I try to appreciate the ironies of life, to see them - recognize them, and either love them or hate them. Or so I tell myself.
Everything about living, working, and existing in this place called KAF is a Stephen King step away from being normal. There is a sense of replication here, a sense that this base is simply trying to emulate life from “back home”. This is obviously shaded, hmm - tinted by the many nationalities that are here. Therefore creating a true feeling that I am almost 100% positive exists nowhere else on earth. And if you dwelled on it for any length of time you would likely feel very isolated, or at least as if suffering from an odd sense of vertigo.
This –emulation – (like buying XBOSS games at the market) of course applies to how different countries, approach recreation, and how different countries HA! even how different companies from the same countries army do business on the battlefield. It affects absolutely everything; even down to the most mundane functions. Like getting your haircut.
For some a haircut is an important thing, an important ritual that can define how people perceive themselves and carry themselves. Most people I know have a dedicated person they go to; a person they seem to seek out when first moving somewhere. And will only avoid going to under the threat of severe bodily harm. They build up a trust, a bond, an unspoken agreement. My father has got his haircut in the same place for the last twenty-five years. I can guarantee their conversations have changed slightly, but their relationship hasn’t, I know my dads hairstyle hasn’t.
I have taken after my father in many ways, some frighteningly so. But I agree on finding a consistent and reliable barber or hairstylist to cut my hair, and heaven knows my hairstyle can change little. Even so there is a certain way I like to have my haircut, and if it fails to happen I feel odd and out of place, catching grimacing looks from myself in reflective surfaces. This lasts until I go get it fixed, or I forget about it. In the end, I’m not that vain.
So, under those conditions imagine walking into a small little American trailer the size of a camper, in the middle of Kandahar Airfield to have your haircut by two Russian women who have no grasp of the English language.
I know I will stereotyping horribly in the next couple lines, but not just in retrospect. It was clear these women were of some Russian decent in appearance, one looked remarkably like a woman I had seen in a Vodka commercial, though not dressed in a bikini, and she was not enjoying herself on a glacier with a Smirnoff Ice. Anyway it could have been as simple an observation as to notice the tattered Russian / English dictionary and phrase book on the counter.
While waiting I felt a curious dropping in my stomach as I looked at the faded and yellowed haircut selection pictures, ones that Judge Reinhold would have sported at least a decade ago. I said to myself, “Self,” I said, “this is going to go badly.” Then I got the gruff nod - great my turn. It would look weird to run away now.
So after a complicated series of hand gestures, saying “One” in three different languages, none of which was Russian mind you, and making exaggerated scissor motions did I get the message across to the woman from the Vodka commercial. Who then tossed the robe across me and regarded me with a look of sympathy reserved for the village idiot.
At one point during the haircut the woman started a very animated, and completely incomprehensibly soliloquy that had me curiously alarmed as she was looking directly at me in the mirror. I was beginning to formulate my plan of just saying “Da!” as that would be easier than getting the fact across that I did not have my secret decoder ring on. But much to my relief the woman cutting my Warrant’s hair responded with a low mumble. They both nodded. Hunh? Wonder what that was about.
Anyway about eight minutes later I walked out, fortunately not looking like a shaved poodle, and passed by the tall lanky nervous looking Aussie on his way in. As I left I seriously contemplated taking my own picture of that moment - to take back with me the next time. So I could point and say, “Do this again.”
The next time you go to get your hair cut, or styled by your regular barber or whomever, appreciate that moment. And tip them well.
As we drove back to work, my Warrant and I, in the Toyota Surf with right side drive he looked at me and said without a hint of jocularity, “You know…their fathers probably served here once.”
Hm, talk about perspective. Ha, talk about irony.
23.3.07
Care Packages
The life of a soldier, though surrounded by the comrades you hope you don’t have to die for can be a lonely, lonely existence. No matter who we are we have left someone behind – a mother, father, wife, husband, girlfriend, boyfriend, children. There is a feeling like time is on hold here, at least for me, and that when I go home it will still be the Monday I left, maybe a few hours later. But time is an evil trickster and often it can also seem that it is double timing it through the deployment. Young children mature and go to college and marry. I sometimes feel that I am going to go home and see my grandkids.
One way to stay connected is via email and phone, but they lack the decided capability to fill your day with an actual physical presence from home. So frankly to me the best thing in the world is the care package. I have read many letters so far that are signed: To any Canadian Soldier, and you would not believe the impact on morale they have. For some person 4 to 94 to take the time to write us a letter to say thank you even for something that they may not completely understand is all the thanks I need. That and a Timmies coupon…
But when those packages arrive from friends and family the day takes on a whole new colour. You feel like, “wow they remembered me”; it feels like Christmas. Each package is met with excitement and anticipation, both from the receiver, and the ton of guys hanging around to see “wutcha got?”
And you end up surrounded it is inevitable. The joy of a care package is to be shared with your buddies. We gather to see who got what candy, or to see who got the latest Maxim or Stuff magazine, you know the ones chock full of hard hitting journalistic debates on the transient natures of conservative civil libertarianism, haha who am I kidding, it may be sad but true but seeing Jessica Alba in a skirt the size of a paper napkin can be the second best little bit of morale that a loved one can send. In the end there is nothing better than passing around a scented envelope, full of love and promise, which screams “REMEMBER ME? THIS IS WHAT I SMELL LIKE, REMEMBER?” I am being a bit facetious but ladies, women, darlings, we do remember, and we miss you, but we will tease the life out of each other regardless. And for clarity sake the contents always remain personal, and cherished. I recognize, as well, that I am writing this from a decidedly male point of view. But go with what you know, I really only know one female soldier well enough to comment, and she sent herself sweaters.
I had been waiting knowing I was going to receive something and then came a day that I got two packages, much to my surprise…as I opened my ‘gifts’ with excitement to find a Calculus text book in one envelope chock full of Timmies coupons, and also a package full of tea, candy and Tuna Filets. One of my soldiers looked at me with dead earnestness and said, “Calculus and Tuna? I don’t think you’re friends like you so much.”
True, I’m not a Tuna fan, but the remainder of candies and goodies, and teas was enough to completely fill my day. And seeing both things sitting on the desk was enough to make me feel like I was not that far from home. Then I chuckled and offered out the tuna.
So the tuna made someone else happy, and when I get tired of trying to understand the complexities of complex military and humanitarian operations in a sun blasted, war torn post repression state I will turn to calculus. Those of you who know my skills in math will know that I will quickly turn back to Islamic radicalism and think it a much easier set of quadratic derivatives to solve.
One way to stay connected is via email and phone, but they lack the decided capability to fill your day with an actual physical presence from home. So frankly to me the best thing in the world is the care package. I have read many letters so far that are signed: To any Canadian Soldier, and you would not believe the impact on morale they have. For some person 4 to 94 to take the time to write us a letter to say thank you even for something that they may not completely understand is all the thanks I need. That and a Timmies coupon…
But when those packages arrive from friends and family the day takes on a whole new colour. You feel like, “wow they remembered me”; it feels like Christmas. Each package is met with excitement and anticipation, both from the receiver, and the ton of guys hanging around to see “wutcha got?”
And you end up surrounded it is inevitable. The joy of a care package is to be shared with your buddies. We gather to see who got what candy, or to see who got the latest Maxim or Stuff magazine, you know the ones chock full of hard hitting journalistic debates on the transient natures of conservative civil libertarianism, haha who am I kidding, it may be sad but true but seeing Jessica Alba in a skirt the size of a paper napkin can be the second best little bit of morale that a loved one can send. In the end there is nothing better than passing around a scented envelope, full of love and promise, which screams “REMEMBER ME? THIS IS WHAT I SMELL LIKE, REMEMBER?” I am being a bit facetious but ladies, women, darlings, we do remember, and we miss you, but we will tease the life out of each other regardless. And for clarity sake the contents always remain personal, and cherished. I recognize, as well, that I am writing this from a decidedly male point of view. But go with what you know, I really only know one female soldier well enough to comment, and she sent herself sweaters.
I had been waiting knowing I was going to receive something and then came a day that I got two packages, much to my surprise…as I opened my ‘gifts’ with excitement to find a Calculus text book in one envelope chock full of Timmies coupons, and also a package full of tea, candy and Tuna Filets. One of my soldiers looked at me with dead earnestness and said, “Calculus and Tuna? I don’t think you’re friends like you so much.”
True, I’m not a Tuna fan, but the remainder of candies and goodies, and teas was enough to completely fill my day. And seeing both things sitting on the desk was enough to make me feel like I was not that far from home. Then I chuckled and offered out the tuna.
So the tuna made someone else happy, and when I get tired of trying to understand the complexities of complex military and humanitarian operations in a sun blasted, war torn post repression state I will turn to calculus. Those of you who know my skills in math will know that I will quickly turn back to Islamic radicalism and think it a much easier set of quadratic derivatives to solve.
8.3.07
Fallen
A deployment to Afghanistan for myself has been one of many firsts. This past week saw one I had hoped to never experience. It was my first ramp ceremony. All available Canadians- soldiers, and civilian collected at the airfield. There was conversation and light banter, and an avoidance to discuss the reason we all gathered.
The sun had set a while ago but it was still warm, relatively so. There was a continuous breeze blowing, and if you believe in such things it could have easily been taken as prophetic. We gathered and formed with a bit more purpose than I’ve usually seen of large groups of soldiers gathering, there was little complaining, little noise.
Things progressed quickly and soon we found ourselves on the march to take our positions. We made the solemn, and quiet march through the hazy darkness. The only sound was the mild and continuous wind in my ears, and the muffled staccato of hundreds of combat boots on the tarmac. We marched from the weak light of the hanger through the darkness towards the looming brightly lit beacon that was the Hercules waiting.
As we Canadians formed, tightly packed, shoulder-to-shoulder-to-shoulder three deep in a long line, we formed a corridor that would act as the final Kandahar road for a fallen comrade. As we shuffled into position, quietly, reverently I heard something that surprised me; though it shouldn’t have. Row after row of soldiers from other countries, marines, Brits, Aussies, Dutch all formed row after row behind us.
I was positioned in the front rank about 30 feet from the yawning open end of the Herc. We waited for what seemed an eternity, lined at attention. The precision, formality, and ambiance reminded me of ancient Viking tributes, or final tributes to fighting Kings. It made me think in that moment, that it is only in death we soldiers, we average Canadian men and women are Kings and Queens, if only to our peers.
Then there was a whine from a microphone, as it itself caught the wind. The Padres spoke their lines, and they were no longer the trivial platitudes of Remembrance Day of yesteryear. The words reverberated, and stuck. They were quick, efficient, and articulate.
The emotion was thick and palpable. And then the command sang out. “Task Force Afghanistan to your Fallen Comrade salute.”
I have always been moved by the haunting skirl of the bagpipes, but hearing it here, under these circumstances was like an emotional punch in the gut. I think we all stood there steeling ourselves, but still the weight of it hits you like a tidal wave. It was a slow moving tsunami that started at the far end of the lines, and then progressed as the slow cadence brought another Nova Scotian son his last 500 meters across Kandahar Airfield.
The procession was slow, as if purposely driving the point home, building and building. I watched the Padres, then the coffin itself pass in front of me, so close that I could have reached out and touched it. Then world was then like a kaleidoscope, colour and light blurry and refracted. The wave passed me by then, and I hitched in a deep breath. A few minutes later there were the muffled footsteps inside the belly of the aircraft.
I watched the faces of those across from me. Many of which I knew were like me, and did not know Cpl Megeny. But he was Canadian, he was young, and he may only be the first of our rotation. So, there etched on many face were grim looks, made even more fierce in the weird shadows cast by the spotlights, and there were the telltale glistening sparkles of tears in eyes and cheeks.
You haven’t seen anything until you have seen soldiers cry. I hope I never see it again.
The sun had set a while ago but it was still warm, relatively so. There was a continuous breeze blowing, and if you believe in such things it could have easily been taken as prophetic. We gathered and formed with a bit more purpose than I’ve usually seen of large groups of soldiers gathering, there was little complaining, little noise.
Things progressed quickly and soon we found ourselves on the march to take our positions. We made the solemn, and quiet march through the hazy darkness. The only sound was the mild and continuous wind in my ears, and the muffled staccato of hundreds of combat boots on the tarmac. We marched from the weak light of the hanger through the darkness towards the looming brightly lit beacon that was the Hercules waiting.
As we Canadians formed, tightly packed, shoulder-to-shoulder-to-shoulder three deep in a long line, we formed a corridor that would act as the final Kandahar road for a fallen comrade. As we shuffled into position, quietly, reverently I heard something that surprised me; though it shouldn’t have. Row after row of soldiers from other countries, marines, Brits, Aussies, Dutch all formed row after row behind us.
I was positioned in the front rank about 30 feet from the yawning open end of the Herc. We waited for what seemed an eternity, lined at attention. The precision, formality, and ambiance reminded me of ancient Viking tributes, or final tributes to fighting Kings. It made me think in that moment, that it is only in death we soldiers, we average Canadian men and women are Kings and Queens, if only to our peers.
Then there was a whine from a microphone, as it itself caught the wind. The Padres spoke their lines, and they were no longer the trivial platitudes of Remembrance Day of yesteryear. The words reverberated, and stuck. They were quick, efficient, and articulate.
The emotion was thick and palpable. And then the command sang out. “Task Force Afghanistan to your Fallen Comrade salute.”
I have always been moved by the haunting skirl of the bagpipes, but hearing it here, under these circumstances was like an emotional punch in the gut. I think we all stood there steeling ourselves, but still the weight of it hits you like a tidal wave. It was a slow moving tsunami that started at the far end of the lines, and then progressed as the slow cadence brought another Nova Scotian son his last 500 meters across Kandahar Airfield.
The procession was slow, as if purposely driving the point home, building and building. I watched the Padres, then the coffin itself pass in front of me, so close that I could have reached out and touched it. Then world was then like a kaleidoscope, colour and light blurry and refracted. The wave passed me by then, and I hitched in a deep breath. A few minutes later there were the muffled footsteps inside the belly of the aircraft.
I watched the faces of those across from me. Many of which I knew were like me, and did not know Cpl Megeny. But he was Canadian, he was young, and he may only be the first of our rotation. So, there etched on many face were grim looks, made even more fierce in the weird shadows cast by the spotlights, and there were the telltale glistening sparkles of tears in eyes and cheeks.
You haven’t seen anything until you have seen soldiers cry. I hope I never see it again.
5.3.07
"Its hard to fathom" - a run report from KAF
It is hard to fathom, at 0430 with a gentle but steady rain falling, that this land could be a harsh daunting desert. But several days ago I had the opportunity to experience at least a glimpse at the possibility of such a thing.
I had seen the signs around, advertising the “KAF Jogging Route” (knowing full well that the use of the word jogging would send some of my RunningManiac friends into cardiac arrest, or at least begin again a spirited debate on semantics). Feeling particularly keen and able one day I armed myself with a 500ml bottle of weak Gatorade and started on an epic journey.
The ground here is often hard, concrete-like packed dirt, often littered with golf ball sized rocks that pester and annoy, and threaten to turn your ankle and leave you a hobbling victim at any time. This phenomenon is not exclusive to sneakers, as even in my combat boots I have felt the awkward and biting turn of an ankle. The ground in places is also a thick spongy mud, remnants of previous rains that evaporated before they were absorbed into the impervious soil. And after a few days when covered in dust can spring up on you like the terrible sinking pits reminiscent of the quicksand in the Princess Bride. After a few steps through this it collects on your boots or sneakers, weighing them down. Then you run across gravel and you end up with a weird gravel encrusted coral on your sneakers (or boots).
But for running, at least for the somewhat lazy runner like myself, the terrain is billiard table flat. Though running at about 3000ft above sea level, you run a smooth eerily flat course.
The running route almost immediately takes me parallel to the airstrip, and for any kid who has ever grown up and dreamt of Top Gun you feel a surge of adrenaline that takes you back. I stretch my legs out here, picking up the pace bit. Feeling the breeze. I pass people from other nations who smile and nod, like serious runners do. Ha-ha.
Then I round the far corner of the airfield, and come face-to-face with the mountains I have seen through cloudy hazes, dusty hazes and sunny hazes. Now seemingly close enough to touch the late afternoon sun shines like a spotlight on them. You cannot help but immediately get the sense of something great and terrible as you look towards the naked mountains. They are daunting rocky crags, reminiscent of a Tolkien yarn. They signify the rigid backbone of this nation. And they are beautiful. You cannot help but thinking “Hm, that is where they launch the rockets from.” And you cannot help but hate the mountains then.
From my vantage points around the airfield you see the true level of constant activity packed into this patch of dirt. This activity is an enormous plethora of air assets, some which threaten to shake my teeth loose from their very spot. As well, there is an enormous amount of construction activity, with workers of seemingly many nations, being supplied by continuous road convoys.
A word about the vehicles in these convoys. The term often used to define these vehicles is “Jingle Trucks” for they are often gaily painted and have some manner of chains adorning them so as they move they well, jingle. You get a feeling of a sense of pride from many of these drivers, who race along at 10 miles an hour and with big smiles. Many times either walking the base, or on this run (that I am trying to get around to describe) I was met with many smiles and waves. But these vehicles are rusted, old, and battered in many cases; however, they have been looked after to the point that they are at least serviceable.
But I digress.
This running route sometimes shows me the roads within the vicinity of the base, and these roads are a curious mix of some civilian vehicles as well as military vehicles coming and going. I run past the uncharted minefields that surround us. I watch convoys of military vehicles drive on doing their duty, or returning from. I know that this is a war zone, and with no levity I state that still with the amount of activity and varying levels of technology evident in this base I feel like I am in a weird dream that is a mixture of the computer games SIMCity and Civilization.
As I continue around nearing the end of my journey I realize then that the base is completely surrounded by this jagged mane of mountains, and with heat blazing off the small section of “blacktop” I feel as though I am running a route around the inside of and electric griddle. I get back to my room after about 11km, and about 75 minutes. I am covered in a pasty dust muck that coats my skin like some expensive ex-foliant. My shirt and shorts are drenched, yet dusty. My throat is a little raw from dust. But I feel good and exhilarated.
By the time I have finished and am back in my small room, I have a full understanding of the weird paradox this place truly is. In one (relatively speaking) small patch of mine riddled, sun blasted earth the most powerful nations on the planet have sent maybe not all their brightest, not all their best, maybe not even their bravest, but possibly the most dedicated, to a place that is as dangerous as any that exist currently on the globe. These soldiers do not share a religion; do not share a language with the proud innocent civilians of this country. But they share a fundamental humanity, a oneness, and to belittle that to the point of calling it political puppetry or a lost cause or ‘unwinnable’ is to do both sides a disservice. These dedicated, and brave few, (again relatively speaking) have gathered to offer something to this large dirt-poor country. That thing is hope.
I say these things with no arrogance, or expectation of praise for my job is safely within the wire, and I look up to my peers with awe, as well, from here. All I did was go for a run.
I had seen the signs around, advertising the “KAF Jogging Route” (knowing full well that the use of the word jogging would send some of my RunningManiac friends into cardiac arrest, or at least begin again a spirited debate on semantics). Feeling particularly keen and able one day I armed myself with a 500ml bottle of weak Gatorade and started on an epic journey.
The ground here is often hard, concrete-like packed dirt, often littered with golf ball sized rocks that pester and annoy, and threaten to turn your ankle and leave you a hobbling victim at any time. This phenomenon is not exclusive to sneakers, as even in my combat boots I have felt the awkward and biting turn of an ankle. The ground in places is also a thick spongy mud, remnants of previous rains that evaporated before they were absorbed into the impervious soil. And after a few days when covered in dust can spring up on you like the terrible sinking pits reminiscent of the quicksand in the Princess Bride. After a few steps through this it collects on your boots or sneakers, weighing them down. Then you run across gravel and you end up with a weird gravel encrusted coral on your sneakers (or boots).
But for running, at least for the somewhat lazy runner like myself, the terrain is billiard table flat. Though running at about 3000ft above sea level, you run a smooth eerily flat course.
The running route almost immediately takes me parallel to the airstrip, and for any kid who has ever grown up and dreamt of Top Gun you feel a surge of adrenaline that takes you back. I stretch my legs out here, picking up the pace bit. Feeling the breeze. I pass people from other nations who smile and nod, like serious runners do. Ha-ha.
Then I round the far corner of the airfield, and come face-to-face with the mountains I have seen through cloudy hazes, dusty hazes and sunny hazes. Now seemingly close enough to touch the late afternoon sun shines like a spotlight on them. You cannot help but immediately get the sense of something great and terrible as you look towards the naked mountains. They are daunting rocky crags, reminiscent of a Tolkien yarn. They signify the rigid backbone of this nation. And they are beautiful. You cannot help but thinking “Hm, that is where they launch the rockets from.” And you cannot help but hate the mountains then.
From my vantage points around the airfield you see the true level of constant activity packed into this patch of dirt. This activity is an enormous plethora of air assets, some which threaten to shake my teeth loose from their very spot. As well, there is an enormous amount of construction activity, with workers of seemingly many nations, being supplied by continuous road convoys.
A word about the vehicles in these convoys. The term often used to define these vehicles is “Jingle Trucks” for they are often gaily painted and have some manner of chains adorning them so as they move they well, jingle. You get a feeling of a sense of pride from many of these drivers, who race along at 10 miles an hour and with big smiles. Many times either walking the base, or on this run (that I am trying to get around to describe) I was met with many smiles and waves. But these vehicles are rusted, old, and battered in many cases; however, they have been looked after to the point that they are at least serviceable.
But I digress.
This running route sometimes shows me the roads within the vicinity of the base, and these roads are a curious mix of some civilian vehicles as well as military vehicles coming and going. I run past the uncharted minefields that surround us. I watch convoys of military vehicles drive on doing their duty, or returning from. I know that this is a war zone, and with no levity I state that still with the amount of activity and varying levels of technology evident in this base I feel like I am in a weird dream that is a mixture of the computer games SIMCity and Civilization.
As I continue around nearing the end of my journey I realize then that the base is completely surrounded by this jagged mane of mountains, and with heat blazing off the small section of “blacktop” I feel as though I am running a route around the inside of and electric griddle. I get back to my room after about 11km, and about 75 minutes. I am covered in a pasty dust muck that coats my skin like some expensive ex-foliant. My shirt and shorts are drenched, yet dusty. My throat is a little raw from dust. But I feel good and exhilarated.
By the time I have finished and am back in my small room, I have a full understanding of the weird paradox this place truly is. In one (relatively speaking) small patch of mine riddled, sun blasted earth the most powerful nations on the planet have sent maybe not all their brightest, not all their best, maybe not even their bravest, but possibly the most dedicated, to a place that is as dangerous as any that exist currently on the globe. These soldiers do not share a religion; do not share a language with the proud innocent civilians of this country. But they share a fundamental humanity, a oneness, and to belittle that to the point of calling it political puppetry or a lost cause or ‘unwinnable’ is to do both sides a disservice. These dedicated, and brave few, (again relatively speaking) have gathered to offer something to this large dirt-poor country. That thing is hope.
I say these things with no arrogance, or expectation of praise for my job is safely within the wire, and I look up to my peers with awe, as well, from here. All I did was go for a run.
19.2.07
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
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
13.2.07
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….
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….
1.2.07
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.
26.1.07
the agony and the ecstasy
The RM thread post is called “A Thank You Letter to RM”. The Blog version of this account is called “the agony and the ecstasy”. And in reality it is both.
In a few days I depart for A-Stan, and I wanted to leave a last post from homeside; as I do intend to send home frequent updates once over yonder.
I have been with RM, almost since it began, first vicariously through my wife, and then finally courageous enough to hop in. Though my post count would betray my dedication to the site, I have always at least surfed RM whenever I had the chance. It is through RM that I found enjoyment in a previously horrifying endeavour, and it has become an addicti- er, truly enjoyable hobby. Running -not websurfing-. As a result I feel more confident, much healthier, and have experienced that tremendous rush of minor and major running events. And though I would not consider myself comfortable around new people I have made a whole boatload of new friends (those I have met in person and those I have yet to have the honour of meeting in person). So anyway to avoid any semblance of sentimentality let me just say two things;
1) Good luck to everyone on every single run that you do, try to stay healthy, and stay active. Let every event that has a maniac at it be a M&G, among those who are currently members and those who are waiting for us to recruit them.
2) Second, and personally a bit more importantly, a sincere thanks to all of you who have in someway contacted Kara or myself in the last while to offer your encouragement and support on my/ our deployment. I will have a pretty good network of support over there and thanks to you folk she will too.
The ecstasy, the prospect of a tour, especially one to a war zone, is by all accounts highly sought after by those people in my line of work.Sound crazy? Getting chosen, or volun-told, is the equivalent of a young talented junior player being called up to the NHL to play in a high stress play-off game. It is what the majority of my friends and I have joined to do. It is our choice, our duty, and our honour to do so.
And it is not because we are wild Rambo-set-the-world-on-fire-types either, it is just that we revel in being able to do what few others can, or would do The tour itself lasts for six months, but in the past eight months I have spent the equivalent of six months away from home.
Sometimes I was two hours away, others three time zones. Therefore, we must also look to the families and friends we are leaving behind, the Agony. I have yet to step off Canadian soil but my team and I, as aforementioned, have spent a great deal of time away from home preparing. In a way we are also preparing our loved ones for that long separation too.
Remember, and this is the important line; Jaimer, Scadian, and I are three of nearly 2000 people who will head over. And they will all come home, but some will be covered in a Maple Flag.
To conclude simply, thanks to you lot on RM, I am a fitter soldier than I was. Guilt will do that. Just kidding. And for the rest of my family and friends reading this; thanks for the support, I’ll keep in touch, six months isn’t that long. And get your helmets on, ‘war stories’ to follow.
Yours in running, and web-based debauchery,
Scotty
In a few days I depart for A-Stan, and I wanted to leave a last post from homeside; as I do intend to send home frequent updates once over yonder.
I have been with RM, almost since it began, first vicariously through my wife, and then finally courageous enough to hop in. Though my post count would betray my dedication to the site, I have always at least surfed RM whenever I had the chance. It is through RM that I found enjoyment in a previously horrifying endeavour, and it has become an addicti- er, truly enjoyable hobby. Running -not websurfing-. As a result I feel more confident, much healthier, and have experienced that tremendous rush of minor and major running events. And though I would not consider myself comfortable around new people I have made a whole boatload of new friends (those I have met in person and those I have yet to have the honour of meeting in person). So anyway to avoid any semblance of sentimentality let me just say two things;
1) Good luck to everyone on every single run that you do, try to stay healthy, and stay active. Let every event that has a maniac at it be a M&G, among those who are currently members and those who are waiting for us to recruit them.
2) Second, and personally a bit more importantly, a sincere thanks to all of you who have in someway contacted Kara or myself in the last while to offer your encouragement and support on my/ our deployment. I will have a pretty good network of support over there and thanks to you folk she will too.
The ecstasy, the prospect of a tour, especially one to a war zone, is by all accounts highly sought after by those people in my line of work.Sound crazy? Getting chosen, or volun-told, is the equivalent of a young talented junior player being called up to the NHL to play in a high stress play-off game. It is what the majority of my friends and I have joined to do. It is our choice, our duty, and our honour to do so.
And it is not because we are wild Rambo-set-the-world-on-fire-types either, it is just that we revel in being able to do what few others can, or would do The tour itself lasts for six months, but in the past eight months I have spent the equivalent of six months away from home.
Sometimes I was two hours away, others three time zones. Therefore, we must also look to the families and friends we are leaving behind, the Agony. I have yet to step off Canadian soil but my team and I, as aforementioned, have spent a great deal of time away from home preparing. In a way we are also preparing our loved ones for that long separation too.
Remember, and this is the important line; Jaimer, Scadian, and I are three of nearly 2000 people who will head over. And they will all come home, but some will be covered in a Maple Flag.
To conclude simply, thanks to you lot on RM, I am a fitter soldier than I was. Guilt will do that. Just kidding. And for the rest of my family and friends reading this; thanks for the support, I’ll keep in touch, six months isn’t that long. And get your helmets on, ‘war stories’ to follow.
Yours in running, and web-based debauchery,
Scotty
22.1.07
the mall rant
What the Hell is it about anything to do with Walmart, or malls in general that makes people stupid. I mean down right neanderthalic-four-thousand-year-regressive-stoopid?
I have thought about this a lot, but after today’s excursion to the mall it made me want to put it down in writing. We went to simply check out walmart for some cheap clothes for me to take to A-stan with me, and maybe get a bite of lunch.
Keep in mind Kara and I were not in a real hurry, and we had a cart to contain the kids; therefore we had no stress from our side of the bargain. The mall was not particularly busy but getting from point A to point B was like salmon swimming up stream in Niagara Falls. People would be shuffling along and then just stop dead in the middle of the aisle, to check their purses, to answer their cell phones, or check the condition and quality of the goddamned grout around the ceiling. Then they seem majorly offended if you say “Excuse me.”
We encountered this blocking behaviour in the entry way to several stores, as if it may have been some preternatural force conspiring with the good spirits of the universe from spending too much money or realizing that this years fashion trends are reminiscent of 1987 retro garbage.
Then of course there are the aisleways in the majority of these stores that are about 80% of the width of the shopping carts, and 96% of the strollers available on the market. I shared a few commiserating looks with grumpy fathers and embarrassed mothers who were trying to win a futile battle of manoeuvring their life around another goddamned clearance rack.
What’s funny is I have grown accustomed to the slow migratory shuffle of the teenage clones (with far more expensive cellphones than I could ever care to have, or afford). You can see these mindless drones from a mile away and avoid them quite handily, even with a shopping cart and two rambunctious kiddos!
It seems more to be middle-aged folks and families, or female shopping teams that possess this infuriating brain dead tendency. There was a mother who stopped her full cart directly in front the walmart checkouts and blocked literally seven different paying customers from entering a spot with three cashiers. And she was completely and absolutely oblivious, but able to determine that Britney Spears friends are worried about her.
I know we are all the main characters in the movies we call our lives, but at some point people have to W-A-K-E-U-P!!! please. Take whatever goddamned time you want to smell the proverbial flowers, but just be aware that as confident as you may be the world does not revolve around you, and never will.
I have thought about this a lot, but after today’s excursion to the mall it made me want to put it down in writing. We went to simply check out walmart for some cheap clothes for me to take to A-stan with me, and maybe get a bite of lunch.
Keep in mind Kara and I were not in a real hurry, and we had a cart to contain the kids; therefore we had no stress from our side of the bargain. The mall was not particularly busy but getting from point A to point B was like salmon swimming up stream in Niagara Falls. People would be shuffling along and then just stop dead in the middle of the aisle, to check their purses, to answer their cell phones, or check the condition and quality of the goddamned grout around the ceiling. Then they seem majorly offended if you say “Excuse me.”
We encountered this blocking behaviour in the entry way to several stores, as if it may have been some preternatural force conspiring with the good spirits of the universe from spending too much money or realizing that this years fashion trends are reminiscent of 1987 retro garbage.
Then of course there are the aisleways in the majority of these stores that are about 80% of the width of the shopping carts, and 96% of the strollers available on the market. I shared a few commiserating looks with grumpy fathers and embarrassed mothers who were trying to win a futile battle of manoeuvring their life around another goddamned clearance rack.
What’s funny is I have grown accustomed to the slow migratory shuffle of the teenage clones (with far more expensive cellphones than I could ever care to have, or afford). You can see these mindless drones from a mile away and avoid them quite handily, even with a shopping cart and two rambunctious kiddos!
It seems more to be middle-aged folks and families, or female shopping teams that possess this infuriating brain dead tendency. There was a mother who stopped her full cart directly in front the walmart checkouts and blocked literally seven different paying customers from entering a spot with three cashiers. And she was completely and absolutely oblivious, but able to determine that Britney Spears friends are worried about her.
I know we are all the main characters in the movies we call our lives, but at some point people have to W-A-K-E-U-P!!! please. Take whatever goddamned time you want to smell the proverbial flowers, but just be aware that as confident as you may be the world does not revolve around you, and never will.
18.1.07
10.1.07
Tats
The arm belongs to Kara, it is her Koi. It is a custom piece down by Shawn at Inkredible.
The scales were done free handThis is my Laughing Buddha.
What's new.
Well, yesterday was a good day. We signed the kids up for some activities. Sophia will son be starting First Dance, at DancEast. She is really excited...it will be once a week and will last a couple of months. If she likes it she can keep going.
Nathaniel is now signed up for Tae Kwon Do, he is excited to start that as well, and that is like an afterschool program a couple times a week.
I still feel 'guilt!' of all things when it comes to Nathaniel and hockey. Shouldn't every Canadian boy grow up playing hockey? I did and look how I turned out...nevermind, Tae Kwon Do it is. But seriously, I don't know how families afford hockey these days...my god! But the TKD will give him self confidence and he will be active, the same for Sophia, no way I should think she couldn't have played hockey either...but the dancing will get her in with other kids before she starts school, that ius the key right now.
On another note, the hunt for a treadmill has come to an end, Monday we will likely be buying one we found on Sears.ca, I'll put the specifics up later (once I find it again)
And finally my training has started up again. I am on day three of a 8 week 10km program, just to get used to running regularly again, and then when I am in Kandahar I have a 10miler program I want to follow...10 miles is what...16.09344 kms? That is for the first half of the tour. That way I can do a 1/2 or full marathon training plan for the second half.
Anyway, back to work next Monday.
Nathaniel is now signed up for Tae Kwon Do, he is excited to start that as well, and that is like an afterschool program a couple times a week.
I still feel 'guilt!' of all things when it comes to Nathaniel and hockey. Shouldn't every Canadian boy grow up playing hockey? I did and look how I turned out...nevermind, Tae Kwon Do it is. But seriously, I don't know how families afford hockey these days...my god! But the TKD will give him self confidence and he will be active, the same for Sophia, no way I should think she couldn't have played hockey either...but the dancing will get her in with other kids before she starts school, that ius the key right now.
On another note, the hunt for a treadmill has come to an end, Monday we will likely be buying one we found on Sears.ca, I'll put the specifics up later (once I find it again)
And finally my training has started up again. I am on day three of a 8 week 10km program, just to get used to running regularly again, and then when I am in Kandahar I have a 10miler program I want to follow...10 miles is what...16.09344 kms? That is for the first half of the tour. That way I can do a 1/2 or full marathon training plan for the second half.
Anyway, back to work next Monday.
3.1.07
The new Training Plan for 07.
Well, ought seven has hit and I gots me some stuff to do.
I haven't really followed a training plan since my last event. I started a couple times towards other events but with the work training schedule I'd been following the past seven months everything went for a poop.
And leaning on that busy schedule like a crutch (an excuse!) I haven't run consistently for a while. I have been doing the one or two times a week thing, just enough to "remember" how to run. The runs I do now, are at an easy, conversational pace, with no set goal or distance. And that has been kinda working for me.
But kinda not working for me. My weight has started creeping back up again. And I don't like it. So back a plan I go. (Also I have been inspired by the progress the CodFather has had over the last while...)
My focus is on getting back to a strong ten km pace again. I am going to follow a good 8-week plan to get me back on track so I can comfortably run 10km again. There are several issues I am working through here.
1- The weather, the temp has been right, the ground surface has not. And I cannot afford any kind of injury right now.
2- Gonna be in A-stan before the ploan finishes, this is good though, because if I get motivated and stick to the plan then I can keep going once there.
3- Kara and I are looking at buying a treadmill. Likely buying it online, will it get here before I leave? Who knows?
I plan to start the new 10 km plan on Monday the 8th.
Wish me luck, I'll let you know how it goes.
I haven't really followed a training plan since my last event. I started a couple times towards other events but with the work training schedule I'd been following the past seven months everything went for a poop.
And leaning on that busy schedule like a crutch (an excuse!) I haven't run consistently for a while. I have been doing the one or two times a week thing, just enough to "remember" how to run. The runs I do now, are at an easy, conversational pace, with no set goal or distance. And that has been kinda working for me.
But kinda not working for me. My weight has started creeping back up again. And I don't like it. So back a plan I go. (Also I have been inspired by the progress the CodFather has had over the last while...)
My focus is on getting back to a strong ten km pace again. I am going to follow a good 8-week plan to get me back on track so I can comfortably run 10km again. There are several issues I am working through here.
1- The weather, the temp has been right, the ground surface has not. And I cannot afford any kind of injury right now.
2- Gonna be in A-stan before the ploan finishes, this is good though, because if I get motivated and stick to the plan then I can keep going once there.
3- Kara and I are looking at buying a treadmill. Likely buying it online, will it get here before I leave? Who knows?
I plan to start the new 10 km plan on Monday the 8th.
Wish me luck, I'll let you know how it goes.
Fort Minor
Remember The Name
You ready?! Lets go!Yeah, for those of you that want to know what we're all aboutIt's like this y'all (c'mon!)
[Chorus]
This is ten percent luck, twenty percent skill
Fifteen percent concentrated power of will
Five percent pleasure, fifty percent pain
And a hundred percent reason to remember the name!
Mike! - He doesn't need his name up in lights
He just wants to be heard whether it's the beat or the mic
He feels so unlike everybody else, alone
In spite of the fact that some people still think that they know him
But fuck em, he knows the code
It's not about the salary
It's all about reality and making some noise
Makin the story - makin sure his clique stays up
That means when he puts it down Tak's pickin it up! let's go!
Who the hell is he anyway?
He never really talks much
Never concerned with status but still leavin them star struck
Humbled through opportunities given to him despite the fact
That many misjudge him because he makes a livin from writin raps
Put it together himself, now the picture connects
Never askin for someone's help, to get some respect
He's only focused on what he wrote, his will is beyond reach
And now when it all unfolds, the skill of an artist
It's just twenty percent skill
Eighty percent fear
Be one hundred percent clear cause Ryu is ill
Who would've thought that he'd be the one to set the west in flames
And I heard him wreckin with The Crystal Method, "Name Of The Game"
Came back dropped Megadef, took em to church
I like bleach man, why you have the stupidest verse?
This dude is the truth, now everybody be givin him guest spots
His stock's through the roof I heard he fuckin with S. Dot!
[Chorus]
They call him Ryu The Sick
And he's spittin fire with Mike
Got him out the dryer he's hot
Found him in Fort Minor with Tak
Been a fuckin annihilist porcupine
He's a prick, he's a cock
The type woman want to be with, and rappers hope he get shot
Eight years in the makin, patiently waitin to blow
Now the record with Shinoda's takin over the globe
He's got a partner in crime, his shit is equally dope
You wont believe the kind of shit that comes out of this kid's throat
Tak! - He's not your everyday on the block
He knows how to work with what he's got
Makin his way to the topPeople think its a common owners name
People keep askin him was it given at birth
Or does it stand for an acronym?
No he's livin proof, Got him rockin the booth
He'll get you buzzin quicker than a shot of vodka with juice
Him and his crew are known around as one of the best
Dedicated to what they doin give a hundred percent
Forget Mike - Nobody really knows how or why he works so hard
It seems like he's never got time
Because he writes every note and he writes every line
And I've seen him at work when that light goes on in his mind
It's like a design is written in his head every time
Before he even touches a key or speaks in a rhyme
And those motherfuckers he runs with, those kids that he signed?Ridiculous, without even trying, how do they do it?!
[Chorus - repeat 2x]
[Outro - Mike Shinoda]
Yeah! Fort MinorM. Shinoda - Styles of Beyond
Ryu! Takbir! Machine Shop!
I like the sound of this and the chorus. Good message in the chorus.
The December File.
Looking back it is hard to remember that December only had 31 days in it. The first 16-17-maybe 18 days were busier than Hell.
I usually do all of my Christmas shopping in November, then pick small things up as I go. Well this past November I was in Wainwrong Alberta. So all my shopping, and Kara and I did all the shopping for the kiddos in Dec too!
There were a multitude of mandatory events with the Reg't, hence the title "Silly Season" as it is lovingly dubbed. A mess dinner, hockey games, Christmas dinner. All stuff that takes place in Gagetown. 'Cept for the hockey game, twas played in Moncton/ Dieppe this year. And the officers lost.
There was also a mutitude of paperwork to finish, and we had to make numerous trips to Gagetown again to drop off kit.
Anyway enough of that. Christmas itself was low key and an absolute success this year. Kara and the kids were so giddy, they were awake from about 4:30 on. We finally got up around 6:00. Man what a fun time!
A few days later my folks came up from Nova Scotia. The visit was great. My dad looked aftert the kids while Kara and I went out to get our "Christmas" tattoos. (once there are some pictures I will post). That was a lot of fun, Shawn Milton of Inkredible (www.inkredible.ca) is a fantastic artist, helluva guy too.
My mom was so enrapt by the process that I took her back to get her first tattoo!!! That was pretty friggin cool I must say. And no pussy little at for her, she got the Jeff Gordon 24 with flames on her shoulder.
The last thing to say about December was the passing of my grandmother, Nanny Kay. She was the true matriarch of the MacEachern family in every sense of the word. She was an awesome grandmother and will be missed. She would have been 78 on 4 January. Thoughts and a big "Thank You" to you Nanny Kay.
I usually do all of my Christmas shopping in November, then pick small things up as I go. Well this past November I was in Wainwrong Alberta. So all my shopping, and Kara and I did all the shopping for the kiddos in Dec too!
There were a multitude of mandatory events with the Reg't, hence the title "Silly Season" as it is lovingly dubbed. A mess dinner, hockey games, Christmas dinner. All stuff that takes place in Gagetown. 'Cept for the hockey game, twas played in Moncton/ Dieppe this year. And the officers lost.
There was also a mutitude of paperwork to finish, and we had to make numerous trips to Gagetown again to drop off kit.
Anyway enough of that. Christmas itself was low key and an absolute success this year. Kara and the kids were so giddy, they were awake from about 4:30 on. We finally got up around 6:00. Man what a fun time!
A few days later my folks came up from Nova Scotia. The visit was great. My dad looked aftert the kids while Kara and I went out to get our "Christmas" tattoos. (once there are some pictures I will post). That was a lot of fun, Shawn Milton of Inkredible (www.inkredible.ca) is a fantastic artist, helluva guy too.
My mom was so enrapt by the process that I took her back to get her first tattoo!!! That was pretty friggin cool I must say. And no pussy little at for her, she got the Jeff Gordon 24 with flames on her shoulder.
The last thing to say about December was the passing of my grandmother, Nanny Kay. She was the true matriarch of the MacEachern family in every sense of the word. She was an awesome grandmother and will be missed. She would have been 78 on 4 January. Thoughts and a big "Thank You" to you Nanny Kay.
Holy Crap!
It is absolutely incredible and shameful that I have neglected this place since Septemeber. And more than likely I have lost 98% of the Faithful Readers that I had, not that I had that many. Who really wnats to listen to me go on about shite, really?
There are a lot ofthings I would say, since Septmeber yeah sure!!!
I figure I will cover them on a month to month basis.
Sept, hmmm, not much to tell here, not that I can remember. I was in full swing of the training for the tour coming up and spent a lot of my time in Gagetown.
Oct- Nov, This is when I went to Wainwright Alberta for a month. I left on Oct 25, and the whole damn month felt like a continuation of that day. I really don't get the military sometimes, I think it is a real case of too many people trying to control things.
The way I, and my crew of guys, worked it out we were in "away" travelling and there in Wainwright for 30 days, and completed a 13 day exercise. Those 13 days were good and challenging, and laden with more brass than the Boston Pops! But the rest of the time were the exact type of days I try to avoid for my soldiers, sitting on our thumbs essentially doing frick all.
But for us merry few in my little band of ASCC guys it was not as bad as it could have been. We secured our own tent, with the help of our insider, and we were pretty much left alone. The guys all have laptops, and in the end developed a wireless gaming network that had them playing StarWars Battlefront and Command and Conquer head -to- head. This even got some of our counterparts from other sections involved.
At any rate that was the last exercise before deployment. A few more ticks is all that is needed before flying out. When am I flying out?...LOL good f'n question!!!
That has been my biggest complaint with this process. The process of organizing the flights and getting organized in Wainwright was a sheer and utterly embarassing debacle. Getting home was not much better. If getting us to A-Stan is as bad...hear that? That's morale dropping like a stone.
I think I will sum up here. I will post December on it's own.
There are a lot ofthings I would say, since Septmeber yeah sure!!!
I figure I will cover them on a month to month basis.
Sept, hmmm, not much to tell here, not that I can remember. I was in full swing of the training for the tour coming up and spent a lot of my time in Gagetown.
Oct- Nov, This is when I went to Wainwright Alberta for a month. I left on Oct 25, and the whole damn month felt like a continuation of that day. I really don't get the military sometimes, I think it is a real case of too many people trying to control things.
The way I, and my crew of guys, worked it out we were in "away" travelling and there in Wainwright for 30 days, and completed a 13 day exercise. Those 13 days were good and challenging, and laden with more brass than the Boston Pops! But the rest of the time were the exact type of days I try to avoid for my soldiers, sitting on our thumbs essentially doing frick all.
But for us merry few in my little band of ASCC guys it was not as bad as it could have been. We secured our own tent, with the help of our insider, and we were pretty much left alone. The guys all have laptops, and in the end developed a wireless gaming network that had them playing StarWars Battlefront and Command and Conquer head -to- head. This even got some of our counterparts from other sections involved.
At any rate that was the last exercise before deployment. A few more ticks is all that is needed before flying out. When am I flying out?...LOL good f'n question!!!
That has been my biggest complaint with this process. The process of organizing the flights and getting organized in Wainwright was a sheer and utterly embarassing debacle. Getting home was not much better. If getting us to A-Stan is as bad...hear that? That's morale dropping like a stone.
I think I will sum up here. I will post December on it's own.
7.9.06
Bubba Goes to School
Today was a big day. Nathaniel had his first day of school. Kara and I had been prepping him for months, talking about it, getting him excited. And he was.
The excitement was really evident when he and Kara went out for some school shopping. Nathaniel got two complete new outfits of some nice jeans and shirts and a new hat. So that combined with the wicked cool Spiderman backpack his Grampy Lang got for him and his new Spiderman lunch box he was all set.
Last night I set my travel alarm clock for him for 6:45, he thought that was really cool! So with his lunch made, and clothes laid out (with Spiderman boxers and socks) he was all set. He went to bed around 8:30, and may have finally been asleep by ten!!!!
The clock in my room said 6:44 when Nathaniel came in with an energetic and infectious, “I’m up!”
“Go get dressed.” said mom. Footsteps. Thirty nanoseconds later footsteps back, then he begins dragging the blanket off the bed. He was dressed in his hat, his sneakers, and his backpack.
“Go downstairs.” said dad. Footsteps. Front door opens. Dad jumps up, “get in here you need to have breakfast!!” Door opens, closes, footsteps.
“Can you make me breakfast?” Nathaniel asks.
I don’t think he was excited at all.
A short time thereafter, (after coffee) Mom, Dad, Raven, and Sophia (complete in new rubber boots and a backpack to be like Bubba) walk Nathaniel to school. The mosquitoes were horrible.
Once there, Kara takes Nathaniel inside to find his classroom. That left me with one obedient thing and one thing running around sniffing people. Yep Raven just sat there at my feet. Just kidding.
But it was weird; I was in uniform, as I had to go to work right after. So I had a crowd of twenty kids, boys asking “Are you ARMY?” Girls asking “Can I pet your dog.” I felt like the Pied Piper….
Well all in all it went well, apparently he had fun and wants to go back. My little guy is still little, but he’s getting there. I am really proud of him. And I am proud of his mom, for not crying….
I am sure there will be many stories to follow.
The excitement was really evident when he and Kara went out for some school shopping. Nathaniel got two complete new outfits of some nice jeans and shirts and a new hat. So that combined with the wicked cool Spiderman backpack his Grampy Lang got for him and his new Spiderman lunch box he was all set.
Last night I set my travel alarm clock for him for 6:45, he thought that was really cool! So with his lunch made, and clothes laid out (with Spiderman boxers and socks) he was all set. He went to bed around 8:30, and may have finally been asleep by ten!!!!
The clock in my room said 6:44 when Nathaniel came in with an energetic and infectious, “I’m up!”
“Go get dressed.” said mom. Footsteps. Thirty nanoseconds later footsteps back, then he begins dragging the blanket off the bed. He was dressed in his hat, his sneakers, and his backpack.
“Go downstairs.” said dad. Footsteps. Front door opens. Dad jumps up, “get in here you need to have breakfast!!” Door opens, closes, footsteps.
“Can you make me breakfast?” Nathaniel asks.
I don’t think he was excited at all.
A short time thereafter, (after coffee) Mom, Dad, Raven, and Sophia (complete in new rubber boots and a backpack to be like Bubba) walk Nathaniel to school. The mosquitoes were horrible.
Once there, Kara takes Nathaniel inside to find his classroom. That left me with one obedient thing and one thing running around sniffing people. Yep Raven just sat there at my feet. Just kidding.
But it was weird; I was in uniform, as I had to go to work right after. So I had a crowd of twenty kids, boys asking “Are you ARMY?” Girls asking “Can I pet your dog.” I felt like the Pied Piper….
Well all in all it went well, apparently he had fun and wants to go back. My little guy is still little, but he’s getting there. I am really proud of him. And I am proud of his mom, for not crying….
I am sure there will be many stories to follow.
3.9.06
A Nice Sunday Bike Ride
I start this little monologue with a note on how out of touch fitness wise I have been for the last little while.
I had plans to run a full marathon in November in Moncton. Then as everyone knows, and a point I have belabored a bit too much, my professional life stepped up and said no. That’s cool, but I totally stepped ff the healthy bus for a while. Started eating poorly again with the excuse that I was busy, I started skipping runs, with the excuse that I was busy. The spiral continues but I think you and I get the point.
So, as things happen it seems that I will get the opportunity to go home for Thanksgiving, and the Valley harvest Marathon (and Half) are happening that weekend. For all kinds of reasons, personal pride, Kara, fellow Maniacs going I decided to get off the downward escalator and get on the one going back up.
I have started running again, and have been following a schedule again. And today I had a ten-twelve km planned.
I told you all that to tell you this.
I have had few days since I became a runner that I have woke up and truly felt that I didn’t want to run. Even days with injuries, days with no time, whatever I usually still felt like running. Today, nope. Maybe my body finally said, “Listen jackass, you are eating crap and were working continuous 16 hour days, NO running, that means you.”
So. I didn’t run, didn’t even dig out my running gear. Then I proceeded to feel restless and snappy all day. I busied myself round the house with little tasks and stuff. But the mood persisted.
Then on a whim I changed my clothes into some workout clothes and jumped on my bike, and started pedaling. Now I did do some planning. I filled my water bottle, had a quick snack, and drank a little water. I planned a route, well, sort of. I had a general idea of where I wanted to go, and considering my familiarity with this area I took this as a good opportunity to learn the area. I am so dumb.
I left and figured at most with the route I wanted to follow I would do about 15km, by far the longest ride I had done since reacquainting myself with the bike. The first warning sign should have been the sign that said “Salisbury 11km”, but maybe I was so frustrated by the continuous rolling hills. There was nary a level patch, I was either on a down slope or climbing a damn slope. I was changing gears more than the Red Sox change second basemen.
It was when I climbed the hill that housed the sign that said, “Welcome to Salisbury” That I realized I might have missed my turn…
I transitioned from the pavement to dirt to pavement at one point coming into and realized I had been shot. I hadn’t heard it, but I felt it. Right above my right bum cheek. Maybe the locals didn’t like bikers…kind of an Easy Rider thing. It paralyzed me for a short time. That’s when I decided I would backtrack to a payphone and call Kara. This I did do. And after I got off the phone I must have looked silly trying to find the pins that were sticking up through the seat into my ass. Never found them, or the shooter.
I figured with Kara coming as a knight in a shining Windstar I would back track and meet up with her. This I did do, it took a little while for me to work the kinks out but then I started to make some good time.
A short time later I was rescued, and mercilessly tortured by my son…ahhhh.
Kara and I backtracked to my turnaround point and clocked the distance. Apparently I made it 8 km back from my turnaround. All in all, I traveled exactly 30 km in 90 minutes. Much more than I thought possible at this stage in the game.
Well I must go, I am going to be surfing the internet for walkers.
I had plans to run a full marathon in November in Moncton. Then as everyone knows, and a point I have belabored a bit too much, my professional life stepped up and said no. That’s cool, but I totally stepped ff the healthy bus for a while. Started eating poorly again with the excuse that I was busy, I started skipping runs, with the excuse that I was busy. The spiral continues but I think you and I get the point.
So, as things happen it seems that I will get the opportunity to go home for Thanksgiving, and the Valley harvest Marathon (and Half) are happening that weekend. For all kinds of reasons, personal pride, Kara, fellow Maniacs going I decided to get off the downward escalator and get on the one going back up.
I have started running again, and have been following a schedule again. And today I had a ten-twelve km planned.
I told you all that to tell you this.
I have had few days since I became a runner that I have woke up and truly felt that I didn’t want to run. Even days with injuries, days with no time, whatever I usually still felt like running. Today, nope. Maybe my body finally said, “Listen jackass, you are eating crap and were working continuous 16 hour days, NO running, that means you.”
So. I didn’t run, didn’t even dig out my running gear. Then I proceeded to feel restless and snappy all day. I busied myself round the house with little tasks and stuff. But the mood persisted.
Then on a whim I changed my clothes into some workout clothes and jumped on my bike, and started pedaling. Now I did do some planning. I filled my water bottle, had a quick snack, and drank a little water. I planned a route, well, sort of. I had a general idea of where I wanted to go, and considering my familiarity with this area I took this as a good opportunity to learn the area. I am so dumb.
I left and figured at most with the route I wanted to follow I would do about 15km, by far the longest ride I had done since reacquainting myself with the bike. The first warning sign should have been the sign that said “Salisbury 11km”, but maybe I was so frustrated by the continuous rolling hills. There was nary a level patch, I was either on a down slope or climbing a damn slope. I was changing gears more than the Red Sox change second basemen.
It was when I climbed the hill that housed the sign that said, “Welcome to Salisbury” That I realized I might have missed my turn…
I transitioned from the pavement to dirt to pavement at one point coming into and realized I had been shot. I hadn’t heard it, but I felt it. Right above my right bum cheek. Maybe the locals didn’t like bikers…kind of an Easy Rider thing. It paralyzed me for a short time. That’s when I decided I would backtrack to a payphone and call Kara. This I did do. And after I got off the phone I must have looked silly trying to find the pins that were sticking up through the seat into my ass. Never found them, or the shooter.
I figured with Kara coming as a knight in a shining Windstar I would back track and meet up with her. This I did do, it took a little while for me to work the kinks out but then I started to make some good time.
A short time later I was rescued, and mercilessly tortured by my son…ahhhh.
Kara and I backtracked to my turnaround point and clocked the distance. Apparently I made it 8 km back from my turnaround. All in all, I traveled exactly 30 km in 90 minutes. Much more than I thought possible at this stage in the game.
Well I must go, I am going to be surfing the internet for walkers.
1.9.06
Home Again.
Hey Folks.
Back home again for a couple weeks. Was in Gagetown again for another exercise. The highlight of whch was getting to see the new Nyala up close and personal, what a huge vehicle...I want one!!!!
Yesterday Kara had her Root Canal done. Nothing serious, got to watch the whole thing, that was kinda neat.
My parents are in town for couple of days, checking out our new place, them seem to like it and the neighbourhood.
Running is going well, planning on being in NS for Thanksgiving and run the Valley Harvest 1/2. Good time to see all the family as it will be my last free time til Christams with deployment thereafter
Have fun y'all talk to you soon
19.8.06
$0.02 (response to an RM post)
I've weighed in on this topic before, though I 'm not going to wade through the search function and find what I've said I will make an effort to throw out a Readers Digest Version of my thoughts.
Please forgive me, I am writing this after an extended time from home, after an extended time awake, with 40 hours before I leave to do it again. (That was not a sympathy/empathy ploy, those are facts, those of us who will be in Afghanistan in the new year for six months are already up to our necks living and breathing the training and prepartation to get there.) Not supporting "the war" is a personal and political decision, based on whatever factors make up your character and make you Canadian. And as a voter you can have a say. (as a soldier with 27 years in said to me recently "Don't like it, vote Liberal in a couple of months, they'll bring us home and remind everyone why it was a mistake, though everyone will have forgotten it was they who sent us...")
But supporting the Troops is also a personal decision based on whatever factors make up your character and make you Canadian. It can be as simple as not spitting on a Canadian soldier in an airport, or as simple as helping line the road leading to the base with yellow ribbons as they come home.
some one on RM wrote:
Personally, and maybe this is due to a lack of understanding, I don't support the 'war' in Afghanistan (surprised?). I remember hearing that more Canadian soldiers have been killed in Afghanistan now than in any other war since WWII. Please correct me if I'm wrong. Why are we fighting insurgency in Afghanistan? What good are we accomplishing there? What cause are Canadians dying for? Who benefits from winning this war? Is it even possible to win?
The mission statement of the Candian Troops in Afghanistan has never wavered, we are there to add credibility and stability to the governing authority in the country of Afghanistan. Not warfighting. Yes we are trained to kick ass, and take names. And in the Wild West environment of Afghanistan that is a necessary thing, and it is a damn good thing that we are good at it.
But we are also damn good at building schools, building infrastructure. We are not just fighting "an insurgency" (a little anti-US/IRAQ shading there) We are fighting an established terrorist regime, with skewed views of Islamic Law, and we are also fighting entrenched criminals and war lords who have profitted from the civil turmoil that has plagued Afghanistan for decades and who have kept the majority of the population dirt poor. We as a respected and established HAVE country are providing opportunity for impoverished have-nots. We, as soldiers, believe in these ideals as it is one thing we cherish about Canada, and I don't think we have the morale high ground to let some casulaites take that away from others.
Who benefits? The 6 year old girl who goes to school for the first time and learns how to read. The fifty year old woman who will get to vote for the first time in her life and be treated as a human. The thrity year old mechanic who gets to do what he is trained to do because for so long there was no way for him to do, and he can finally support his family. Who benefits? Canadians, we can say once Afghanistan takes fledgling steps as a recovering nation and we can say, yeah, we did that...
They wrote:
It seems counterproductive to fight religious fundamentalism with violence. Attacking the insurgents just seems to create a martyr complex which breeds more violence. Do Afghanis even want a democracy? I can think of 10 African countries who'd be better served by a peacekeeping force, or an installation of democracy.
Peacekeeping is dead. We are no longer in between equally strong sides and keeping them apart. We are peacemakers, by whatever means necessary. We are popluar in Afghanistan, average joe Afghan likes us and wants us there beacuse of what we mean. I don't know if Afghanistan wants democracy. They want freedom to pray the way they want and feed their children.
And you don't stop religious fanaticism by asking nice. You do whatever necessary to stop, interdict, and disrupt their operations, physically, and ideologically. As leaders we do not want to send our troops out into sustained combat because it is destructive not constructive, and there is more chance for body bags coming home. But sometimes you have to call a spade a spade and throat punch someone.
they wrote:
That said, I don't support our troops because our troops are enacting a mission I can't support. I empathize with the families and the soldiers themselves. I pray for the safe return of every soldier overseas. I wish Canadians weren't dying (seemingly) in vain. If there's a good reason that we're at war in Afghanistan, fill me in.
We are in Afghanistan because I believe we have a morale obligation to assist an impoverished society that has asked for our support. And because we can. I don't care if you support us, though I'd like you to. Just as long as you remember that politicians and the public choose our missions, we freely choose the lifestyle. /steps off soapbox/
Please forgive me, I am writing this after an extended time from home, after an extended time awake, with 40 hours before I leave to do it again. (That was not a sympathy/empathy ploy, those are facts, those of us who will be in Afghanistan in the new year for six months are already up to our necks living and breathing the training and prepartation to get there.) Not supporting "the war" is a personal and political decision, based on whatever factors make up your character and make you Canadian. And as a voter you can have a say. (as a soldier with 27 years in said to me recently "Don't like it, vote Liberal in a couple of months, they'll bring us home and remind everyone why it was a mistake, though everyone will have forgotten it was they who sent us...")
But supporting the Troops is also a personal decision based on whatever factors make up your character and make you Canadian. It can be as simple as not spitting on a Canadian soldier in an airport, or as simple as helping line the road leading to the base with yellow ribbons as they come home.
some one on RM wrote:
Personally, and maybe this is due to a lack of understanding, I don't support the 'war' in Afghanistan (surprised?). I remember hearing that more Canadian soldiers have been killed in Afghanistan now than in any other war since WWII. Please correct me if I'm wrong. Why are we fighting insurgency in Afghanistan? What good are we accomplishing there? What cause are Canadians dying for? Who benefits from winning this war? Is it even possible to win?
The mission statement of the Candian Troops in Afghanistan has never wavered, we are there to add credibility and stability to the governing authority in the country of Afghanistan. Not warfighting. Yes we are trained to kick ass, and take names. And in the Wild West environment of Afghanistan that is a necessary thing, and it is a damn good thing that we are good at it.
But we are also damn good at building schools, building infrastructure. We are not just fighting "an insurgency" (a little anti-US/IRAQ shading there) We are fighting an established terrorist regime, with skewed views of Islamic Law, and we are also fighting entrenched criminals and war lords who have profitted from the civil turmoil that has plagued Afghanistan for decades and who have kept the majority of the population dirt poor. We as a respected and established HAVE country are providing opportunity for impoverished have-nots. We, as soldiers, believe in these ideals as it is one thing we cherish about Canada, and I don't think we have the morale high ground to let some casulaites take that away from others.
Who benefits? The 6 year old girl who goes to school for the first time and learns how to read. The fifty year old woman who will get to vote for the first time in her life and be treated as a human. The thrity year old mechanic who gets to do what he is trained to do because for so long there was no way for him to do, and he can finally support his family. Who benefits? Canadians, we can say once Afghanistan takes fledgling steps as a recovering nation and we can say, yeah, we did that...
They wrote:
It seems counterproductive to fight religious fundamentalism with violence. Attacking the insurgents just seems to create a martyr complex which breeds more violence. Do Afghanis even want a democracy? I can think of 10 African countries who'd be better served by a peacekeeping force, or an installation of democracy.
Peacekeeping is dead. We are no longer in between equally strong sides and keeping them apart. We are peacemakers, by whatever means necessary. We are popluar in Afghanistan, average joe Afghan likes us and wants us there beacuse of what we mean. I don't know if Afghanistan wants democracy. They want freedom to pray the way they want and feed their children.
And you don't stop religious fanaticism by asking nice. You do whatever necessary to stop, interdict, and disrupt their operations, physically, and ideologically. As leaders we do not want to send our troops out into sustained combat because it is destructive not constructive, and there is more chance for body bags coming home. But sometimes you have to call a spade a spade and throat punch someone.
they wrote:
That said, I don't support our troops because our troops are enacting a mission I can't support. I empathize with the families and the soldiers themselves. I pray for the safe return of every soldier overseas. I wish Canadians weren't dying (seemingly) in vain. If there's a good reason that we're at war in Afghanistan, fill me in.
We are in Afghanistan because I believe we have a morale obligation to assist an impoverished society that has asked for our support. And because we can. I don't care if you support us, though I'd like you to. Just as long as you remember that politicians and the public choose our missions, we freely choose the lifestyle. /steps off soapbox/
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