Our Lady of Perpetual Hell

Talking to a friend who is a fellow running novitiate yesterday, she told me about her first 8k race, which she ran on the weekend (way to go, Laurie!!) and I felt a little envious because it’s been awhile since I was able to run that far. But I’m getting there… I see it’s been weeks since I wrote anything about the progress I’ve been making coming back from that hip flexor problem that sidelined me for three months earlier this year…

Progress? Well, let’s see…

My hair is brittle from the chlorine in the Y pool despite all my measures to protect it, and I inadvertently swallow so much of that toxic water that I hafta pee as soon as I get outta the pool (which, of course, is better than peeing in the pool… especially considering how much of it ends up–*bleahhhh*–inside of me). But I am typically able to swim laps for an hour non-stop and that feels like a decent accomplishment. And, oh my, I do love that whirlpool afterward… The women reading this will understand. *blush* (Yes, I do so blush! What—did you think I was shameless?! Not so! I manage to shame myself on a regular basis!) In fact, I have changed some priorities regarding what features I would like to have in my own house when I buy one, and as long as I remain single I simply must have a Jacuzzi. Oh my, yesssss. *smiles blissfully, then realizes you’re wrinkling your nose in distress and blushes again* Er, okay, got distracted there for a sec… So, anyway, yeah, the swimming is going, umm, swimmingly. The main problem seems to be the occasional dickheaded swimmer who is difficult to share a lane with. There’s one guy in particular who just barrels down the lanes, splashing up a storm (in his breaststroke, his arms gracelessly flop forward into the water, kersplash! kersplash!, like somebody has just shot him dead mid-stroke), and when he inevitably passes you, he cuts back in front too soon and swamps you in his wake. He’s even kicked me, he’s cut in so close. Jerkwad. When I had the temerity recently to suggest to him that he take one side of the lane and I’d stick to the other—instead of alternating sides each lap—he replied “If you don’t mind, I’d rather keep circling.” Well, you putz, if I didn’t mind, I wouldn’t have suggested a change! Plus, he replied in one of those off-putting helium-pitched cartoony voices, so he just kept losing points with me willy-nilly. Because of this, I try to pick my times according to when I’m more likely to be able to have my own lane for a whole hour. ‘Cause when I can relax and get into the groove and not have my rhythm thrown off by needing to duck from somebody bulldozing past me, I find that swimming laps is a good time to think. In fact, there’ve been more than a few of these posts whose first drafts were largely written in my head while I swam.

More importantly, however, the running is improving. Dave The Physiotherapist started me out a coupla months ago at 1k runs every other day. I gradually built up to 4k and then hovered there because a couple times when I tried 5k, I regretted it the next day. The dreaded limp would return and my heart would sink. But when I decided I’d been holding myself back for too long, I upped it up to 5k last week (with no adverse effects) and it was such a gloriously sunny, warm day yesterday that I kept at it a little longer, for a very enjoyable 6.5k run from the river’s edge under the bridges past the yacht club and the children’s zoo and through Canatara Park. And am feelin’ fine today, so I guess I didn’t press too hard, although my pace was a little quicker than it normally is. I may not be ready to run a half-marathon this coming fall like I’d hoped to before I got hurt but at least I’m regaining ground lost. That’s encouraging.

And, speaking of encouraging, something I have yet to remark upon here is the reaction I get from other people I encounter when I am out for a run… When I think back to all then times—in my pre-runner days, that is—when I didn’t smile and acknowledge runners as they passed me on the sidewalks, I am chagrined. Because I find myself profoundly encouraged by the smiles and thumbs-up I am given by complete strangers when I am out for a run. It’s not just in Sarnia, either. It happens when I run in Toronto, too. And, now, you can be damned sure I dole ‘em out just as often as I receive ‘em. Because I know it makes a difference. So next time you encounter a runner, unless they’re bulldozing down the sidewalk like a dickhead, give ‘em a smile or a thumbs up. Just like The Hoff…

**addendum** Okay, so picture this… After having written this post, I go over to the Y tonight and the pool lanes are packed. Frowny face. Turn around and come home. Decide I will go for a bike ride instead. Pump up the tires, get about a mile from home and discover the front tire is losing pressure and I hafta beat it like hell to get home before it goes flat. Stomp inside and sulk.

I must not think bad thoughts,
I must not think bad thoughts
- X, “I Must Not Think Bad Thoughts”

Oh, hell. Here, lissen:

After having had to light a fire under cy’s some nameless panelist’s ass to get him to submit his comments, Mike Chen was finally able to tally & post the Rawk the Puck Conference Finals results. PJ Harvey stomped the shit outta My Beloved New Pornographers in the West and Van Halen squeaked by Lynyrd Freakin’ Skynyrd in the East.

Now, get ready to vote in the finals or Crazy Eddie will come and gitcha!

The answer to that question remains open to debate, but I can tell you one thing for sure: boring filmmakers sure as hell kilt a documentary about the electric car!

Sweet jayzuz, whatta snoozefest! (Literally. It put me to sleep. I think it was the ponderous narration by Martin Sheen that was to blame as much as the unimaginative approach to the story.)

Incidentally, if they’d stop making these enviro-friendly vehicles so fucking hideous, mebbe more people would buy ‘em. I mean, c’mon, the plug-ugly Prius? The inelegant Insight? This film’s “hero” looks like something Rosie The Robot pooped out:

…yecch. I wouldn’t be caught dead in something as ugly as that. I have standards.

Some first impressions of Michael Moore’s Sicko, which premiered at Cannes this morning. Beware that the discussion may deteriorate into a name-calling hissyfit, as often happens at Hollywood Elsewhere. [insert eyeball roll here]

**addendum** Wells has added his recording of half the post-screening Q&A that Moore did, here. And this is Variety’s review.

Damn. It’s sold out.

While poking through the stats that Blogsome provides for its bloggers, I stumbled across a weakness in the search capabilities of the template I am using for this stupid whingefest. If you searched, say, for all posts in the “Film” category, you’d only turn up the most recent half-dozen or so and there was no navigation available to get back any further to older posts in the category. So I found some code to add to the template so that the search results are more readily navigable.

Now, when appropriate, you will see “Older items” and “Newer items” links at the bottom of each page here–including those pages that are search results.

I’m sure you will sleep better tonight, knowing this.