zags brought us to neighbourhoods along the western edge of Lake Ontario, where winds picked up but not enough to halt the locals in their housecoats at the ends of their driveways intrepidly cheering us on, waving cowbells in one hand while cradling coffees in the other (with the occasional cigarette lending a distinct... texture to the atmosphere)

Passing the relay teams' first transfer zone about 10k in unleashed those fresh folks who clearly relished weaving between us in the manner of bike couriers threading their way through traffic jams. Good for them - haggardness would soon set in as they tried scaling the highway overpass without slowing down. From here we traversed the lift bridge that allows freighters access to the bay around which we were running. Its open metal grating was broad enough to give me nervous ankles so I backed off slightly to ensure stability. At about this point I realized I was inadvertently matching strides with the 2:30 pace bunny; he and his entourage had ebbed and flowed around me for the first 45 minutes or so. Until now in my brief running career I hadn't paid pace bunnies much heed, fancying myself as a lone wolf who only answered to himself. It's hard to pinpoint what made me fall under the spell of those large, undulating pink ears of his on this particular day. Perhaps it was my nervousness at tackling this new distance, it may have been the allure of simply trying something new, it certainly didn't hurt that his pace coincided with my best-pace goal. Regardless, somewhere before Burlington I resolved to hitch my star to this lapin rapide. If nothing else it would be a welcome diversion for the hills that defined Burlington's Northshore Boulevard when we turned west about 20k along the route.

My decision, mid-race, to latch onto a pace bunny was silent, invisible. I didn't need to declare my kinship with his panting disciples, there was no rule about swinging my hat around backwards, I didn't even break my stride. Nobody knew (much less cared) that now I was a follower. It felt like taking a bit of a vacation, even slipping back into childhood. Hey! I can relax now, Dad's in charge!
Alas, my hare-trigger resolve was sorely tested early on when after just a few kilometres of rollers I needed to drop off the rear of the 2:30 pack for a sudden heart-to-heart with my knees, which had begun sending hints that it might be prudent to stop immediately and cheer everyone else on. Luckily, by backing off a tad I was able to re-focus on my smoothness and pick up the pace again.
One bit of business before catching back up to the group was a quick stop and u-turn for a hug with my friend, Pat, who was manning an ad hoc aid station at the foot of her driveway. Also snuck in a low-five with another tri club friend, Margaret, telling her I needed to hustle to stay with my bunny because if I win they're paying $4000 for first place! I wonder now - recalling the tepid chuckles from those around us - if people thought I was seriously deluded, instead of purely kidding.

Before long we passed the 25k mark behind the beautiful Royal Botanical Gardens, and I noticed not a leaf of it; I had begun slipping into that surreal state of perception that endurance folks sometimes experience (or is it just me?), where landmarks begin to lose some of their clarity and relevance as we hunker down for The Serious Work afoot. As we began our descent down Spring Gardens Road to cross Grindstone Creek - the gateway to our point of reckoning - I yanked off my glove and high-fived Stan Wakeman, a roadside icon for a number of years who braves the chill by playing Queen's We Will Rock You! at full volume on his boom box.

Seconds later, with no warning, just as we began ascending The Hill* on Valley Inn Road the ears came off. Literally, my bunny tore his pink ears off and clenched them in his fist as he slowed down to a walk. His day was done, as it was for so many others ascending The Hill like extras from a George Romero film. For one brief instant, in my naivete, I was incredulous. Can bunnies even do this? Aren't they the lop-eared cyborgs of running - able to stoically maintain their pace and banter effortlessly all without breaking a sweat? I watched our group of lemmings disperse in slow motion (I mean, really, how quickly can you get away from someone when you are running up a steep hill?) As I, too, slowly edged past him I think I whispered a thank you - not sure because I also had to cough to clear my dry throat. Unless I'm mistaken I heard him sigh in response. Regardless of this development he could take pride in having ushered us through the minefield of hills for the past 6k and delivering us to the cusp of the home stretch. Glancing back over my shoulder I saw him slowly cobble together the beginnings of a run, albeit with the spring sprung from his hop. Kudos to you, my furless friend… may your racedays be blown through by tailwinds and your burrow stay dry.

Suddenly I was high, but not from a runner's endorphin rush; I had reached the plateau of York Road, and it was all downhill from here. A slight descent eased our final kilometres toward the cheering throngs inside Copps Coliseum. We passed the Grim Reaper & his sidekick stationed beside a cemetery, urging us on with wisecracks like The end is near! Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk.

A final cruel dramatic test was the steep short service ramp we had to descend to reach the coliseum's ice level and the waiting finish line. Baby steps baby steps don't blow it now and Check… we are clear for final approach! The cheers, the big screen coverage, it was all a blur. A nice volunteer told me I could stop running now. I agreed, and wandered off to claim the pita bread and orange juices that I felt I'd earned.

In retrospect, I am very happy with both my prep and my race-day execution, and my exploration of in-race pacing via bunny was a pleasant experience, cottontail calamities notwithstanding. I am certain I will be back to the Around the Bay, with the obvious goal of wanting to go sub-2:30 next time. If anyone is sitting on the fence about this event I highly recommend it; just come prepared by packing your own bunny if it's that important to you.

*(7.6% gradient rising nearly 30m over less than a 400m distance, compare to Boston's infamous Heartbreak Hill @ 4.5% over a slightly longer stretch)

Race Report: Burlington's Chilly Half Marathon & Frosty 5K

Chip Time: 1:39:20
30/189 AG, 255/2278 OA

I beat the pepper!

It's funny how one has time to obsess about competitors during races, especially longer events. In any contest of speed, from running to motorcycle racing, competitors live in parallel worlds of relative velocities - one beheld by the spectator watching them, and another one interacting with their fellow competitors. In effect, two events are unfolding at once: the faster race as seen by the stationary observers on the sidelines, and the slower one where we gain and lose ground on our competitors. In an earlier life, when racing cars, I found it remarkable how, while we may have been hurtling along over 220 kph, my competitors and I were, in fact, engaged in a low-speed tussle for position. Once the race settled into its rhythm, those around me would be so closely matched that we could likely pass a tray of eggs between us at any moment and never crack a shell. It is a calm in the eye of a storm blowing past the spectators.

From this placid vantage point one can study one's opponents, size up their strengths and weaknesses, then calmly hatch a plan to vanquish them. Curiously, I found out in early March of this year that this strategy is really no different even when we find ourselves pitted against two and a half metre tall vegetables.

In my case, during Burlington's Chilly Half Marathon, I resolved no two-legged garden-variety opponent is going to beat me without a fight, even if it had to be across rutted ice tracks in places. Which it was. I've got to hand it to Mark Sullivan, he was in much better condition at 18 kms than I could ever hope to be if I was similarly swaddled in what must surely have been an itchy, sweltering get-up. For a few moments as I hobbled up nearly alongside him, I basked in the peripheral celebrity I'd imagine the Prime Minister's Secret Service agents must experience when their boss is caught in the spotlight. Spectators and volunteers vigorously clapped and cheered him/(us), and it soon became apparent that unless I moved on I would look like a Clingon*. And the last thing I needed was to be caught up in the finishing chute near him: photos of me edging out a giant pepper, or trailing just behind it, would surely be equally humiliating either way, especially if my teenaged sons got hold of them.

I threw another log on my fire and proceeded to pull away from him as best I could. In taking my leave I wish I had mustered something wittier than "Looking hot, man!" but at this point there was only lactic acid coursing through my brain.

So don't take it personally, Mark, but I just had to do it. The way I see it, it was win-win: you still took first in the Produce Category, and I avoided permanent ego scarring.

Kaz Novak — Metroland West Media Group
From the Burlington Post: "Mark Sullivan, in his red chili pepper outfit, was one of close to 4,000 participants in the annual Chilly Half-Marathon and Frosty 5K that was held throughout Burlington during miserable weather on Sunday morning."

*someone who actually thrives on this overspray of attention, and lingers around to receive it.

Surviving Bad Design, Part Deux

Our second instalment in an ongoing series of reasons to fear people's judgment turns its eye on matters of taste and choice. Whereas Part One detailed a poor design that sprang from a few unhinged individuals affecting untold numbers of innocents (and students) in brief but painful ways, today we explore those curious design mis-steps I call Feeble Attempts at Radical Taste. Design FARTs frighten me because not only do they likely spring from the creative loins of aesthetic first cousins, others will actually come along and purchase them, spending years driving, cleaning, and even polishing these things.

The Real Problem:
(sidestepping the fact I am a design snob) These same people are also all driving on the same roads I cycle on, making subjective decisions that are no more sound than what led to little useless chromed widgets on fenders in the first place.

What really chafes here is the cascading effect of a FART. History of dangerous design tells us this is not as benign as a bunch of butterflies flapping their wings, ignorantly generating cyclones halfway around the world.

We instead see uninspired designers stepping into the cloud of other manufacturers' FARTs and deciding that, Yes, I too would like to update our tired model with a pointless chromed exclamation mark! A dash of something sophisticated, yet… uhm, uh yeah! - edgy!

And when people buy these aberrations they just encourage the illusion that the FART was appreciated, when in fact it merely came with a vehicle that may have had the lowest lease rate in its class.

Why would someone who thinks this is acceptable have the good spatial sense to not try to squeeze past me near the crest of a hill, rather than wait a few seconds more for a clear road?

It's easy to imagine a daydreaming designer (is there any other kind?) hurtling along a rural road at 89 kph while smugly musing: "Let's see... what say we tack on a gaudy, chromed, fake vent on the side of the [hapless vehicle on daydreaming designer's board], to break it up a smidge? ... Yeah, I could be onto something here... It can be (how long?!) long enough to... uh, uhmmmmm. Huh - looks like a bike... dang, it is. … it'll run along the beltline untillllllll, uh… shiite, oncoming car. Okay, if the cyclist doesn't veer left at all we should be… Ah-ha! That's it. Until it's lopped off by the door seams! We'll set it just in line with the door seams… don't dodge that chunk of wood, pal, I've gotta get to work to jot this down - you might become fender trim…"

Trifuel's Great Gobbler Challenge - Let the Tradition Begin!

Our intrepid little group of online friends logged runs over 16 consecutive days to see who could tally up the greatest distance, and I managed to squeak in 94.7 miles. This, it turns out, was enough to snag the inaugural trophy, so kindly shipped up by AT from North Carolina.

The proud bird now has a place of honour on our family trophy shelf. As it tied in with American Thanksgiving (and helped burn calories acquired then) I thought it fitting to include photos with some delightful homemade pumpkin pie top-dressed with organic whipped creme.

A slice of that would have given me enough fuel to top 100 miles in one go. Maybe next year!

Much to be thankful for, indeed. Not least of which - beside the fitness to even partake - is the spirit of friendship and encouragement on the Trifuel website.

Thanks, AT, for starting up what I hope becomes an annual event.

It's great to extend the season by a few more weeks with some friendly rivalry!

On Becoming a Velodromedary

I fulfilled a lifelong dream this past Saturday! Apparently only three or four indoor velodromes exist in North America and fortunately one, the Forest City Velodrome, in London, Ontario, is less than a two hour's drive from me. Our tri club booked an introductory session and we had a blast!Rental bikes were included in the very modest price and in addition to our usual cycling kits and pedals we were encouraged to dress in layers; it may have been indoors but it was a former ice rink and very cool inside this time of year. This building necessitated a very small, intense layout. Whereas an Olympic circuit might be 250m long with 45 deg. banked turns and 15 deg. straights, this is 138m (150 yards) around with 50 deg. turns and 17 deg. straights. It was remarkable - and intimidating at first - to walk down to the concrete arena floor and look up as the experienced riders soared past overhead. Several of us wondered what we'd gotten ourselves into, the way one might when queueing up for a giant roller coaster.

Our three instructors were very enthused; you could tell they loved what they do and they quickly had us on our bikes and wheeling about on the concrete to get acquainted our the fixed gears' idiosyncrasies. We drilled some pylon slaloming, grabbing at plastic bottles on the floor, slowing down, and yes, even stopping - I found this to be the skill I need to practice the most!

From there we lapped the plywood skirt circling the track at floor level. Three pylons were placed down the length of each straightaway, the middle one jutting up onto the track surface itself. We were to cut up and around this middle cone, practicing shoulder checks and smoothness as we drilled merging onto and off the track. When we nailed this step the coaches kicked the middle cone further off line toward the outside of the track. This made our swings steeper and we quickly got a feel for pitching the bikes around, which was a far cry from the steadiness we strive for as triathletes navigating crowds of AGers. We then rehearsed safely entering and exiting the track, to and from the middle paddock area, all the while checking the shoulders.

Next up was encircling the track on the metre-wide blue threshold band they'd dubbed the Côte d'Azur. When we showed them we could hold a decent line they had us ride up onto the first, black, line on the track surface at each straightaway, dropping down to the Côte for each turn. Before we knew it we were given clearance to follow the black line all the way around - we were in business! From the fifth highest strip on the Côte d'Azur to the outer track railing it's all 50 degress. Whoops, hoots, and hollers spilled from all around as we got our first tastes of the full track. It was, I must say, breathtaking; I was laughing like a little kid.

Rob and his coaches brought us in regularly to take a breather, stay hydrated, and think about what we'd just learned. These five minute breaks seemed to help us process all of the new sensations, and we approached each new session with renewed vigour (I think they enjoyed working with a group that had the cycling background we did, as we appeared to grasp each new stage with few bobbles). Interspersed with lapping at higher levels on the track were skills drills to give us a better feel for the bikes. We were told to stand and sprint at points, sometimes for several laps. I'm flattered they thought I looked capable. This was particularly challenging on the turns because of the unique forces - some gravity is replaced by centrifugal force, perhaps? - and I found my hamstrings were most taxed. I dearly wanted to coast a wee bit on occasion, but between my pride in not letting down my paceline mates and of course the relentlessness of the fixed gear there's no choice in that matter!

We were drilled to swap our hand positions between the tops and the drops, all around the track. As if this weren't enough, we then rode with one hand off entirely, first shadowing the bar, then held out to the side, and finally tucked behind our backs around the entire circuit! After this it was easy to feel practically invincible, and in an expert stroke of timing the coaches had us break for lunch before any of us found out otherwise.

We continued our lapping and skills development after the break, being coaxed to incrementally narrow our gaps down from seven metres to one or two bike lengths. It got closer at times as we were pressed to crank up the speeds ("Go ahead kids, eat all the candy in the store!") but no one set a wheel wrong and we came away breathless and totally thrilled.

Random thoughts & observations I and some others shared:

- easy enough to speed up and slow down on fixed gears, but actually stopping required an order of magnitude more concentration to learn.

- concentration was the word of the day. Time absolutely flew past.

- the coaches had a great sense of humour. After telling us we had to remain above 30km/hr if we wanted to stay put on the track, a club member asked what would happen otherwise? At this, they smugly referred to the track as self-cleaning.

- they used the term "soft touch". Until then I'd only associated it with stick & ball sports, but I can totally see the finesse that is called for here.

- as with many sports it's relatively easy to do this in a middling way. It's the attacking it and racing it where both the thrill and the challenge will lie.

- these bikes can be twitchier than a tri bike. It could be the fact they weren't fitted for this intro session. Jury's out on this…

- the first laps up on the wood are breathtaking. Wonderful. Transformative. After that, the muscles & brain learn and compensate and, while it is still a thrill, it is about quickly getting down to business. Which, happily, involves quickness. There's never a sense of slipping at any point; tires are sanded from new to ensure there's a good texture on the slick tread.

- my tri club is laced with great riders. We remained accident free, and formed the tightest paceline the instructors would allow, about 1 bike length apart.

- I need to observe how others stop smoothly!

- we were constantly encouraged to keep our chins up/look far ahead. Sage advice in many sports, even driving a car. Sometimes grocery shopping. It was interesting to experiment with also tilting the head "sideways" on the turns, to keep it more upright (perpendicular to the arena floor), to give a different perspective. No doubt more practice will help arrive at the optimum orientation.

- undoubtedly one of the biggest areas to focus on next would be the transition zones between curve and straightway - how long to maintain the steady state through the turn before "releasing" onto the straight, and vice-versa. I was able to stay fairly close to the various lines although these areas were where I experienced my biggest deviations. Practice! Woohoo - more track time!

- a little bend in the elbows goes a long way to relaxing a person. "Elbow fitness" - arm strength - is helpful as the joint itself undergoes some unique stress. Centrifugal force is likely a factor, surely we are being pushed down onto our seats & pedals with a greater force than just gravity

Post impressions: hamstrings pleasantly stiff - although that could be down to a lack of bike miles in the past month.

---

As a child I recall a theatrical documentary on the '68 Mexico Olympics. I sat there watching, astonished, the velodrome events on this giant screen, and since then have always known this day would come. It really was as thrilling as I'd imagined! I can now happily look forward to making this an occasional dalliance in my love affair with cycling.

Simon Whitfield - champion in more ways than one

Had the unique pleasure of attending a Specialized LBS 2011 model launch on Friday at a local BMW dealership, and they brought in four Canadian Olympic medallists to sweeten the pot. At one point my younger son, Owen, was patiently waiting on the periphery of a gabfest Simon had going with an adult couple. There being few young fry at this shindig, I guess Owen caught Simon's eye - he quickly wrapped up his conversation and walked right over to us and introduced himself, and promptly set about interviewing my son, discovering his love of bowling and asking for some insights. Owen was on cloud nine (as was his dad, of course).
In getting a few photos, I mentioned his memorable finish at the 2009 Hy-Vee and he laughed and, as gracious as could be, obliged with a fist pump reenactment. What a great ambassador for our sport!

There for the Taking - a run route I love

___________________________________________
When we settled into this region west of Toronto, it was primarily to serve one of our son's special education needs. The farthest thing on my mind was running trails and it would be over three years after moving here before I'd take up triathlon. I began with prowling around our suburban streets as most city slickers are wont to do, but I quickly turned restless as my mileage demands increased. This entailed a lot of sideways glances down pathways and park lanes, but there was not much reprieve from traffic until I ventured into a provincial park only four kms from where we live.

What follows is a photo essay of one of the myriad runs possible there. I shot the pics while I ran, to see about giving a sense of movement, just to see how it came out...

Three minutes of gentle, street-side jogging will get one to the "trailhead"


A look left reveals the valley cut by Bronte Creek...
The crushed limestone path briefly dwindles into a more rugged single-track trail
At one point it leads downhill, one of the few spots you need to watch your footing on very carefully.


Within perhaps 100m it levels off again, and the surface is a cushy stretch of ultra padded packed dirt. 1km


What goes down must come up - a mirror of the previous slope takes us back up to "poolside" elevation


Trouble in paradise: the municipality has decided the quaintness must go, so sewers and paving it is for the outliers. No matter, this will continue for only another few moments...


The road veers right, we bear left and pick up the resumption of what has evolved into a formal MUP (Multi-Use Path), which now runs for more than another km behind a school and more homes. Keep an eye out for dogs & their owners seemingly wanting to start a game of jump rope with you & their leash.


Now it gets interesting. At the verge of civilization, where the park takes over, the march of progress stumbles at the end of the MUP, where the final new curbs and paving delineate the beginning of the real meat-and-potatoes stage of the run.
It's either turn left now or keep running straight into the lake.


The previous left turn at Albuquerque was near 3kms into the run. After passing through a very uninspiring service vehicle yard on this perimeter of the park, one winds up on the compressed gravel ring road loop used only by park vehicles. A few minutes on this brings us to a significant bend in the road...... the rounding of which reveals a small side path. This should be taken. The road less travelled and all that...


We are now in the Very Good Place. 4km in. Forest canopy, quiet, fewer yappy dogs, soft padded trail underfoot, no traffic lights, the chipmunks yield our right of way... it's delightful. Just don't veer too far to the left or it's lights out.


At the clearing ahead is a lookout platform...

View from the lookout platform. The darkness of the creek can be seen down below. Heart rate's up, though, no time to dilly-dally...


Every glance to the side provides a nice view of the valley...


Beautiful day for a run. But don't stop to watch the wheels go 'round...


Just ahead, a clearing. Approaching 5kms.


It may be tempting to veer left on the smaller path, but twisted ankles lurk behind every foot fall. It's best to head straight for the cornfield.

Cornfield?! This far into suburbia? Believe it. Hang a sharp left just before you strike cobs.This is the Five K Kurve... halfway along this arc is exactly five kms from the start. A u-turn here gives a nice pre-work morning run. But, this being the weekend...

... we carry on.


A few small rolling segments add some variation to the route...
About 5.5km along, another 90 deg. right turn...

Looking to the right, a hay bale storage building...

A sharp left-hander takes one behind the "Maple Toffee House", a converted Victorian farm house used as a museum. In the backyard in March, staff dressed in period clothing roll heated maple syrup around Popsicle sticks over snow, creating heavenly, albeit jaw-binding, treats for visitors...


A rightward glance finds some of the museum's outbuildings and Norman Rockwell's idle thresher...

Now approaching the most distant point on the circuit, as we embark on an enclosed 1km loop...


The sacred and profane: just over that berm in the distance is the Queen Elizabeth Way ('way?), all eight lanes of it...

... all thunder, all the time. (traffic camera image; luckily we don't see this)
In a few hundred metres we can put it all behind us again.


A squirrel's eye view of the trail. Luckily, it is largely smooth, no worries about twisted ankles through here.


Passing lane, handy for sprinting by trios of walkers bogged down by their Fuelbelts and labradors.


Beyond the slope is a sheer drop; best to watch one's footing through here.


The 1km loop being completed, you are spit back out to begin the return leg. But wait... a sign ahead points to more options...Hang a sharp right at the sign for some invigorating hill workouts.

A steep path to the left is masked by leaves, so stairs it is. This is where we begin the descent to creek level.



Stop at the bottom of this first flight, and turn around to admire the depths you're sinking to...

Enough staring. Turn back around and keep going down the slope.With the right mix of weather & timing, you may be graced with some "god rays", easily worth 10 secs/km.
Another staircase brings one down further (seen on the right, from creek level) The arrow shows an alternative slope when the time comes to return. For now, though, we head toward the creek...Hang a right at the fork ("you never go wrong when you go right") and right again to enter the longest loop available. Suddenly the sound changes underfoot, and there's a spring in your step...The boardwalk indicates we can't get much lower than this. Luckily traction's not bad, at least on dry days...
After the boardwalk ends, we continue along what, in MTB parlance, is referred to as single track...This eventually widens out at a 't' intersection. Hang a right to get to the water's edge...hmmmmm... come to think of it, what was that plant I pushed out of the way back there??


If you had misplaced a salmon-choked creek, your search is over...

Back into the forest...
A staircase is to the right; we can bypass this Rocky Route by taking a ramp a bit further on
about 40% of the way up would be the horizon line
As you gasp for breath, tilt the head back and admire the foliage

Another lookout looms in the distanceJudging by the dodgy railing in the centre of the pic, we may have stumbled upon a veritable Lovers' Leap. How quaint.

Already rising high up from the creek
Before the final ascent to "ground level" we pass the "Grizzly Tree"
Local legend has it that a group of skinny-dipping college students were caught with their pants down by a passing grizzly high on salmon. Authorities thought the massacre was foul play, given the largest wildlife found in this region was typically overfed raccoons. Yet this tree stripped bare of bark stands as a testimony to one eye witness account from that night: "...[it was] like some huge furry creature running along the trail... I knew it wasn't a runner because it didn't have a heart rate monitor..."
If the little hairs on the back of your neck begin to rise, use this opportunity to squeeze in some intervals up the remaining slope, trying to not imagine a grizzly running after you, reminding yourself that the panting you hear is really your own hyperventilation...

If you stumble or fall or anything Darwinian like that get the hell up fast because... theremaybeagrizzlychasingyou! Ha. Made ya look. (If you come upon any hikers or dog walkers who inquire about having heard a little girl's scream, tell them that yes, you heard it too and are running to the park ranger's office to report it.)

Emerging from the forested creek loop is signalled by a brilliant sumac bush in full autumn fire, situated at a 't' intersection... Turning right will start the journey home...
The Five K Kurve again. Depending on what kind of day it's been - and how well breakfast went down - we're either just over 20 minutes or just under 30 from home!The sun has risen more fully now, bringing everything into greater relief...The final forested leg begins :(

Signs of civilization! A couple of runners round the bend of the five kilometre "ring road" during one of many fundraising runs hosted by the park... The arrow indicates an abandoned silo. The runners will turn left here to continue raising funds, while we veer right on the journey to pancakes and espresso.

On longer runs it's a treat being able to stop at one of the washrooms encircling the park, just steps off the road, for a quick splash-n-dashVerdict: good flow, cool but not cold, and neutral-tasting. A delightful pit stop. Easy to overdo it, especially compared to drinking from a cup at an aid station.

To avoid the madding crowds on this day: a handy Plan B escape route to the border of the park:
This spits us out on the final stretch of ring road heading into the maintenance yard, the gateway to this whole shebang...The hydro towers in the distance confirm the party is nearly over...


With less than three km. to go we're on the last stretch of paved MUP behind houses and the school, still tracking the edge of the ravine to the creek...One last short but sweet slope about 1km. from home. Must keep all but the most desperate of bodily sounds in check here, as you never know who is just on the other side of the fences. Just sayin'...

An access path between houses on the left will bring us back onto the city streets, minutes from the end. By now, highway sounds from the north end of this route - the four lane Dundas Speedway, er, Street, seen on the bridge over the creek to the right - are loud enough to mask most of those pent up bodily sounds.

Suddenly that's it. We covered about 14½ kms/9 miles. Had we run a fund-raising bandit lap of the ring road: another 5km - not a bad way to start the day! I thank my lucky stars every time I run this, knowing what we have to endure in other times and places just to get our mileage in.