Picture Postcard

For some months now, I wake up early. Sometimes even before the alarm has the chance to sound its insistent beep, in electronic mimicry of the birds chirping beyond the pale curtains, I reach over to silence it, pull on shorts and running shirt, stretch calves, hamstrings and lower back, swig down three glasses of water from a silver cup and venture out.

The moist silence slips on like cool velvet, and I blink in the vivid golden sunshine, the glistening grass, the surreal clarity of this late spring morning. Shivering, I walk down a woodchip path between stately chestnut trees, fumbling with iPod, keys, headphones, watching the seconds and minutes circle around and around until it's time; then I kick off lightly, shuffling along, anxiously assessing ankles, knees, the disconnect between a body beginning to move and awareness still reaching plaintively for the last trailing clouds of dream.

I run slowly, running through a checklist that will accompany me through the next two hours: are my arms hanging by my side, hands loose, fingers curled, thumb up, how is the tension in my shoulders, can I shake it out, how about the posture, am I running tall, straighten that lower back a bit, there you go, and are my feet under the hips, how long is the stride, shorten it, even more, lighten the footstrike, get that ankle motion going, heel touchdown, mobilize the foot fully, exaggerate the movement a bit, get the spring from the ball of the foot, tip tap, tip tap, there you go.

Moving along, watch the time, oh seven minutes already, I don't want to stop and walk, let's run just a bit more, just until that next tree or turn in the road, after the hill, there now I can pause, no, maybe let's jog along a bit more until the next water fountain, take a few sips, okay, now walk, admire the view.

And it really is worth admiring. In the last few weeks, I've been running through the leafy paths of Beacon Hill Park and along scenic Dallas Road, past the postcard panorama of the Olympic Mountains, rising gigantic and jagged from the Aegean blue of the Strait of Juan de Fuca, long-lost Spanish explorer whose influence still extends to a few Spanish names in this prim English colonial city, Victoria by the sea, where I run past mansions of every conceivable conceit, framed by topiary hedges and manicured lawns, lined along the city's most fabled promenades, Hollywood Crescent, Gonzales Bay, King George Terrace, Beach Drive.

The housing market might be crashing elsewhere, here the realtors' signs are merely staying a few weeks longer - Sotheby International advertising a once in a lifetime opportunity for merely $2.199 million. From the street side, the houses look like modest two story shacks; when you round the corner and see across the bay or inlet, they are gigantic, four floors or more, as if perched on invisible stilts.

This morning I ran a bit beyond Oak Bay marina and then regretfully turned back. Other joggers, runners, dog walkers, and elderly matrons out for their morning constitutional were already turning out, although it was too early for the golfers. Turning a corner, I regretted not having a camera - I would have liked to show you the perfect photograph of Victoria - the emerald greens of the golf course against the backdrop of a red-roofed white-washed lighthouse on a rocky outcrop in the blue strait, and beyond the snow-capped mountains.

Did I mention I'm training for a marathon? The Royal Victoria Marathon, in fact - October 12, 2008. In the next few months, I'll try to keep up this blog, to record the thoughts, insights and experiences that will arise as I run.