the missing piece

 

I knew from early on that there was at least one piece missing; a creamy yellow piece of flesh would have stood out like a sore thumb among a box full of blacks. What the heck, I ploughed on. The only way to solve the black areas was to sort the pieces into shape-types thereby reducing the number of unnecessary 'tries'.

As usual the snowball effect came into play and the final hundred pieces slotted in quickly. I offered Maisie the honour of inserting the final piece which she did although pointed out there was still one more to go! I explained a previous owner had been less than diligent when returning the broken down puzzle to its box; leaving the missing piece probably with the dust bunnies under someone's couch.

Today was my last long run before the marathon on 14th October, twelve miles in two hours exactly. Seventeen Celsius at 6:30am, soft drizzle and one hundred per cent humidity all conspired to make it a tough run. For the next two weeks I'll only be running half a dozen five and six milers to let my muscles heal and rebuild.

mona lisa

I’m tackling a one thousand piece jigsaw puzzle of the famous painting, ‘Mona Lisa’. Sifting the pieces into piles of colour brought home to me how limited Da Vinci’s palette was for this masterpiece. Sky, flesh tones and distant landscape are three distinct colours in a range of shades but even those are pale and muted. The remainder, probably fifty per cent of the canvas is basically dark brown and black.

I raced through the edge pieces and the head and shoulders, slowed on the landscape and sky and have ground to a dozen pieces a day on the rest. To add to the challenge, my board accommodates the puzzle with just millimeters to spare resulting in frequent expletives as I nudge sections onto the carpet.

However I will persevere and eventually see the whole picture. I seldom if ever give up on a task I have set myself and will do it thoroughly and completely. I say completely but it remains to be seen whether all pieces are present and correct, this puzzle having come second hand from Value Village!

***

My time in Canada has flown fast and already I am eligible to apply for citizenship. Today I collated the necessary forms, documents, fees, cards and photos and sealed them in an envelope bound for Sydney, Nova Scotia. The forms came from a limited monochrome palette and the envelope was a drab beige.

***

The Prince Edward Island marathon is on 14^th October. I have stuck steadfastly to my training schedule and feel in good shape. There’s a nagging ‘but’ lurking here and it’s making me wait until nearer the time to register. Last weekend’s eighteen mile run found me in some trouble. I was exhausted and reduced to walking for a couple of two minute, uphill stretches. At home I felt nauseous, light headed and was running a temperature.
 

There is a chance this was just a dose of whatever the young girls had last week but more worryingly it might be symptomatic of the wrong diet and insufficient hydration, both issues I thought I had dealt with. At the risk of boring my few long-suffering readers I will continue to run, eat and drink and try to come out the other end somewhere.

***

It’s too dark to tell the dark black pieces from the merely black and as I’m very tired today, I’m heading for an early night.

morning runner

Orion hung low and large in the Southern sky as I closed the door softly behind me and padded out into the dark at 5:30am. I had risen early in an attempt to beat the sticky heat. It was a comfortable sixteen Celsius but as soon as I turned onto the sidewalk the humidity hit me. The start of my regular route north involves a steady half mile incline on Maypoint Road. As my loop today would be over sixteen miles I took the rise slowly but by the time I crossed the Trans-Canada Highway I was breathing hard and already sweating.

 

I trotted across the empty four-lane highway and headed on into the warm blackness. After thirty minutes I reached the three mile mark and slipped unseen onto Sleepy Hollow Road. This was the last time I would hit the ten minute mile pace. I use this course regularly and can peel off the broadly oval route towards home at many points resulting in runs ranging from eight to eighteen miles. So, I know the mile markers by heart and once I reached the Confederation Trail close to the Jail I dropped to 10m 15secs a mile with legs like lead and lungs like creaky bellows. My Lycra shirt and shorts were soaked. The Trail grew more familiar as starlight faded but everywhere was silent as the grave and I minimised the crunch of my footfalls by keeping to the grassy fringe.

 

I had eaten plenty of carbs the previous day and forced down a bowl of oats first thing but I was out of energy. I took regular pulls from the drinks bottle that sits in a belt-mounted pocket behind me and swallowed a sachet of energy gel after ten miles but something was decidedly wrong. I let my mind empty to find that zone where the right pace is effortless. I counted my steps and timed my breaths to them – one inhale to three paces and one exhale to three paces. Right, left, right – left, right, left. After a short while the hypnotic effect worked and I closed my eyes to run blind for ten seconds at a time.

It was 7:30am and broad daylight as I reached the eleven mile point where the Trail terminates at the Ghiz Park in downtown Charlottetown. The yielding surface of the Trail gave way to the harsh jarring of pavement and I made my way across town to Victoria Park. There I picked up the boardwalk and ran beside the harbour for a thousand yards, slowing all the time until mile thirteen when my dead legs gave up.

I walked for two minutes and downed the last of my water. My left foot was screaming from a long-standing, intermittent injury, my thighs were on fire and salty sweat made my eyes sting. Gently I settled back into a slow jog and climbed fifty feet above sea level. As the gradient steepened I walked again and realised heavy grey clouds had gathered. The road leveled and I jogged again to mile fifteen when a thick drizzle began to fall. After a short walk to cross the light Sunday morning traffic on North River Road I set off running on the long descent to Ellens Creek Bridge.

Another minute of walking up the sharp rise away from the creek then I was running the final half mile up Beach Grove Road. At 16.36 miles this is the second longest training run in my marathon preparation and at two hours and fifty minutes is below the pace I anticipate for a four and a half hour marathon. I’ve run it twice before, ten minutes quicker. I put the lacklustre performance down to a combination of lack of sleep, insufficient to eat and drink both on the day and the previous day plus drenching eighty per cent humidity.

PS: I drank two pints of water, had a hot bath, slept for two hours then ate a large lunch and began to feel considerably better. The following day I suffered no ill effects and ran five miles in forty-five minutes. Making time to stretch my leg muscles thoroughly after Sunday’s run had probably kept any delayed-onset-muscle-soreness at bay the next day. I think I need to eat more the day before long runs. At one hundred and sixty-six pounds I’m about eight pounds lighter than a year ago despite adding considerable calf and thigh muscle mass.

a post Olympic view London 2012

I have a bad case of Olympic fever. For sixteen days I lived the action: charged up the hundred metre straight, gasped breaths between strokes in the pool, grunted with each tennis serve, panted and grimaced my way to impossible weight lifts and span my imaginary pedals at the velodrome. I should be exhausted but no, I’m still on a high.

The sporting achievements were truly impressive but these days world records are nothing unless delivered with glamour. The athletics showcase events, the 100m and 200m sprints, threw up almost predictably stunning results by Usain Bolt and his Jamaican cohorts but did you check out the diamond earrings, the gold neck chains and the designer sunglasses colour coded to match the one-piece Lycra suits.

The price of failure is high and with this in mind competitors were spurred to ridiculous lengths. At least two weight lifters were all but crushed beneath the crippling weight of their loaded bars; the coach of the losing Russian women’s volleyball team has since committed suicide.

However with former middle-distance track giant Seb Coe at the helm it was never in doubt that London 2012 would deliver big. For Team GB Andy Murray was always going to thrash arch-nemesis Roger Federer at Wimbledon; Mo Farah was destined to overhaul all his African cousins in the 5k and 10k; Chris Hoy simply HAD to pedal his bike to a record fifth Gold and little Jessica Ennis was nothing less than a certainty for the women’s heptathlon – a gilt-edged, copper-bottomed dead cert!

I can’t take some events seriously: beach volleyball is a cross between sunbathing and soft porn; rhythmic gymnastics (while doubtless a highly demanding physical triumph) could be dismissed as girly ball-bouncing and ribbon-jiggling; I’ve never watched it but sailing is probably just a few laps round the Isle of Wight and a nice glass of Chianti; BMX biking was something we did over the common and got punctures – (hey, don’t you know your saddle’s way too low?); table tennis, good grief we played that at the Youth Club as teenagers and now the Chinese seem to dominate the world!

This Olympiad was not without a wryly comical side, for me at least. I was still shaking my head in disbelief at yet another flawless dive leaving barely a ripple in the Aquatic Centre when the commentator (doubtless some chlorine-soaked old wrinkly) hooted in derision at the over-rotation, loose shoulders and general sloppiness of the performance. Diving beauty is clearly in the eye of the beholder.

 

In this age of visual excess and clamour for Warhol’s fifteen minutes The Games were a platform for the movers and shakers to be seen moving and shaking. No opportunity was wasted by competitors, reporters, statesmen, celebrities or spectators to see and be seen. Prime Minister-in-waiting and friendly buffoon Boris Johnson even gauged a period of comical suspension from a zip wire would do his self-promotion no harm at all and he was probably right.

crazy olympics report london 2012

I find it difficult to imagine Apollo squeezing into his Speedos for a few sets of beach volleyball; Hermes mounting his stallion for some ‘horsey-dancing’or Poseidon and Heracles adjusting their noseclips as they prepare to start their synchronised swimming routine...

The first Olympic Games for the Twitter and Facebook generation has produced some crazy stuff. Clues that this was a ‘modern’ Games came at the Opening Ceremony; teenage Olympians marching in the entry parade, their iPhones held aloft capturing video instead of/as well as soaking up the atmosphere of a lifetime.

I thought the Opening Ceremony, despite media criticisms, presented Great Britain to the world in a strong light. Above the spectacular Olympic Stadium remotely controlled cameras scuttled like big black beetles on a network of high wires to beam pictures of the visual feast from every conceivable angle. TV viewers had sumptuous views from inside, outside and above the stadium without having to stump up an eye-watering £2,100 pounds for the most expensive tickets in the house.

I’m watching the spectacle from Canada. There’s a bias in the TV coverage towards events favoured in Canada and The States and commercials appear every few minutes. I hear regular references to landmarks such as Bucking-HAM Palace. Those irritations aside, at least I have five Olympic TV channels, including three in hi-definition, plus plenty of unofficial streaming online so I have most events covered. Reports tell me the Brits are infuriated with some crass home commentary and insensitive interviewing. Another sign of the times is the stinking army of British Trolls unleashing verbal campaigns against British athletes on Twitter and in online comments threads everywhere. It seems Silver is regarded as abject failure. The prospect of a Canadian disrespecting a Canadian athlete seems unthinkable.

Call me an old traditionalist but Track and Field are where the true spirit of the Olympics lies. I’ll be watching the athletics with keen interest from this weekend onwards.

The Mad

• Gymnasts using little water pistols to spray the Uneven Bars (By the way, when did we stop calling them the Asymmetric Bars?)
• The trampolinists whistling shrilly with each breath. (Is it just me or did her hips look a bit soggy?)
• Swimmers wearing TWO caps, one on top of the other. (Never venture out without your undercap!)

The Bad

• Badminton players expelled for trying to lose.
• Athletes naively posting scans of their Olympic security passes online.
• Olympic officials who allegedly charged a barely credible £19,000 to expenses for a single bottle of 1853 vintage Cognac.

The Sad

• The civilian cyclist tragically crushed under an Olympic shuttle bus on Thursday.

I can’t help but wonder what that mythical god and resident of Mount Olympus, Zeus would make of twenty-first century shenanigans: Olympians stabbing away at smart phones or wearing giant headphones as they saunter into the arena. Everywhere style vies with substance for supremacy and you can be forgiven for thinking competitors are awarded marks for fingernail flag painting, naval jewellery, sparkliest shoes and wackiest cycling helmet. Despite all the silly trappings of modernity, athletic cream will rise to the surface and I’m sure there will be some truly momentous performances.

the way we were

When you look in the mirror what do you see?

queen

In 1973, as an impressionable sixteen-year-old, I saw Mott the Hoople in concert at the Bournemouth Winter Gardens. Needless to say it was a riotous occasion with the band riding high on the successes of “All the Way From Memphis” and the Bowie-penned anthem “All the Young Dudes”. The supporting act that night was an obscure British band by the name of Queen.

Queen’s eponymous first album had failed to make a serious mark but the new single “Seven Seas of Rhye”, taken from their upcoming second album, was causing a stir. In those days bands didn’t headline a tour until they were fully established but after the second leg of the ‘73/’74 tour with Mott the Hoople in North America, Queen would never again play second fiddle.

In 1971 legend has it that Freddie Mercury sang with his back to the audience, such was his lack of confidence. Well, how things would change! By the time of Queen II Freddie had evolved into a dazzling showman, strutting and preening in a way no one before him had. His was a unique and towering stage presence who demanded attention. And the songs themselves did too, for Freddie was the band’s primary songwriter and a highly accomplished pianist.

I left the theatre that night a convert to the Queen cause. The next album “Sheer Heart Attack” marched further into pop territory while retaining Brian May’s metallic guitar riffs and set Queen on the launching pad for stardom. In 1975, just as the short-lived glam-rock era began to wane, and the dogs of punk were sniffing at the door, Queen released their magnum opus, the genre-bending “A Night at the Opera”. With nods to hard rock, music hall, progressive rock, shiny pop and rock opera, the disc was a showcase for Freddie’s lyrical and vocal prowess and Brian May’s scorching guitar.

Reputedly the most expensive record at the time ever to emerge from a recording studio, it propelled Queen into the stratosphere, became their best-selling album, and for many including the band themselves, it was their defining work. It produced the epic single Bohemian Rhapsody, which went on to become the third-best selling single in the history of the British pop charts (behind Elton John’s Candle in the Wind and Band Aid’s Do They Know it’s Christmas – both specific ‘period pieces’). Love it or hate it, many of us can still sing along to the poetic lyrics.

“Opera” set in motion a train of four albums that set Queen apart from all other artists of the time. Straddling the genres of arena rock, ballads, hard rock and vaudeville, they were without equal in terms of intellect, musicianship, stagecraft and public image. From 1974 until 1980 they could do no wrong and both the British and American music press were filled with stories of their wild excesses both on and off stage.

But at the end of the decade it was like a switch had been thrown and the eighties ushered in a new era. Guitars were out of favour, ice-cold synths ruled the scene. Queen maintained a dedicated following but their day was done. Several huge radio-friendly singles kept their name in view but by the time of Freddie’s untimely death in 1991 the band was a shadow of its former self.

Incredible how a style of music can surge and roar then reach a wild crescendo and ebb away as fast as it arrived. Fortunately we are left with several concert videos from the late seventies and early eighties so can relive Freddie Mercury’s powerful and melodic voice; see the way he held an audience of seventy-thousand in the palm of his hand and lose ourselves in the astonishing spectacle which was, simply Queen.