The downhills are almost as hard–too steep for joyful abandon.

Rain mists down in a constant frazzle, but after a while the moist layer is almost comforting.

It’s tougher than the marathon, some say. I say that’s stretching it.

But it is tough.

When can I sign up for next year?

Whatever mistakes we had to make, hearts we had to break, regrets we had to reconcile have already been folded into this abundant gorgeous life we have before us.

Our past is a seasoning; a series of delicious learnings. Some were bitter pills that have mellowed with the years and have contributed a rich texture of wisdom. Some are a pleasant taste flavouring today’s sweet moments.

So let us bundle up warm on a clear winter night, drive away from the city lights in your blue car, open the moon roof and let the universe unfold.

She’s a cheeky one and sometimes compassion must win out over truth.

That – or – I’m a coward. What if someone sees himself in one of my blog posts and gets angry with me? What if I am allowing my Muse to mischaracterize a situation? Her portraits are admittedly one-sided, but that’s their charm isn’t it: their honesty? I must ponder this some more before I hit the “publish” button. I will save it in my archives and publish when the innocent and the not-so-guileless are a bit further removed from the situation.

In the meantime – your comments are appreciated.

In the meantime – I need to run-now-when it’s “oh-dark-thirty” with my headlamp on and a safety light flashing, just me and the mist and the trees and streets, wishing I was faster but happy just to be out there with my running shoes on. All my best words come to my while running, when I can’t write them down.

I hadn’t planned on running any more races, but a) I’ve fallen for a marathon runner and b) I just love running.

My plan was to run the marathon, tick it off my List of Things to Do Before I Die, get my foot strengthened (I have arthritis in my left big toe joint from too many years of high heels) and start climbing again, while keeping up a moderate running routine.

My first couple of runs after the marathon were great. A little slow, but I felt wonderful. Then I got sick for a couple of days and after that my runs started to drag. Don – being an 18-time marathon runner and being tremendously excited to have finally met a gorgeous gal who not only runs but who knows what a globular cluster is (he was originally an astronomer) – kept asking me what my next marathon was going to be.

By the way – I am so excited to have finally met a tall handsome guy who not only runs (fast) but has actually studied globular clusters. He’s a good writer and a critical thinker who will never, ever suggest to me that I go to a chiro-quack or rub oregano oil on my feet to help a sore throat. (It smells good – but seriously – a sore throat? fuggedaboutit!)

Don running the Penticton Marathon in 2006, where he placed 5th.

He did absolutely crack me up though the first time he had dinner at our place: the table was set, food displayed and we were about to dig in. “So, who’s going to say grace?” he said. For a nanosecond I was taken aback. Did we not talk about our mutual paths to atheism? (Well, for me it was a path, he was raised without superstition.) Then we all burst out laughing.

Just before we ran the Bear Mountain 10K last weekend I decided: half marathons are my race for now. Actually I remember saying that at about the 30K mark of the Royal Victoria Marathon while in pain, but that didn’t really count. Bear Mountain was a real boost for me. Odd. considering how freakishly hard the race is.

By running Halfs I can (depending on start times) finish my 21.1K in about 2 hours and actually see Don as he finishes his 42.2K in about 3 hours. When he does Boston again in a couple of years I can be a wildly enthusiastic cheerleader along with the rest of the city.

So, I’ve decided my next marathon will be my Boston qualifier, when I’m 50, because that’s when the qualifying time gets to something I might actually achieve (4:05). The one after that will be – if all goes well – Boston.

So you can add “Run the Boston Marathon” to my List.

Out Outhouse by Rusty Boxcar

Especially if she has given birth to four babies (as have I), there comes a time in every woman runner’s life when either her period starts/gets unexpectedly heavy or she really has to go pee while running. At that point she has a choice to make:

1. Find a bathroom. Usually not a big deal in an urban setting. I have had no problems running sweaty into a coffee shop, hotel lobby, hospital, airport (in Regina SK), restaurant, church or – on one occasion – just went to a house and knocked on the door. The pit stop is also a good opportunity to refill water bottles on a long (2+ hour) run. It makes for good conversations: “How far you running?” “Oh – about 25 kilometres today,” “REALLY? That’s a long way…” (looks of incomprehension, respect, incredulity, etc.).
2. Bushes. I am a veteran find-a-tree kinda gal from years of camping, mountain climbing, hiking and trail running. Not so easy in an urban setting. This morning, well before dawn, I set out to write for an hour or so before running around Beacon Hill Park, then up and down the hill a couple of times and back home before getting ready for work. Problem is, my shift to an earlier routine had me drinking a cup of strong coffee at my computer before my run. Bad idea. I don’t usually drink caffeine before I run, I eat it in the form of Carb Boom gels. If I have to run later in the day when I’m well-hydrated I make at least three trips to the biffy before starting out.
   So this morning, two blocks away from home, realizing I just had to go – again – I turned back to my place to take care of business.
   Crap no keys. I’d have to phone or knock and wake up my daughter to get back in. Cruel thing to do to a teenager at 6:15 am. So third option …
3. Run anyway. This worked for me in the Vancouver Half Marathon this year, but I hadn’t had a cup, because my pre-race routine is sacrosanct and it does not include coffee. Years ago I ran a 10-mile race and came in last because of – er – “plumbing discomfort” – and afterwards one of the veteran runners said to me “Just let it go a little at a time during a race – no one really cares and all the best runners do it.”
   This morning I wasn’t racing, and pushing through didn’t work. I eyed the dark bushes around Beacon Hill Park and convinced myself I really did not want to disturb some homeless person sleeping, or have someone stumble upon me, squatting and vulnerable, in the deserted pre-dawn hours in a big nearly-empty park. So this morning I chose option 4:
4. Walk home, wake up daughter to be let in and be crabby for about an hour until hitting the [Reset] button for the day.

Oh well. They can’t all be good runs, and I will live to run Beacon Hill another day, well-hydrated and well-plumbed.

Letters from the Foxhole is a series of reminiscences, lessons learned, promises made and broken, embarrassments and heartbreaks endured, in flashes of insight so compelling they cannot not be ignored. They are missives from Tori’s past written by her muse.

Something you’ve got to know about Tori: she’s a woman with a loving heart, a healthy appetite for risk and a history of making choices based on gut feelings. Sometimes it’s a disaster. Most of the time it turns out all right. A lot of them are funny; she might not think so but we try to see the humour in them.

Although her marriage lasted almost ten years (together for 12), the first time they separated was after 2-and-a-half years. So do the math, she’s been single most of her adult life. That makes for a lot of great tales.

Her friends keep telling her to write down all her stories, but she’s been reluctant, until now. We’ll call them semi-auto-biographical. They are Truth, but who can have all the facts straight after years of mulling-over and fond memories and – yes – regrets and recriminations?

They’re named “Letters from the Foxhole” because Tori – although a smarty-pants overachiever in almost every other sense – has a history of abuse and abandonment in her family which has led to an almost constant battle with a legacy of emotional scarring. She’s really trying hard, but Tori has a strong innate sense of justice and falls in love fast and deep. Dynamite combination: if she feels exploited or ignored – watch out for the intensity of emotion that ensues.

But it’s not all fiery passion and drama. When it’s good it’s sublime and peaceful and she can remain friends, in fact some of her best friends are former lovers. Truth be told, we think Tori is looking for someone who can provide an even keel: a stable, calming influence while retaining a shared sense of play and wonderment. Someone strong enough not only to withstand her intensity but to revel in it without feeding it further. When she finds that person, she’ll have her life partner.

If you’re interested to know why Tori has given her muse the pen on this series, just take 20 minutes and watch Elizabeth Gilbert talk about creativity to a TED gathering.

She always hated being called a cougar – just because she had a couple of younger boyfriends doesn’t meanshe wanted to devour them, and she never, ever went to clubs to find them, take them home and discard them in the middle of the night, or at morning light.

Photo by Guppiecat

Or did she?

With Red it was about the watch.

He was 23. She was 35.

He bought a watch when they had no money and they were living in a basement suite in a mountain town.

He smoked pot almost daily. His hair was long and curly and red. And soft. He was – dare I say it – well endowed and well skilled. They were dynamite in bed. She still thinks of those times. Wistfully. Late at night. When she is alone. Once she thought she saw him on the street in Victoria this summer, soft hair spilling out from under a toque. Slight swagger. Bloodshot eyes.

(Never mind. It wasn’t Red after all.)

Back to the watch. He showed it off proudly when he got home. She was in the bath trying to soak off her work day. She worked 11 hours a day, 4 days a week. The 3 days off each week were nice, but she worked damn hard for them. To blow off steam she would come home at lunch and run the trails. When the snow came she would grab her x-country skis and go up to the groomed trails above town. She was soaking after a nice trail run, or ski, can’t remember which.

She wanted to hike and climb in the mountains. He wanted to ride mountain bike. She hadn’t found climbing partners by the time the snow came and he hadn’t made it out for a ride. He spent some time sitting in his cousins filthy little trailer, trying to convince him not to drink himself to death. But that’s a different story.

I thought we were going to discuss with each other before we spent more than 100 bucks, she said.

His face fell.

It’s my own money not our money, he said.

But you owe money to other people, she said, heart sinking into the bathwater lockstep behind his face. Somewhere she knew she was out of line but couldn’t help herself, she didn’t back down.

The next day he reluctantly took the watch back to the store.

A couple of months later before the kids came to town for a visit she broke up with him. He went to live in a rented house with a bunch of other young people.

He bought a watch.

—

Recently her lover sent a text message, saying he’d like to take her out for lunch but he had to go for a speed workout.

No problem, go run! she replied.

Wow, the last woman I dated insisted I miss some workouts, he said.

I wouldn’t want to be responsible for someone changing who they are, she said. When you date a marathon runner how can you not expect 100-mile weeks, sore quads and early nights?

She didn’t tell him – it’s not that I understand running. It’s because she’s finally beginning to understand all too well the fallen face, the immediate self-recrimination, the inevitable heartbreak of the carnivore.

Then I’m going to turn all that research into one fantastical blog-reading experience for y’all and many more people.

Don’t worry – I know what I’m doing. I didn’t spend two years in graduate school and almost 20 years in corporate communications for nothing.

• First rule of Spin Club: don’t talk about spin doctors.
• Second rule of Spin Club: don’t talk about spin doctors.
• Third Rule of Spin Club: Know Thine Audience.

Early pre-testing results indicate my new colours won’t include green, and I’ll keep dishing about the hilarity that is my life.

But that’s all I’ll say for now, you get to tell me the rest. Be honest, be sincere, be helpful. Here’s that link again: My SurveyMonkey.