VD Scotty Style!

It has taken me a few days to get to writing this down, but these days my time is not my own. As always I apologize for the length, hopefully it doesn’t take you longer to read it than it did for me to run it.

PreRace

This event would crazily be the one that would see me as a near nervous wreck before it began. This is a curious happenstance, because only twenty minutes before the race when I personally confirmed my availability for the race, (after evaluating genuine work requirements) I had no butterflies whatsoever. I also had no goals or expectations for this race either. It was viewed simply as an attempt to have a sense of normalcy and quell the jealousy of missing out on some of the big RM events this summer.

However, when I rounded the corner and saw the assembled collection of professional looking athletes my stomach dropped faster than a pass to Terrell Owens. There was a whole plethora of international characters assembled in an assortment of team singlets, festooned with set warmup routines, iPods, Garmins, cheering sections, confidence, and muscles.

I had, well, a pair of blue shorts.

For a race that was supposed to have a limited enrolment a crowd of over 100 had assembled to run a casual race to celebrate the opening of the new Canadian Gym. Considering the population on the base, the nature and unpredictability of their work that was a pretty damn good turnout. Of course it was also quite the shock to the six volunteers organizing the race. Race start scheduled for 1700, race actually begins at 1733.

In the week leading up to the event I had chatted several times with Scadian and Jaimer, who had hoped to be able to participate; however, it was not meant to be. Though I did see Scadian before the race and he wished me luck, expressed his disappointment, and snapped a quick picture that I have yet to see.

As I stood in the starting clot, well behind the “pros” I was standing next to a couple American Air Force types, at least that is what was prominently displayed on their T-Shirts. We all looked around nervously and we then shared a look; the sentiment was identical. “Please Allah, God, Buddha don’t let me F&%&%& embarrass myself…”

Let me post here a note on the phenomena of the uniform. Seeing people consistently in uniform can sometimes hide the fact that they are female; you take them just as another soldier. There is an equalizing power to the camouflage. Though, as most know, there is an extremely lucrative market capitalizing on the appeal of athletic men and women in various stages of uniform dress. And here on base you carry a weapon at all times, even in civilian clothes, unless of course you are doing PT, and for some seeing members of the opposite sex packing heat it can be quite stimulating, for others much more terrifying.

At any rate, after sharing the look with my back of the pack counter parts I scanned the crowd again shaking out my arms.

Then I saw a female, and realized ‘wow, it’s a chick!’

WOOOONK!! There goes the air horn. There stood Scotty scared sh%^less.

I didn’t see ‘It’s a chick’ again until I crossed the line.

The Race

As we all know, races are a truth serum. You can delude yourself about the level of training you have achieved and the running you have done to prepare. You can mislead yourself in terms of your mental and physical health. For the past few months I have been beating myself up about the real lack of consistency to my running. Averaging two-three runs a week, with no great distances I was doubtful I could do well in a race.

But as I ran, careful not to run too fast too soon, I felt really good. Though as I ran I started to take inventory of my condition. I had had about 10 hours sleep in the preceding 72 hours, and I had a baseball size bruise and laceration on the back of my calf. Running made it feel like my calf muscle was a bag of marbles.

Great. I had never run a five km race before. But I remember it being described as running at the very edge of uncomfortable for the entire five kms. I started off very uncomfortable and by km two I was still uncomfortable so I must have been doing it right.

The course meandered through the base, which provided a true sense of paradox, and surrealism. Part of the course ran past one of the tall fences, and as I took time to look across the scrubby potentially mine cluttered ground beyond the fence I could see a large flock of small goats trundling along lead by a couple small figures in the distance. Behind them stood one of the massive rocky crags that dot the landscape here. The light was good enough to see the lines and striations in the rock, and it seemed to loom, timeless.

As we ran, people literally of all nations, would clap their hands and would cheer us on. Local Nationals smiled and clapped, no doubt thinking us insane. We were applauded by soldiers, fully-kitted out, rolling by peeking out of armoured vehicles, off to do their thing.

By far one of the most unique race courses in the world.

Meanwhile Scotty trudged along, actually starting to pass people at km four. My watch said 23 minutes and change, I picked up the pace. It was official when I crossed the line, I could no longer breathe. I had been warned about the difference in elevation. The stitch threatening to tear a hole in my kidney let me know it in detail.

I finished 5.2 km in 27:33. No award winning performance and I finished admirably (and proudly) in the middle of the pack, having passed some of the individuals who had intimidated me at the onset.

PostRace

As those who have met me know I am a horrendous ambassador of the sport of running, or pretty much any other activity for that matter. It is not in my nature to be outward or talkative with those whom I do not know, and even after it takes some time for a level of comfort to develop. Regrettably, the lost art of friendly conversation is indeed a lost art with me. Though Kara has done her best to prompt me, guide me, and browbeat me into sociability. I am consoled by the ability to take snapshots of memory and place them in written snippets that allow me to live vicariously through others.

I provide this ‘anti-social’ preamble to tell you that the pre and post race mix of excited conversation was as energetic an event as I have stood in the middle of. And me being me I really did not engage in conversation, choosing instead to stand listening to endless conversations of a truly global community that became a humbling, and exhilarating experience. I stood there sipping my water in the dying Afghan sun listening to the exploits of athletes in myriad accents, and languages; stories of marathons, triathlons, sprints, ultras, and a well spoken agreement that the open sewage lagoon to our east really fricking stank mate.

As I mingled there, cooling quickly as the desert itself was doing in the fading light, I felt so blessed to be with others miles and miles away from home sharing a genuine appreciation for being a part of a simple running event, a pleasant slice of normalcy in a chaotic place. And in the next moment I was all at once reminded of those I have shared running with, and for the first time since I left, I was truly homesick.

This race was not a personal best, there were no great big bags of schwag, no adoring and enthusiastic crowds, and it was a simple somewhat forgettable course. In essence, this race of minimal expectations and non-climactic finish will likely go down in my personal history as one of the most memorable events ever, period. It does not supplant the memories of my first half marathon, or that of the kindred camaraderie and debauchery on the Cabot Trail, but it does possess all in itself a unique character that will never be matched.

Scotty

Something to amuse you

There is an American coffee shop here, Green Beans, it is open 24 7 and the coffee is quite good (so I’m told) but they also have several green teas. Anyway (we) found a second one, deeper in the American lines. It is in with their gym and shit. Well it is a big warehouse and when we went in it was like visiting a dance club in the projects. They have a music room and the music was loud. But all the Americans were dressed in civvies, it was totally surreal. Big guys with baggy jeans, and bandanas, sunglasses (at night), and BLING!! And chicks in there Friday night whore clothes…
So the music stopped at 11, the “curfew” and then they all hung out outside smoking wondering what else to do. But there are some almost “gang”-like issues Army vs AF vs Marine. White vs Black..etc…and they’re all talking smack and armed !!!!!! Felt like I was going to be witnessing an episode of cops….

Rick Mercer for PM!!

The text speaks for itself. Thanks Rick!!

By Courtesy (St. John's)
The Independent
Friday, January 26, 2007
By Rick Mercer

For The Independent

Poor Noreen Golfman. She wrote in her Jan. 12 column (Blowing in the Wind …
) that her holidays were ruined by what she felt were incessant reports about
Canadian men and women serving in Afghanistan. So upset was Noreen that, armed
with her legendary pen, sharpened from years in the trenches at Memorial
University’s women’s studies department, she went on the attack. I know I should
just ignore the good professor and write her off as another bitter baby boom
academic pining for what she fondly calls “the protest songs of yesteryear,” but
I can’t help myself. A response is exactly what she wants; and so I include it
here. After all, Newfoundlanders have seen this before: Noreen Golfman, sadly,
is Margaret Wente without the wit.

Dear Noreen,

I am so sorry to hear about the interruption to your holiday cheer. You say
in your column that it all started when the CBC ran a story on some “poor sod”
who got his legs blown off in Afghanistan.

The “poor sod” in question, Noreen, has a name and it is Cpl. Paul
Franklin. He is a medic in the Forces and has been a buddy of mine for years. I
had dinner with him last week in Edmonton, in fact. I will be sure to pass on to
him that his lack of legs caused you some personal discomfort this
Christmas.

Paul is a pretty amazing guy. You would like him I think. When I met him
years ago he had two good legs and a brutally funny sense of humour. He was so
funny that I was pretty sure he was a Newfoundlander. You probably know the type
(or maybe you don’t) — salt of the earth, always smiling, and like so many
health-care professionals, seemingly obsessed with helping others in need. These
days he spends his time training other health-care workers and learning how to
walk again. That’s a pretty exhausting task for Paul … heading into
rehabilitation he knew very well his chances of walking again were next to none,
considering he’s a double amputee, missing both legs above the knee. At the risk
of ruining your day Noreen, I’m proud to report that for the last few months he
has managed to walk his son to school almost every morning and it’s almost a
kilometre from his house. Next month Paul hopes to travel to Washington where he
claims he will learn how to run on something he calls “bionic flipper cheetah
feet.” The legs may be gone but the sense of humour is still very much
intact.

Forgive me Noreen for using Paul’s name so much, but seeing as you didn’t
catch it when CBC ran the profile on his recovery I thought it might be nice if
you perhaps bothered to remember it from here on in. This way, when you are
pontificating about him at a dinner party, you no longer have to refer to him
simply as the “poor sod,” but you can actually refer to him as Paul Franklin.
You may prefer “poor sod” of course; it’s all a matter of how you look at
things. You see a “poor sod” that ruined your Christmas and I see a truly
inspiring guy. That’s why I am thrilled that the CBC saw fit to run a story on
Paul and his wife Audra. I would go so far as to suggest that many people would
find their story, their marriage and their charitable endeavours inspiring. Just
as I am sure that many readers of The Independent are inspired by your
suggestion that Paul’s story has no place on the public broadcaster.

Further on in your column you ask why more people aren’t questioning
Canada’s role in Afghanistan. I understand this frustration. It’s a good
question. Why should Canada honour its United Nations-sanctioned NATO
commitments? Let’s have the discussion. I would welcome debate on the idea that
Canada should simply ignore its international obligations and pull out of
Afghanistan. By all means ask the questions Noreen, but surely such debates can
occur without begrudging the families of injured soldiers too much airtime at
Christmas?

Personally, I would have thought that as a professor of women’s studies you
would be somewhat supportive of the notion of a NATO presence in Afghanistan.
After all, it is the NATO force that is keeping the Taliban from power. In case
you missed it Noreen, the Taliban was a regime that systematically de-peopled
women to the point where they had no human rights whatsoever. This was a country
where until very recently it was illegal for a child to fly a kite or for a
little girl to receive any education. To put it in terms you might understand
Noreen, rest assured the Taliban would frown on your attending this year’s
opening night gala of the St. John’s International Women’s Film Festival. In
fact, as a woman, a professor, a writer and (one supposes) an advocate of the
concept that women are people, they would probably want to kill you three or
four times over. Thankfully that notion is moot in our cozy part of the world
but were it ever come to pass I would suggest that you would be grateful if a
“poor sod” like Paul Franklin happened along to risk his life to protect
yours.

And then of course you seem to be somehow personally indignant that I would
visit troops in Afghanistan over Christmas. You ask the question “When did the
worm turn?” Well I hate to break it to you, but in my case this worm has been
doing this for a long time now. It’s been a decade since I visited Canadian
peacekeeping operations in Bosnia and this Christmas marked my third trip to
Afghanistan. Why do I do it? Well I am not a soldier — that much is perfectly
clear. I don’t have the discipline or the skills. But I am an entertainer and
entertainers entertain. And occasionally, like most Canadians, I get to
volunteer my professional time to causes that I find personally
satisfying.

As a Newfoundlander this is very personal to me. On every one of these
trips I meet Newfoundlanders who serve proudly in the Canadian Forces. Every day
they do the hard work that we as a nation ask of them. They do this without
complaint and they do it knowing that at every turn there are people like you,
Noreen, suggesting that what they do is somehow undignified or misguided.

I am also curious Noreen why you refer to the head of the Canadian Forces,
General Rick Hillier, as “Rick ‘MUN graduate’ Hillier.” I would suggest that if
you wish to criticize General Hillier’s record of leadership or service to his
country you should feel free. He is a big boy. However, when you dismiss him as
“Rick ‘MUN Graduate’ Hillier” the message is loud and clear. Are you suggesting
that because General Hillier received an education at Memorial he is somehow
unqualified for high command? We are used to seeing this type of tactic in
certain national papers — not The Independent.

You end by saying you personally cannot envision that peace can ever be
paved with military offensives. May I suggest to you that in many instances in
history peace has been achieved exactly that way. The gates of Auschwitz were
not opened with peace talks. Holland was not liberated by peacekeepers and
fascism was not defeated with a deft pen. Time and time again men and women in
uniform have laid down their lives in just causes and in an effort to free
others from oppression.

It is unfortunate, Noreen, that in such instances people like yourself may
have your sensitivities offended, especially during the holiday season, but
perhaps that is a small price to pay. Best wishes for the remainder of 2007; may
it be a year of peace and prosperity.