Running is widely regarded as the simplest form of exercise.
Want to get fit, quickly and easily? Just lace up your running shoes and go! There’s no need for fancy gear or equipment that you don’t already have. It can be done any time, anywhere, and by anyone (barring some sort of physical impediment). So what if your gym is closed all week for the Jewish holidays, or even a forklift can’t lift your gym partner off the couch? It’s just you and the open road. No more excuses.
But, as I learned the hard way this weekend, there’s a lot more to the art of running than you might expect - and it’s going to require serious commitment and mental faculty to make it work.
You may recall that I’d been taking some lessons in the Alexander Technique with local guru Dr. Gabriella Minnes Brandes. So when I learned that Gaby was bringing renowned running innovator and Alexander teacher Malcolm Balk from Montreal to deliver a series of workshops, I carved 4 hours out of my busy weekend (ha!) and patiently waited for Malcolm to turn me into a running artist.
Learn to run efficiently, effectively and enjoyably at one of Malcolm Balk’s ART OF RUNNING workshops!
‘Art of Running’ workshops are based on the proven principles of the Alexander Technique, which encourage good use of the body and greater awareness of the way it functions. Malcolm Balk is a Level 4 athletics coach, certified Pose Method instructor and a world expert on Alexander Technique and running. He shows how to achieve and maintain fitness without injury and overcome self-imposed limitations to successful running.
I have to admit, seeing this video of Malcolm running on ice in regular running shoes didn’t exactly make it a tough sell. And I figured the $100 fee wasn’t too steep if I considered how I’d be able to avoid all future ice skate rentals…
To be honest, I’ve always had a love-hate relationship with running. My dad was supposedly a runner in his younger years, though my mom never saw such a need to rush anywhere. And I’m no scientist, but I guess the powers of genetics managed to create a wholly mediocre hybrid. I recall participating in grade school track and field clubs, though I certainly can’t claim to have excelled. I favoured events like the 100 m “dash”, 4x100 m relay (can’t blame me, it’s a team effort!) and long jump - anything under 30 seconds, I suppose.
At that age, you’re encouraged to try basically everything. There were years when I, the least tall of all girls in my class, was selected for high jump training at a nearby school. (Maybe I was so bad they brought me just to catch up, or they just wanted to stop me from distracting our legitimate athletes during practices.)
In any case, I enjoyed the social aspects, mainly - “training” after class at the boys’ school and missing tests for track meets. As for those “long distance” fitness tests (where the runs should have taken less than 10 minutes) in high school - I’ve effectively erased all memories of when we may or may not have hid behind some bushes and pretended we ran 3 laps instead of 2.
I’ve never considered myself a runner. Sure, I ran a few Vancouver Sun Runs and posted decent times. I even ran at lunch hours during some of my university co-op work terms, either with my manager or with a fellow employee who moonlighted as a running coach. (Did I tell you about the first time we ran together? I later learned it was a 7.7 km loop around UBC, completed in under 35 minutes - no big feat for real runners, but for a short-legged poser I’ll take it! Anyway, mid-run and desperately out of breath, I told him I felt like I was going to die, and he ignored me completely and kept on his way. And it wasn’t exactly like I could just stop by myself, deep in the woods of the UBC forest, without any idea of where I was… I still had to report back to work, after all!) But I’ve never (intentionally) run more than 10 km at once, and certainly not with the same pretentious vigour of those virtuous marathon trainees around me.
Running simply failed to excite me. I didn’t seem to experience the same “runner’s high” that I thought I was supposed to feel. I got bored. Still, I went through the motions because it’s good for you and, let’s be honest, I’m kind of a sucker for those things. I was always far happier to be done the run than to have actually been running in the first place.
So when my knee started acting up (and I found myself facing an unrelated physical issue), I took that as my excuse to stop running. Fortunately, this “ailment” didn’t seem to affect some other, more interesting physical activities. Funny how that works out perfectly, eh?
When Malcolm first came to deliver the workshops in Vancouver last fall, we had the opportunity to meet, although my knee prevented me from participating. Malcolm, bless him, called me on my bullshit and said that I could indeed still run, despite my supposed knee problems. “Alright”, I replied incredulously, “I’ll come to your workshop next time!” - which is a particularly convenient line to use if you’re not sure exactly when “next time” is.
But “next time” turned out to be the past weekend. I still hadn’t been running for some time, though it wasn’t for a lack of effort (not entirely, anyway.) I had tried to run on the treadmill the previous week in Vegas, but my knee still hurt, so I was relegated to entertaining the spa’s trail mix dispenser for the remainder of our gym time.
Turns out the running motions I was so sternly attempting to execute were all wrong! How is it possible that running - something considered so natural, so innate, so instinctual - could be performed so poorly after all these years of evolution? Apparently, children running barefoot in the yard are fairly good examples of how we old folks should do it, how we used to do it, before we overcomplicated things, learned and then reinforced bad habits.
We spent much of the afternoon session outside in the gorgeous Vancouver sunshine. And while I can’t explain the concepts nearly as thoroughly (or in such an amusing manner) as Malcolm, I did pick up a few good points. That “heel-toe” business? Now why would you want your momentum working against you, forcing you in the opposite direction as you try to propel yourself forward? Putting on the brakes, literally, is a waste of energy. Same goes for those long, grandiose strides (lean and leggy runners be damned!) and bopping up and down any more than a few inches.
Of course, Malcolm shared many more juicy tidbits, but I’ll have to leave some of those for him to explain.
(from theartofrunning.com)
Malcolm recorded a video of our running form “before” and “after” his workshop. The whole group then watched as Malcolm ripped our form to shreds, albeit in his complimentary but constructive sort of way. And although there were almost a dozen participants at my session, not once did I feel like I didn’t get enough individual attention. In fact, the group setting gave us the opportunity to learn from others and ample time to work through each of the exercises. We even did some short hill runs, which - and I swear it’s true - did not even feel like hills.
I managed to squeeze a few extra tips out of Malcolm regarding my bum knee, which shouldn’t be a problem after some basic exercises and adjustments to my running form.
And, perhaps most importantly, I left the workshop surprisingly motivated to take up running again.
If you’re at all interested in running, I’d highly recommend attending Malcolm’s next workshop, likely in Fall 2010. But until then, you can get a head start by picking up his book, Master The Art of Running: Raising Your Performance with the Alexander Technique. It’s no substitute for time with Malcolm in the flesh, but it may save you some jabs at your running form when he critiques your videos.
This past weekend, I had the privilege of entering a not-so-exclusive club; not a casino players’ club (Lord knows I cannot gamble!), or a strip club, or even the requisite Vegas night club - but rather the club of People Who Have Been The Object of Pete Rose’s Snarky Remarks.
Yes, it’s true!
On a recent expedition through the Forum Shops at Caesars Palace, we saw a little sign that infamous slugger Rose would be doing a meet and greet at a sports memorabilia store, Field of Dreams, at noon.
(For those of you who aren’t familiar with Pete Rose, the Coles Notes version of his story is 1) he is one of the most decorated former Major League Baseball players and managers, with the most hits, among many other titles, 2) he will never be in the Hall of Fame because he bet on baseball games, including - allegedly - ones in which he was playing and managing, 3) he is notorious for having a fiery temper, to put it mildly.)
Now I can’t claim to be a baseball fan - I’m not exactly thrilled that the season is starting its annual robbery of precious broadcast time from interesting sports programming. But, having some knowledge of the “star” (if you can really call unrecognizable divas who do autograph signings in shopping malls “stars”), I was curious. And since it was 11:59 am as we were walking by the store, we decided to pop in for kicks.
And there he was! Sporting a baseball cap (naturally) and a t-shirt in a suitably washed-out shade of yellow, Rose was just getting settled into his seat behind a small desk at the front of the store. Meanwhile, management was busy setting up a rope to keep rabid fans away from Rose - an unnecessary precaution since we were practically the only people in the store, or the only ones who sort of seemed to care, anyway. A handful of customers were walking around other areas, oblivious or apathetic (likely the latter).
So we thought we’d try to quickly snap a photo with the former athlete, before the crush of admirers arrived. With nothing to lose, except perhaps our dignity, we walked right up to him and asked if we could get a picture. (I didn’t anticipate needing my camera on a shopping trip, so I figured we could make do with a cell phone.)
Rose’s handlers very kindly agreed, instructing us to simply pull the rope aside and stand in front of the desk - not behind with Rose. That privilege was reserved for paying customers, and I had no plans to burn my precious shopping dollars on baseball memorabilia. So I prepped the Blackberry, snapped a quick pic, and promptly checked that it turned out reasonably well for a phone camera.
Unfortunately, I managed to cut off the subjects’ heads (but only slightly!), so I asked to take another, in my usual, overly-polite manner. Since I rarely take photos on a phone, I didn’t immediately realize that I had to reset the camera function manually, so it took all of two seconds to get ready for the next snapshot… two seconds, filled with my sincere apologies and forced admiration, of course.
Well, those two seconds were clearly too long for Rose; he needed to attend to the long line of imaginary customers willing to help him recoup his large gambling debts.
Rose snapped, “JESUS! Come on, lady! It’s not that hard!” (That’s what she said!)
So here it is, the photo that earned me a talking-to from legendary crook, Pete Rose!
Thank you, Pete Rose, for my new claim to fame and countless hours of entertainment. I look forward to retelling this story for as long as you remain in the sporting world’s doghouse.
THIS POST CONTAINS MATURE SUBJECT MATTER. READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED.
Who says the Olympics are all fun and games? The party’s gotta end some time, and perhaps not soon enough for the young, bushy-haired hooligans wreaking havoc on our beautiful city.
Looks can be deceiving.
The merciless civilian justice system handed down the sentence of decapitation to the cake form of Vancouver 2010 Olympic Winter Games mascot, Quatchi.
The tasteless crime?
Public deliciousness. (No appeals were heard - because who could argue?)
Miga, Sumi, and Mukmuk - Quatchi’s closest friends - chose not to attend the event, likely for fear of the same fate.
In a eulogy delivered on the Vancouver 2010 website, Quatchi was portrayed as an adventurous, fun-loving creature who would never have the opportunity to realize his dreams.
Quatchi is a young sasquatch who comes from the mysterious forests of Canada. Quatchi is shy, but loves to explore new places and meet new friends.
The sasquatch is a popular figure in local native legends of the Pacific West Coast. The sasquatch reminds us of the mystery and wonder that exist in the natural world, igniting our imagination about the possibility of undiscovered creatures in the great Canadian wilderness.
Although Quatchi loves all winter sports, he’s especially fond of hockey. He dreams of becoming a world-famous goalie. Because of his large size, he can be a little clumsy. But no one can question his passion. He knows that if he works hard and always does his best, he might one day achieve his dream. Quatchi is always encouraging his friends to join him on journeys across Canada. He is also often recruiting others to play hockey – or at least to take shots at him!
Oh, another life cut short by gluttony…
If deliciousness is wrong, I don't want to be right!
RIP Quatchi. It was nice eating - I mean, meeting - you.
NOTE: Not that anyone was wondering, but no - I cannot take credit for this fabulous creation. (Unfortunately for us all, this is not the latent super talent I’ve been waiting for.) Cake hobbyist extraordinaire / master photographer Alyssa Fahlman is responsible for this Quatchi (cake and pics!), and though she doesn’t yet have her own TLC show, I don’t expect it will be long before she does - if she wants it.
Unless you’ve been living in an igloo somewhere far, far away from Cypress Mountain, you’d have noticed by now how insanely, uncharacteristically, fantastically festive the city of Vancouver has been over the last 13 days of the 2010 Olympic Winter Games.
I dare you to try walking down Robson Street at any hour of the day without feeling like the lone west coast salmon swimming upstream. Vancouver is known for its seafood, after all.
Some revellers might even describe the international sporting shindig as a zoo. And perhaps they’d be right, judging by the photograph below. We snapped this one last Thursday outside the Richmond O Zone after a rockin’ set of classic 90’s hits by Canadian band Our Lady Peace.
Why a zoo? Because animals don’t wear mom jeans, silly!
Obviously.
So whatever animal came to the party in the wrong outfit quickly learned the error of his ways and found redemption in the form of indecent exposure. Isn’t it amazing what a little Heineken can do?
Now, watch as I cleverly sidestep the obvious pants-on-the-ground joke…
At what age can one no longer qualify to be a child prodigy?
Because I’m still waiting anxiously for my special talent to reveal itself - everyone’s supposed to have something, right? - and being a child prodigy is much, much more fascinating than being a ho-hum, regular prodigy.
I just hope I’m not running out of time.
Fortunately for this 4-year-old boy from China, he won’t have to grow up with the same, debilitating sense of anticipation. He already knows what his calling is. (He’s likely also a math whiz and concert pianist, so his curse will be choosing which one to pursue!)
Check out his recent performance on The Ellen Degeneres Show.
And, of course, here’s the video that started it all.
I hope never to meet him at the annual family Christmas party dance off.
Never in a million years did I expect to have so many parts to this post… but again, a professional athlete has managed to seem incompetent.
In his defense, I must admit that I have likely engaged in the same activity, though perhaps not to the same outcome - although, as you’ll soon learn, perhaps a different incident of mine was worse. (At least I was 12 years old.)
But first, the story of Derrick Rose: the rookie Chicago Bull (that’s basketball, people - but you knew that because of Jordan) required 10 stitches to his left arm after he accidentally slice himself in addition to the apple he was attempting to eat… in bed.
I eat in bed. And I often eat apples. Which I like to slice first… and top with cinnamon. So I have probably done this.
Maybe professional sports teams should begin putting additional clauses in contracts. Not only should riding a motorcycle or jumping out of a plane be banned, but also shooting oneself with a gun, ironing one’s shirt while it is still on one’s chest, and slicing apples in bed.
But I could only point and laugh for so long, though, since I have an embarrassingly similar story. Except that I was 12 years old. And it hasn’t affected my professional career.
WARNING: The following is not for the faint of heart. Reader discretion is advised.
It was a crisp October day, and the Grade 7 students at my elementary school were carving pumpkins with their Grade 2 buddies. It’s always fun until someone gets hurt… Leave it to me to ruin the party!
Fed up with the dinky orange plastic carving “knife” - turns out I’ve always been impatient! - I kindly asked my teacher for a better knife. So she gave me the steak knife she uses for lunch.
Neither of us thought twice about the apparent dangers.
You know when you’re carving pumpkins, and your hands are full of pumpkin slime - you probably shouldn’t use a real knife. But still, I clutched the large knife in my fist, and when I attempted to slice the pumpkin…
… my hand moved down. The knife didn’t.
The result: a bloody hand. You could see the pink flesh hanging out. I cried, the other kids cried - and then the school officials let me bleed while they called my mother to pick me up. They were happy to let her attend to my critical issue as she saw fit.
How in the world did they get away with not calling the ambulance immediately to transport me to the hospital?! Could they not see the flesh hanging out?? The hand does not normally look like this!!
Luckily for me - seriously - my Mom just so happened to have the day off, so she could come immediately. Usually she works a good hour away from the school… that would have been a problem, don’t you think? But the teachers didn’t think, apparently.
I left the hospital later that day with several blue stitches, as well as consolation from the doctor that I was about a whole millimetre away from cutting my tendon and being unable to do much at all with my right thumb.
So count your blessings - opposable thumbs are useful. And think twice before cutting pumpkins with a steak knife, particularly in the presence of children.
And maybe slice apples at the counter before crawling into bed…? Or at least come up with a better story.
I honestly didn’t think I would have to continue this post… but Joe Sakic’s recent escapades just may have trumped them all.
You see, “Burnaby Joe” Sakic, Captain of the NHL’s Colorado Avalanche, was already sidelined for six weeks due to a herniated disk when his injured status took a turn for the worst. On Tuesday, Sakic broke three fingers and severely damaged a tendon. If you aren’t already familiar with this story, I’d bet you wouldn’t be able to guess exactly how this came about.
Apparently, during a routine clearing of the white stuff off his property, Sakic’s snow blower became jammed; so, naturally, he stuck his hand into the apparatus - while it was still running.
Can’t Sakic afford to pay someone to do this - especially when he has a back injury that is keeping him from doing this job? It’s hard to know how to react to such a situation, except with sympathy and a blog.
Even the team’s Senior VP of Communications and Business Operations had little to add to the situation, instead opting to state the obvious: “He put his hand where he shouldn’t have.” Duh…
Luckily, immediate surgery was able to repair the damage to his hand. Unfortunately, it may take more than three months to repair the damage to his reputation - as an intellectually competent human being.
I hope it’s not too soon to make light of this situation. Let me say that I am honestly glad he is expected to make a full recovery. No one should have to suffer from a freak accident like this. We all make mistakes. (Stay posted for Part III featuring my own stupidity.)
Plus, TDH and I have tickets to two of the Canucks games vs. the Avs towards the end of the season - shortly after Sakic is expected to return!
I know this is old news now, but it had to be shared.
You’ve undoubtedly heard about the latest shenanigans starring NY Giants (American football, people!) wide receiver, Plaxico Burress - and yes, that’s his name. No stranger to trouble, both on-field and off, Burress was driven to hospital by a teammate after he was shot in the leg.
When he arrived, he had assumed the alias of Harris Smith and claimed to have been shot in an Applebee’s.
How clever! He definitely deserves kudos for his creativity in a time of obvious distress… but I guess he failed to realize that, being a Super Bowl hero and all, someone just might recognize him. He’s a major talent on the field, but he’s probably been tackled a few too many times.
In fact, Burress had been living it up at a Manhattan nightclub when he accidentally shot himself - with an unregistered gun. He now faces charges for illegal weapons possession, for which he could receive a jail sentence of 3.5 to 15 years if convicted.
Worse, perhaps, is the $200,000+ in salary he’ll forfeit - per game - as a result of being suspended for the four regular season games remaining. But then again, money hasn’t stopped him from engaging in suspension-worthy activities before…
The moral of the story is… this might not be the stupidest feat performed by an athlete!
Now, I haven’t been able to find a credible source for this story, but I heard when watching the highlights that someone once suffered severe burns to his chest by ironing his shirt while he was still wearing it.
I don’t know if they were joking, but someone deserves an award for this - either the newscaster for dreaming up a disastrously wonderful situation, or the iron-er himself.
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