Running for Your Life: Don’t Stop

M, K and I were recently in Canada: a gem of a place, hidden in plain sight, little known in parts of Canada, much less in the land of O and Mitt (O-MITT this election; sounds like an Occupy slogan . . .)

By Chadsey’s Cairns on Loyalist Parkway, Prince Edward County, eastern Ontario, is a one-of-a-kind destination: of legend (ask about Ira!), wine and song, weekend smoker barbecues, summer dances in the hay barn. The winery run by my great friend Vida and the vineyard, the pride of her charming husband Richard, is one of my favorite places in the world. Bar none. Plan a visit. You won’t be sorry.

Midday last month (Aug. 24) K and I started a run along the parkway to our destination at North Beach, a strand along Lake Ontario. It was hot and humid, mid-80s, Boston Marathon 2012 weather. But doable; around nine kilometers to the beach turnoff.

We loped along, talking for awhile until K begged off, indicating she needed to conserve her breath. We ran in silence when we saw the sign, Chadsey’s 5 kilometres. Half-way there, we reckoned, this shouldn’t be too difficult. We saw Vida and M drive by. They would set up camp on the beach and we’d be joining them soon.

When we passed the 7 kilometre Chadsey’s road sign, K waved me on, said she wanted to go it alone. Fine, I said. And off I went.

Cyclists saluted me, as did SUV drivers who gave me a wide berth. They must see their share of cyclists and joggers, I thought, judging from their driving behavior.

Up ahead, I thought, must be the left-turn only lane to North Beach. But no. Just beating-down sun – and no shade. Bungalows and trailers at what must be the 9 kilometre mark, then a field of miniature horses roaming a meadow adjacent to a shallow lake and wetlands, the sign, Little Hooves and Big Hearts: one horse with a cascading mane of golden hair.

At intervals I scanned the road behind me but there was no sign of K. Finally, not far from Little Hooves, I saw the North Beach turn ahead. The beach, though, was not near as I falsely remembered. Instead it must be a mile or more away, judging from the patch of blue on the low-rise horizon.

Just off the parkway, I saw M in the rental car, stopping to see if I was okay, then showing worry about K. “Maybe drive out and ask,” I said. She did and I went on, finally reaching the beach, where, exhausted, I pulled up before my friend Vida.

K, though, won’t stop, M told me when she returned K-less. She is training for her first half-marathon in Catalina Island, California, where the buffalo roam.

But she has to be hurting under the sweltering sun. It was an hour since we started. But I know my girl and she's a fighter. She was going to gut it out.

I was the first in our party to see her. What must have been a half-hour after I arrived at the Lake Ontario shore. We greeted in our arms-to-the-sky way and after we embraced she explained how she had been up and down the beach three times and not seen us. (We’d gone to an adjoining lake.)

She didn’t know if maybe we’d gone to another beach because it was her first time at this one, which given her failure to find us was not an unreasonable thought.

“It was brutal out there, wasn’t it?” I said.

“Yes,” she said. “But I did it, didn’t I? I’m here!”

“That you are, girl. That you are.”

Next: Running for Your Life: Treadmill Notes