Struggling

Roses are earlier than usual on my new sunny balcony!

I haven’t written in this blog for over three months. I could give platitudes, like “I’ve been so busy with work,” or “it’s another episode of writer’s block.” Both of these are true, but they are often true, and I’ve managed to write in this blog for over 12 years now.

I understand the “writer’s block” part of it. It’s not really a block. It’s a reluctance to write about negative things when I know many of the people who read this blog think of me as a successful athlete, and I feel the pressure to be a role model with a positive attitude at all times.

Yet for the past few months I’ve been struggling. What are the real causes of my silence?

I’ve been grappling with whether I can write about the topics many older people become obsessed with—topics that can be dark and frightening. In writing about them, I’m exposing my own fears and vulnerability.

Moveover, our society promotes, relentlessly, the idea of “focusing on the positive.” And although I agree with this philosophy in general, and try to apply it to my own thinking and actions, there are many times I can’t be positive.

This was especially true in the past few months, when I realized I’ve joined a new club, a club that until now I couldn’t even imagine being a part of. I’m an Older Person, soon to be a legal Senior Citizen. People say age is just a number, but that’s not true. Becoming older has real mental and physical consequences. What are some examples of what this means for me?

• I’m taking 4 prescription drugs every day.
• Running or jogging at any speed counts as a “hard” workout.
• I recently had to wear a “Holter” monitor (electodes, wires, and a little box attached to my chest) for 24 hours to find out more about my heart problems.
• I scheduled 3 different medical appointments in one day.
• My parents are gone.

Part of the reason I’m writing this post now is because I’m resilient. Maybe I had to go through this transition period when I was adapting internally to all these changes. Also, I realize that the grief and stress of the past two years isn’t something that a person gets over instantly. In 2022, I made many trips to Toronto to visit my father while he was wasting away from kidney disease. Last year, my cat Tux died from the feline form of the same disease. I no longer have a home in Toronto, but I now own a beautiful apartment in Port Moody.

I recognize my resilence because while I was writing some “symptoms” of my aging in the list above, the fighter in me was thinking of a counter-list. This is a list of positive activities that I’m currently engaged in as I try to “gracefully” evolve into an older person who is productive, wise, joyful, and grateful.

• I joined a masters’ running club last summer, the Greyhounds, and started training and racing (a bit) on the track.
• I’ve done some challenging editing projects in the past few years, and have no intention of retiring. I attend conferences, meetings, and webinars to learn more about editing skills and the changing role of the editing profession in the age of AI and technology tools.
• I bought my own condo last fall (in the same building where I had been renting for 11 years). I love my sunny corner apartment, and it brings me feelings of security and freedom.
• I’m planning to travel to Japan in November to visit my son’s family, including my grandson, who will be almost one year old.

Insomnia

My biggest struggle is with insomnia, my lifelong enemy. There is a long story about how it started, which I have written about before. There is no physical cause for it, and I practise good sleep hygiene and follow all the other sleeping tips available in books and online. But anxiety is powerful, and the mind is capable of astonishing feats of negativity that can lurk beneath an outward display of positivity.

The heart of my struggle is a lack of energy that saps my productivity enormously, and, at times, causes depression, despair, and a lack of belief in myself. I believe this is due more to insomnia than getting older, though the latter is a contributing factor. My insomnia has been particularly bad in the past few months, even though it should have improved after my life became more stable last year.

What I am facing is not insomnia caused by physical problems or high-pressure, anxiety-provoking circumstances. I’m trying to overcome over 40 years of anxiety about the sleeplessness itself, and the addiction to the sleeping pills that I rely on too often to sleep. Lately, I’ve become disgusted by the side-effects of the drugs: they often leave me feeling lethargic and slightly nauseated the following day.

A few times in the past I’ve tried to get professional help with my insomnia, but other than gaining a better understanding of how anxiety contributes to it biochemically, nothing changed. This year, I’m especially motivated to find help with my insomnia because I want to go to Japan in November to visit my son, his wife, and my grandson. Travelling always exacerbates my insomnia. How will I sleep when I get to Japan, so I can enjoy my visit?

In February I decided to try an online sleep app called “Stellar Sleep.” I’ve been following it faithfully for three months. The short story is that it hasn’t helped me at all, other than to make me document exactly how badly I’m sleeping. I could write a whole article about this program’s failings. Like much of AI and online content, its information and other content (relaxation music, guided meditations, etc.) is abbreviated, superficial, and impersonal. I learned nothing I didn’t already know about sleep. When I’m having a sleepless night, Stellar Sleep doesn’t help me. What is far more valuable is being able to talk to my partner Keith, who comforts me, or even realizing from Facebook posts that some of my friends have struggled mightily with insomnia too.

I’m not sure if this is the right attitude to take, but sometimes I think that one of the features of getting older is becoming resigned to some things. Insomnia is a problem that can’t be solved by strong willpower, discipline, or desire. It’s ironic: sleep so often comes when I’ve resigned myself to having a sleepless night.

I have some tough days after nearly sleepless nights. Yet, over the years, I’ve learned that the night hours are the worst. I’ve mastered coping mechanisms for getting through sleep-deprived days. A lot of it is simply acceptance that I can’t always be at my best. Morning coffee almost works a miracle, and I can be productive in the morning no matter what. I know there will be an afternoon “dead” period, when I feel exhaustion and a sense of hopelessness. I know, too, that I will pull out of it.

It takes only one night of sleeping for a solid six hours for me to feel good again. I marvel at the resilience of my spirit. Once again I am able to think positively again about what I can accomplish and enjoy, both today and in the future.

***

We all struggle

Sometimes I feel overwhelmed by my insomnia problem, but I always try to put it in context. In our productive, social-media-happy culture, we often don’t see that others are struggling, too. And I know that many people in my age group are facing serious health problems and/or pain, or trying to cope with their aged parents’ complicated medical situations.

Remembering this, let’s be kind to each other—and to ourselves. The Bible (King James version) says: “For his anger endureth but a moment; in his favour is life: weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning” (Psalm 30:5). That is so often true for me! And I still feel that every new day offers infinite possibilities.

A Port Moody summer sunrise as seen from Rocky Point Park

New Year’s 2024: My Life in Decades

New Year’s Day morning at Rocky Point Park near my home.

Preamble: Reflections on becoming a “senior”

At the start of a new year many people like to reflect on their achievements or significant events of the past year. This year, I had the urge to write a sweeping summary of my life, picking the highlights of each decade. Why this urge? Well, I think it’s just the need we have as humans to create stories. And each of us is most aware of our own story. We want it to make sense. Maybe we hope to find a trajectory of progress, whether we measure that progress in terms of achievements, rewarding relationships, increased knowledge and wisdom, spiritual growth—or all of the above.

Maybe it seems to be the right time to summarize my life story because I’ve felt a sharpened awareness of my age this year. I sense that I’m becoming an older person. Not old as in being someone who is retired from work, or isolated, or constrained by dire illness or disability. Yet accepting that I’m becoming more frail, more limited in what I can do physically.

The overall decrease in energy applies to mental work, too. It takes effort to keep learning. I’m often overwhelmed by the rapidity of technical and cultural change. I recognize an “old person” response in myself when I refuse to adopt many new technologies. At the same time, I recognize that it’s essential to be open. I can’t keep up with everything but I can try to discern which technologies could be essential or beneficial for my editing work or personal life.

As older people, I believe we can contribute to judging the usefulness and implications of many new technologies. Unlike young people, we have the insights given by experience and a broad perspective.

Note: This is a long post, so if you just want to read my 2023 recap, skip to it here.

My Life in Decades

First decade (0–10): Childhood

My childhood was mostly happy and typically middle-class for the 1960s. Most of the time home was a stable and loving place. My father was a businessman; my mother was a homemaker (though she was too smart for this and I’m sure she was unhappy and bored at times). I have two younger brothers; all three of us are close in age. I was an A-student at school and took piano lessons for many years. My brothers and I loved our family holidays each summer at a rented cottage where we socialized with another family with kids our age. We played outside a lot. I rode my bike around the neighbourhood but didn’t participate in any sports.

Second decade (11–20): Late childhood and adolescence

I went through the typical mental and physical angst of puberty. I had hopeless crushes on guys, and then several boyfriends in high school, some of them “serious”. . . falling in love and heartbreak. I continued to excel at school. Junior high school highlights were being in the annual school play and playing the viola in the school orchestra and a small chamber music group.

The most significant thing to happen to me in high school was becoming a runner. I was encouraged by a gym teacher to join the cross-country running team. The coach, George Gluppe, had been a world-class sprinter, and he recognized my talent. Running changed my life. I started training hard and by age 18 was competing nationally and internationally in cross-country and track. I made two big decisions: to stay in Canada for university, where I could continue to be coached by George, rather than accepting a US athletic scholarship; and choosing to major in biology rather than English despite my love of reading and writing.

Third decade (21–30): Young adulthood: academic achievements, running competition, marriage, and travel

My university years were challenging, with hard courses and labs. At the same time I had to fit in exhausting workouts. I went through two years with a serious knee injury, but I did cross-training and ran for Canada at the World Cross-Country Championships in 1980, 1982, and 1983 despite limited training.

I lived in residence at York University for three years—my first time away from home. My roommate, Wanda, became my closest friend. My 1983 road-racing breakthrough in the Cleveland 10K launched my US road-racing career. I ran my first (and only) marathon at the end of my 1983 season, with a disappointing but predictable result—I was exhausted after months of track and road racing.

I did an extra year at university to finish lab work for my Honours thesis and graduated in 1983. I won a scholarship for graduate work in biology but decided to turn it down and focus on training for the 1984 Olympics while working as a lab technician part-time. I injured my second knee seriously just before the Olympic marathon trials in the spring of 1984. This was a traumatic time for me. I couldn’t run at all, and my disappointment about missing a chance to make the Olympic team probably contributed to my developing irritable bowel syndrome, which gave me such debilitating symptoms I had to quit my lab job.

The happy part of 1984 was meeting Paul. We fell in love quickly, and got married in the summer of 1986. For a few years, while Paul was completing his PhD at the Von Karman Institute north of Brussels, I alternated between two-month stints of living in Toronto and Brussels. Paul and I did great workouts in the forest right outside the Institute.

My fitness from the hard training with Paul paid off: I had a stellar racing season on the US road-racing circuit in 1987. I also competed in the World Athletics Championships in Rome. But in November I injured my heels badly, right after winning a silver medal in the 15K Road Race Championship for Women in Monaco. I still made the 1988 Olympic team and placed 13th in the 10,000m final, though my training was limited in 1988 because my heels remained inflamed. I spent 1989 recovering from my injuries, and doing lots of cycling.

Fourth decade (31–40): Becoming a parent

Becoming a mother was completely life-changing. My son Abebe was the main focus of my life for many years. I was also coping with health challenges that meant I could never again be the runner I had once been. I had blockages in both my left and right iliac arteries: bypass surgery was done on the left in 1993 and the right in 1998. I also had surgery for my long-standing heel injury in 1997. Finally, at age 39, I was able to train and race hard again.

I worked part-time during these years, becoming a member of The Esteem Team speakers’ bureau and giving motivational talks to elementary school students. Next, I started working as a private tutor for ESL students.

Fifth decade 41–50: Masters competitive running, marriage breakdown, and big midlife changes

I enjoyed much success as a Masters runner, competing locally in BC and travelling occasionally to big US road races. I was also a member of Canadian Ekiden teams competing in Japan three times when I was in my early 40s! Running trips, though brief, provided a good break from my domestic responsibilities. I set several Canadian age-group records on both road and track (though these were all eclipsed a few years later by outstanding masters runners Leah Pells, Lucy Smith, and Marilyn Arsenault).

Meanwhile, my marriage was breaking down. The last two years of this decade were filled with changes: I started a writing and editing diploma course at Douglas College; my son finished high school and left for Japan; and I decided that my marriage was over. Exploring dating sites and experiencing new relationships led me to discover that it wasn’t too late to feel passion again. At the end of this decade, I tore my right ACL while doing a new exercise at the gym, a freak accident that definitively ended my competitive running career.

Sixth decade (51–60): A new relationship, becoming an editor, adjusting to physical limitations, and losing loved ones

This was a decade of exciting, healthy beginnings but also adjustment to losses. My relationship with Keith has given me much happiness and comfort during many difficult times. Keith helped me through two huge losses: my coach George passed away in 2012, and my mother, in declining health for many years, passed away in 2017.

I moved into an apartment and started living alone for the first time in my life, with Keith a regular visitor. I started my editing business and loved the variety of clients and projects I became involved with. I chose to supplement my income and my social life by also working part-time at the Running Room. I joined a local Toastmasters club, making new friends and doing volunteer work for my club.

I started my “Running, Writing, and Relationships” blog, which gained a good following after I began a year-long project of writing about my year of training leading up to the 1988 Olympics and my 10,000m race in Seoul, Korea. I have maintained my blog for over 12 years now, writing about not only running and fitness but also about writing, books, and personal topics.

I had two knee surgeries (2010, 2011), after which my surgeon told me I could never run again. However, I have been able to get away with two short running workouts a week, and I’ve continued to enjoy bike rides, gym workouts, and swimming.

Seventh decade (so far, 61–64): Losses and limitations, a big editing project, and pretending to be a sprinter

The first years of this new decade have felt a lot like my mid-life crisis—another period of momentous, multiple changes. In just over a year, I’ve lost my father and the second of my two cats, Tux. During the same period of time, I bought a condo in the building where I had been renting an apartment, and moved up five floors. I finished my biggest editing project ever. I was part of a team that published an open access nursing textbook. I was both a copy editor and a project manager for a book that included three main editors, 32 additional authors, and library/technical staff at the University of Victoria. This year was capped off by the birth of my first grandchild on December 20!

My grandson Johji!

In the past few years, running has become increasingly difficult, not only because of my arthritic knee but also because of circulatory problems and other age-related factors. It’s been hard for me to admit to myself that even slow 6K runs are now challenging. In addition, I’ve completely lost the desire to compete in road races. This shocks me. When I first recovered (partially) from my knee surgeries, in 2011, I found it hard to accept that my racing had to be limited to the occasional 5K. I was eager to race a few times a year. Now, I’m no longer motivated to feel the pain of a 5K. I know that even if I made a huge effort, my reward would be a disappointing “jogger’s time.”

Last summer, I joined a running club again, the Greyhounds Masters Track & Field club. Most of their members are sprinters. Training with them, I’ve been able to enjoy running again and rekindle my competitive spirit. Since I’m running mainly sprints I feel like I’m running fast again! I raced an 800m and a 1,500m this summer without caring about the mediocrity of my performances. I’ve accepted that running is now about sharing camaraderie and giving myself kudos for my efforts, even if my results are barely respectable on the age-graded tables.

Some of the Greyhounds! Running photos by Keith Dunn.

Running in perfect synchrony

Becoming older, I’ve decided, is about trying to achieve a kind of synchrony and harmony like you see in the photo above. I know there will be more adjustments ahead, but I want my story to continue to be about learning, striving, welcoming unexpected twists, and being grateful for the people I love.

Early morning photo

I felt elated when the sun rose and flooded through my southeast windows at about 8:00 a.m. The long hours of wakeful darkness were banished, just like that.

The wall above my fireplace lit up and I took this photo.

It captures so much. In the centre is a painting by my brother Mike. Early in his semi-retirement, he became an artist for a few years. His painting improved rapidly and he experimented with different materials and techniques. For a while he even had a rented studio next to the bike path along the Burlington waterfront. After he had finished many paintings (and sold several), he let me choose whatever painting I wanted as a birthday gift. I chose Autumn Riot—because I thrive on bright colours and light. And that is what I have in my new apartment, too.

Autumn riot from my balcony.

Autumn Riot is flanked by two iconic mementoes of my running past. On the right is a photo given to me by Don Stewart, one of the coaches in our York University Track Club in the 1970s. It shows me close to the finish line of the OFSAA Senior Girls’ Cross-Country Championships, No one else is within view. A lot of girls had fallen in the mud of the treacherous Mattawa course. It was 1977 and I was 18. It is hard to fathom that 46 years have passed since then.

To the left of the painting is a grandiose trophy I won at the Revco-Cleveland 10K in 1983. That was a breakthrough race that launched my American road-racing career. I lowered my PB for 10K (still hadn’t run many of them) by over a minute to win in 32:18, a pretty good time in those days. (A couple of months later I proved I could do it on the track, too, running 32:37 on an oppressively hot evening at Ottawa’s Mooney’s Bay stadium.)

Wrinkles aside, I don’t look much different from the girl in that 1977 photo. But as happens to everyone, those 46 years have taken their physical, mental, and emotional toll. The body that looks outwardly much the same has gone through five running-related surgeries, two arterial bypass operations, one birth, and the cumulative deterioration of age. Arteries are narrowed, and muscles are mysteriously weak. Is that why there is no such thing as an easy 5K run anymore? Hampered by an arthritic knee, I run with the shorter stride and limp of an older woman. I struggle through my Pilates exercises once or twice a week to try to maintain any semblance of suppleness.

What has not changed is the sense of exhilaration I feel when morning arrives. Morning brings energy and hope. It’s always a new beginning.

The morning view when I wrote this piece.

My love for forest trails has never changed, nor has my appreciation of the changing seasons. Whenever I smell mud and dead leaves and the other aromas left by rain, I remember my first months of cross-country training and racing with the George S. Henry team. I remember the lung-searing, muscle-burning hill workouts, and the wonderful sense of relaxation that came afterwards. Sometimes I can’t help but feel a sharp sadness that I’ll never do those cross-country workouts and races again.

Some of my George S. Henry teammates in 1976 (?). The midget boys’ team are wearing their medals after a meet.

My east view brings the inspiration of morning.

Rookie of the Year Award

I’ve just won a “Rookie of the Year” award from the Greyhounds Masters Track and Field Club, the running club I joined in July.

I also received a Canadian Masters bronze medal (belatedly) for my performance in the W60-64 800m at the Canadian Masters Championships on August 13.

The irony of these two achievements doesn’t escape me. Imagine me, veteran of hundreds if not thousands of races on the track, roads, and cross-country trails, being called a rookie. But it just means I’m a rookie Greyhound.

In a sense, I am a rookie. Last summer I made a new beginning after not racing on the track for 15 years. It’s a beginning in which I have to work within the constraints of serious physical limitations. My arthritic knee prevents me from running more than twice a week. Even then, I experience flare-ups and sometimes have to stop running entirely for a week or two. In the past few years, my legs have become much weaker than they used to be. This has a dramatic effect on my ability to run or cycle uphill. I don’t think it’s simply to do with age; medical imaging shows serious buildup of plaque on my leg arteries.

I was surprised to get the bronze medal, because I placed 4th in that 800m race. I must have been beaten by a non-Canadian. What really surprised me, though, was my own reaction when the Greyhounds president handed me the medal at the banquet. I was delighted! I never dreamed of winning a Canadian medal ever again.

This has happened when I’m still in the process of unpacking boxes after moving from one apartment to another in the same condo building. I’m an owner now instead of a renter! I love my new apartment with its large windows on two sides that give me tons of sunshine and panoramic views all the way from the northeast, to the south, to the west. But this unit didn’t come with a storage locker. Many of the boxes that are now a burden to me are filled with silver cups, plates, plaques, and other trophies. I also have several shoeboxes stuffed with medals—hundreds of them!—including many Canadian gold, silver, and bronze medals.

The view west from my new apartment.

So why was I excited by this one additional medal? I have to shake my head at the mediocrity of the performance that earned it. 3:02 for 800m. Not only is that time laughably slow, but even as an age-graded performance it scores only 80%. When I was young and middle-aged (before I tore my ACL), I consistently scored in the 90-94% range with the age-graded tables.

In 2014, I wrote a post in this blog titled “The middle-aged athlete: resignation or living on the edge.” Nine years ago, even though my knee was limiting me, I was still fighting to train hard, to go beyond what was “sensible” for my age and injured knee.

My recent move has sharpened my awareness that I’m moving into a new phase of life. On the athletic side, that means I’m fighting less and accepting my limitations more. For many years, as an athlete in my forties, I was still striving to beat younger women. Now, I’m firmly ensconced in the ranks of “senior” runners. In the Greyhounds club I find comfort in seeing that many of my teammates also have to work through the frustrations of hamstring pulls and other injuries, and—in some cases—serious medical problems unrelated to running.

Some members of my Greyhounds training group at the newly redone track at Percy Perry Stadium.
(Photo courtesy of Les Fowler)

What has not changed is the camaraderie that running offers. When I meet other Greyhounds for a workout, I know that I’m with a tribe that understands the joys and tribulations of our sport. For all of us, the effects of running have radiated into our lives in significant ways. Running, whether fast or slow, has become an indelible part of our identities.

East view from my new apartment as the full moon rises.

My summer ends with a bang—AND a whimper*

Birkenhead Lake

My summer of 2023 was extraordinary, with new events, returns to the old, and losses—a time of change. The bang was going to “the cabin” at Birkenhead Lake, a place where my partner Keith spends a lot of time because the cabin belongs to his best friend. We were attending a wedding in the wilderness!

The whimper is a sound I won’t allow myself to make even though I’ve come down with a heavy cold since we returned.

The most dramatic events included a new one—buying a condo in the same building where I’ve rented an apartment for eleven years; a return to the old—racing on the track for the first time in 15 years; and a loss—of my beloved cat, Tux.

Labour Day, for me more than ever this year, is a time to reflect on the summer past and to plan what comes next. My summer offered unusual freedom, because on June 5 the nursing textbook I had been working on for over two years was published. This extensive book, written by three main editors and 32 additional authors, presented constant challenges and deadlines. I badly needed a break from work.

In one way, my summer began even before that June publishing date, because Vancouver’s weather became spectacular in mid-May, with scarcely a rainy day after that! I swam at Sasamat Lake on May 14, the earliest date in my 33 years of living here, and most weeks I got up to the lake at least three or four times.

In mid-June I went to the Editors Canada conference in Toronto. It’s always inspiring to be around other people who love books and can share their editing expertise and knowledge about the latest hot topics and editing software.

After the conference I spent a few days with family in Burlington, where my brother Mike always has an extra bike for me. I felt deeply the loss of my father (last November). For the first time in my life, I have no home to return to in Toronto! Yet my two brothers’ families and I were free of the worries and sadness that pervaded all my visits to Toronto last year when our dad was going through the last stages of kidney disease.

Ironically, kidney disease also claimed the life of my companion of 16 years, my cat Tux. It was heartbreaking to witness her decline in the last two months of her life, when she lost her appetite, became very thin, and lost something of the energy and curiosity that had always been characteristic of her wonderful spirit. She was an affectionate cat, and I was thankful that her second-best friend, Keith, was with me when we took Tux to the vet for the final time.

Tux two years ago, when she was still a fat cat. Watching hummingbirds.

I had a scare about my own health soon after Tux passed away. No need for details here—and it turned out to be nothing serious—but it solidified my awareness that “health is everything.” The knowledge that the health we take for granted can be taken away unexpectedly strengthened my attitude of being grateful for everything I can still do. That’s what I should focus on, rather than the fairly dramatic declines in my athletic performance over the past couple of years.

This positive attitude led me to follow my sprinter friend Laurie’s advice to join the Greyhounds Masters Track & Field club. I challenged myself to train for and compete in the Canadian Masters Track & Field Championships, which were held in Langley the weekend of August 11–13. This was my first time racing on the track in 15 years (since before I tore the ACL in my right knee), and I had only a month to prepare!

I had no interest in competing in the 5,000m or 10,000m, been where my greatest ability lies. Because of my arthritic knee I can only do two short workouts a week now, and racing those distances would have damaged my knee. Besides, comparing my current performance at 5K or 10K with what I used to be able to do would have been too discouraging. So I decided to compete in the 800m and 1500m, distances that wouldn’t demand a large volume of training. Also, since the Greyhounds club has few middle- or long-distance runners, I did most of my workouts with the 400m runners, sharpening my speed for the middle distances. I loved training with a group again for the first time since the Phoenix Running Club was disbanded in 2020.

The race weekend at the Langley track was lots of fun, except for those few minutes when I was actually racing and re-experiencing anaerobic pain! I ran the 1500m on Saturday morning, under ideal cool, cloudy conditions. I was disappointed with my time, but satisfied that it was the best I could do with my limited training. I ran even splits and was completely out of gas at the end. It was a wonderful day. I reconnected with friends I hadn’t seen for years or even decades. The atmosphere at Masters track meets is so encouraging and positive!

I came back the following day to compete in the 800m on a blazing hot afternoon.

The start of my 800m race at the Canadian Masters Championships. Track photos by Keith Dunn.

This time I vowed to stay closer to the leaders than I had in the 1500m—to concentrate on racing. And in fact, I ran better than I expected in the 800m, even though it “should have” been my poorer event.

I decided to train for track next spring and summer, and to do more specific 1500m training with the goal of improving significantly over this year’s time.

Camaraderie–all competitors happy after the end of our 800m race.

There were additional workout highlights this summer—ones that fell in the category of “returns to the old.” Keith has made fantastic progress with his new knees (he had double knee replacement surgery last November). He has an e-bike now, and for the first time in years we’ve been able to ride together. He mainly uses the lowest level of assist. He’s thoughtful about waiting for me when we ride up big hills. One feature of this year’s rides at Minnekhada Park has been the number of bears we’ve sighted, including mothers with cubs. I’ve also seen bears close up a few times in Mundy Park this summer, including a great view of a bear swimming in Mundy Lake on a hot day.

At Minnekhada Regional Park.

A few days after my track races I completed my annual “mini-triathlon” challenge. My bike rides were slow, my run was slow, and my swim was fast. Again, my focus was on being grateful I could still complete it rather than being discouraged by the toll age is taking on my speed.

The final week of my summer was a wonderful explosion of celebratory events. I got to run in Stanley Park with one of my running friends from 40 years ago—Steve—and we followed that up with a brunch at Café Artigiano. Then I went to Kitsilano Beach, where I watched the beach volleyball players for a while.

Kitsilano Beach

Next, I strolled over to Bard on the Beach, where I met Laurie to see a super fun performance of As You Like It. The play was revamped to be set in the ‘60s in the “vast Okanagan,” and many of Shakespeare’s lines were replaced with songs by The Beatles. The music was outstanding. I loved the ‘60s hippie clothing. I wore some of those platform shoes, bell-bottoms, and flowy peasant tops myself in the ‘70s!

The wedding at Birkenhead Lake took place a few days later. I had the privilege of meeting some wonderful people and being a guest at a special ceremony. Keith was the official wedding photographer. He did an outstanding job of capturing this spectacular setting, and getting candid shots of all the participants. The event was enhanced by incredible bouquets created by a friend of the bride’s, and a superb wedding feast prepared by the bride’s father.

One of the many beautiful bouquets on the dinner table at the wedding. Photo by Keith Dunn.

Now it’s time to move on. My literal move to my new condo will take place in mid-October. I’ll start searching for work—who knows what my next editing project will be?

P.S. How could I forget? The World Championships from Budapest!

One of the best parts of the whole summer, for me and millions of other keen track & field fans, was the World Championships in Track & Field from Budapest! Aficionados know that this is the very best of Athletics, and there are no distractions from other sports as there are at the Olympics. I watched raptly for hours, nine days in a row. This is indulgence, excitement, inspiration, awe of the highest order.

This meet seemed to distinguish itself by the number of times athletes fell. Who could forget Sifan Hassan falling only metres from the end of the grueling 10,000m race and forfeiting a gold or silver medal? Yet she came back on subsequent days to win bronze in the 1,500m and silver in the 5,000m after a battle to the finish with Faith Kipyegon. What about Femke Bol’s brilliant anchoring of the Dutch women’s 4 x 400m to gold? Seems it made up for what had happened a week before when she fell metres from the finish line in the mixed 4 x 400m, disqualifying her team as the baton rolled away from her over the line.

What about the upset when Brit Josh Kerr decisively beat the heavily-favoured Jakob Ingebrigtsen in the men’s 1500m? I watched Ingebrigtsen come back in the 5,000m final. It looked, in the last 100 metres, like he would be beaten again, this time by Mohamed Katir of Spain. But if ever I saw an athlete’s mind force his body to his will, it was Ingebrigtsen in the final metres as he edged to victory over Katir.

What a perfect finale to summer!

*

This is the way the world ends

Not with a bang but a whimper.

—T. S. Eliot, from “The Hollow Men” (1925)

Sasamat Lake mini-triathlon 10th edition—as West Kelowna burns

In 2013, a year after I moved to my downtown Port Moody apartment, I created a physical challenge for myself that took advantage of my neighbourhood bike path and Sasamat Lake, only 8 kilometres away. Every year since then except for 2016, when I had a hamstring injury, I’ve completed my “mini-triathlon” at least once each summer. My partner, Keith Dunn, has followed me by car to capture moments of my efforts with his superb photography.

Each year, I’ve treated this event like a race, even though I’m only racing against myself and my Garmin times for each segment: 8K cycling up to the lake, 3K trail run around the lake, 500m swim triangle, and 8K ride home. Even my “best” times are nothing to boast about. I’m riding a heavy mountain bike, I’m not a great trail runner, and I never learned good stroke technique in swimming. But altogether, it’s a significant endurance challenge for me.

Even before I started my mini-triathlon on Friday, I knew that this year was different. It was anti-climactic coming only five days after my 800m and 1500m races at the Canadian Masters Track and Field Championships. Those were “real” races—an unexpected return to the track after 15 years.

Yet I wouldn’t abandon my annual triathlon challenge, and Friday was a perfect day for it. After a very hot week, the temperature had dropped significantly overnight. I even felt chilled as I started the bike ride wearing only a light singlet and my briefest bike shorts.

I’m not going to give a play-by-play of my triathlon here. The photos can do a bit of that. I intend only to summarize my “results” and my reflections about them.

The photo story

Climbing up Alderside Road–one of the many steep climbs on the 9K route.

Finishing the 3K trail run around the lake.

Most enjoyable triathlon swim ever because the water was so warm.

Finished part 3 out of 4!

Time to put my cycling clothes back on.

The photo can’t capture how fast I was riding down Sunnyside!

The finish line is metres away!

Analysis

My bike sections and my run were significantly slower than in other years. For the bike sections, I can’t quantify exactly how much slower because this year and last year the bike path was closed for sewer reconstruction and I had to take a detour route (a different route last year than this year) that added almost a kilometer to the distance. Yet even accounting for that, I was about 10% slower. The run around the lake stays the same each year, and I was shocked to be 7% slower this year than last year (and 17% slower than my best time, recorded in 2014). This happened even though I pushed hard on the run! Yet I was aware of how hard every hill felt, and how awkwardly I was running over the many rocks, roots, and stairs on the trail.

I’m somewhat puzzled about the dramatic loss of leg strength I’ve experienced in the last couple of years; it’s been obvious when I’m running up hills in Mundy Park. I used to be such a good hill runner—my lightness was an advantage. And my coping mechanism in cycling hills is to use my easiest gear a lot more than I used to—and I seldom ride the routes with the biggest hills anymore.

My legs have never been strong, but this recent decline in strength seems too big to be accounted for by age alone. Could it be that the cholesterol-lowering medication I’ve been on for over a year is partially responsible? My heart and vascular specialists know I already have significant deposits on my leg arteries and one of my major heart arteries. As we get older, health becomes a complicated mixture of different mental and physical issues that are all intertwined.

Keith’s photos show you a woman in her sixties who still looks fit—and happy. And I was happy to be able to complete my mini-triathlon again! My arthritic knee didn’t bother me at all. I enjoyed the swim more than I ever have before, because the water was lovely after a week of hot weather. My swim was not only faster than last year’s, but faster than most of my triathlon swims. Another positive thing was that I wasn’t unduly tired after completing my mini-tri. In fact, Keith and I even went back to the lake late in the afternoon for another swim!

It’s clear that I’ve made a mental shift from being completely focused on times to being grateful to have the ability and drive to complete the mini-triathlon. Also, I was aware of another age-related factor that affected my bike performance in particular, but also my running to some degree. I’ve become much more cautious. I hate riding near cars. And I feel some fear flying down Sunnyside at over 50 kph—I’m more inclined to put my brakes on than I used to be. When trail running, I’m careful about every foot plant on an uneven surface.

Yes, age has brought a change in perspective.

***

Yesterday, I had a bigger change in perspective. Keith and I were watching news programs about the fires in West Kelowna. I had a personal connection, too. An acquaintance of mine had written me an email to say his home was in one of the areas that might go up in flames. I still don’t know whether that has happened or not.

This single event, more than any other, has forced me to accept that the climate crisis is here: we are living through it, right now, in British Columbia.

Keith and I ended up having a long, speculative conversation about how our planet and our species could be saved. Both of us are certain that humanity already has the technology, the money, and the intellectual power to solve the critical energy problems (as well as the economic and social problems) that contribute to climate change. Keith and I brainstormed about some of the changes that could make a big difference: things like virtually eliminating air travel and most car travel; thinking locally in many ways; and changing the economic imperative for continuous growth, the relentless promotion of consumerism that has been a key feature of most Western cultures.

Some of these changes would cause us to change our lives radically, but it wouldn’t all be about loss. We could create societies where people would be happier, healthier, and better connected to each other than they are now. There could be less of the loneliness, alienation, anxiety, and stress that permeate the modern world.

Yet, Keith and I wondered, how is it politically possible to enact the radical changes that we believe are necessary to turn the climate crisis around? How can we do it in Canada, let alone getting all the countries of the world to cooperate? How can those with the intellectual and technical tools and the political power to change the world get the “masses”—most of whom are stupid, apathetic, misinformed, greedy, and distracted by endless sources of entertainment—on their side?

These conversations often leave me feeling overwhelmed and despairing. They also give me a whole new perspective on what I’ve called elsewhere in this blog “my little life.” I enjoy my athletic endeavors, and I enjoy writing about them, but it would be wrong to take them too seriously. I am asking myself: What should I do to help fight the climate crisis?

Rocky Point Park at 7:45 this morning.
Beautiful is not always good. Smoky skies arrived in Vancouver yesterday, the day after my mini-triathlon.

August at the track in 1988, 2008, and 2023

Introduction: August in Vancouver

Today was a quintessentially perfect August Vancouver day. Sunny and cool (13⁰ C) at 6:00 a.m. but warming up to 28⁰ C by late afternoon. The weather reminded me how much I loved training in Vancouver before the 1988 Olympics, when my coach George Gluppe and I travelled from Toronto and stayed for a couple of weeks with George’s brother, Milt. Milt had a houseboat moored near the New Westminster Quay, as well as an apartment in Chilliwack. We spent time at both of these places before I left Vancouver with the Canadian track & field team—bound for the Olympics!

I can fast forward to the most fun track competition of my masters’ running career—the 2008 USA Track & Field Masters Championships, held in Spokane, Washington. I didn’t run much track as a masters athlete. I preferred to compete in road races at my best distances, 5K and 10K, both locally and at some top American races. However, I decided to go to the Spokane meet because it would be a fun road trip with George and three other Phoenix Running Club teammates—Dave Reed, Warren McCulloch, and Kim Ross.

In the past three weeks, I’ve started doing some track workouts again for the first time since that Spokane meet. A torn ACL in 2009, and two subsequent surgeries, effectively ended any serious competitive running for me. I’m only able to run twice a week, and typically limit my workouts to about 6K. Yet now I’ve joined the Greyhounds club, and I’m planning to race the 800m and the 1,500m at the Canadian Masters Championships, to be held in Langley from August 11–13.

These recent hot days at the track have lead my memory back to the earlier Augusts. I recognize that my identity as a runner is something constant, something that’s been part of me since I started training regularly on the track in 1977—even though my running abilities have declined hugely from 1988 to 2008 to 2023.

Those special seasons of track—1988, 2008, and 2023—were relatively carefree periods, despite the intense focus on track competition. What I didn’t know in 1988 and 2008 (but I do know this year!) was that momentous changes would happen in my life soon after those glorious August days of training.

August 30–September 11, 1988: Pre-Olympic training with George in Chilliwack and Vancouver

Before 1988, I had competed in Victoria in many cross-country trials to qualify for Canadian teams for the World Championships, and I’d raced in Vancouver a couple of times. But it was this training period in 1988 that convinced me I loved Vancouver and wanted to move there from Toronto.

George and I were coming from one of the worst Toronto summers ever. Running had been miserable on the hot, humid days, and I had to do my core workout for the 10,000m, 6 x 1 mile with two minutes’ rest, at 7 a.m. on Saturday mornings. Even then it was agonizingly hot. My discomfort was compounded by nausea caused by a low-grade bacterial infection that wasn’t diagnosed until just before I left for Vancouver.

But in Vancouver, the weather was ideal for training! The mornings were cool. I had had serious bursitis in both heels since November 1987, plus further aggravation from Achilles tendonitis on the right side. These injuries limited my running to three days a week. With my Olympic 10,000m race scheduled for the end of September, George and I knew that my running needed to be focused on speed. I did a mile repeat workout at a gravel track in Chilliwack, but most of my running workouts were done at the Minoru track in Richmond. I did several sharpening speed workouts, 300s and 400s with a few minutes of rest between each sprint. My distance running was limited to a few short tempo runs in Stanley Park, followed by swim workouts at the 150-yard-long Kitsilano pool—which I loved except for its (relatively) frigid temperature!

It was intimidating to know that my competitors in the 10,000m would be racking up the kilometres, perhaps 100–200 km/week, but I simply couldn’t do that. Since the end of 1987, when my heel bursitis became serious and at times prevented me from running altogether, most of my endurance work had come from hard, steady rides and interval training on stationary bicycles. George and I found a good gym to work out at in Richmond, and many of our afternoons included sweaty sessions there.

On September 12, 1988, I left that Vancouver paradise to travel with the Canadian team track & field team. We were enroute to Japan for a couple of days (a stop for Ben Johnson’s fans)—and then on to Seoul, South Korea!

My Olympic 10,000m semifinal. September 26, 1988. Photo copyright CP PHOTO/COA, used with permission.

2008: Return to the track for the USATF Championships in Spokane

In 2008, we had some good masters track runners in the Phoenix Running Club, and coach George was very excited about taking us on a road trip to compete in the USATF Masters Track & Field Championships. In all the years after the Olympics, I’d competed only sporadically in track races. I certainly had no desire to return to the long-drawn-out pain of 25 laps on the track (10,000m), or the shorter but anaerobically punishing 5,000m. However, a road trip to Spokane would be good fun. I’d raced in Spokane several times in the massive 12K Bloomsday Run, winning prize money first in the open division, and later as a masters runner.

So I decided to join my middle-distance Phoenix teammates Warren McCulloch and Dave Reed to race the 800m/1500m double. Kim Ross was a new Phoenix member and friend was. She was a hugely talented sprinter, and now, at age 47, she was training seriously for sprinting for the first time in her life. George was thrilled to have such a speedy athlete to coach.

At age 49 I was still training hard and racing well at 5K and 10K, and doing regular workouts on the track. I’d recently run under 4:50 for the 1,500m in an allcomer’s meet—an excellent performance for my age. I’d run lots of 1,500s in high school and during my early 20s, but never bettered the PB of 4:17 that I ran both indoors and outdoors as a 19-year-old. My speed training was always limited by recurring Achilles tendonitis. As for the 800m—it was unknown territory—I knew my strength lay in the longer distances.

Kim and Nancy, Dave and Warren on the way to Spokane.

The trip was lots of fun. We spent long hours at the track, cheering each other on and watching some amazing performances. I loved the camaraderie of masters track. It wasn’t as cutthroat and serious as open-level championships were, even though people gave it their best once they were racing. Friendliness and participation—and being surrounded with people who were just like us—who didn’t think we were crazy to still be doing this—were the important things.

Enroute to Spokane. Kim and I show off our Canadian flag stickers as Warren looks on.

We celebrated with trips to Starbucks for iced drinks after the hot hours at the track. I bonded with Kim. In our room we talked a lot about men and our new Facebook “playmates.” Kim was getting over a bad relationship and I had realized my marriage with Paul was going to end. Our son Abebe was leaving for Japan in September to go to university.

The Phoenix team shone. Kim, Warren, and I won medals, and Dave was 5th in his age group in the 1,500m. I was disappointed with my 1,500m result. I surged too fast in the middle of the race and got passed near the end by someone I should have beaten, finishing just a hair under 5:00. I got another silver in the 800m. My time of 2:27 wasn’t bad for a distance I wasn’t suited for and had little experience of racing.

Leading the F45-49 1,500m in Spokane. Photo by Warren McCulloch

2023: Joining the Greyhounds masters track & field club

I’ve been doing short workouts with Laurie Ritchie in Mundy Park for a few years now. She’s a sprinter and hurdler, and I’ve enjoyed the fun of running fast with her over very short distances, most often sprints of 20 seconds to a minute. Three weeks ago Laurie convinced me to join the Greyhounds club, even though they have few middle-distance or long-distance runners.

I’ve missed the camaraderie of being part of a running club since Phoenix broke up in March 2020. It wasn’t COVID-19 that stopped us, but rather a combination of factors: George, our coach, was gone; too many members could no longer run because of age and injuries; and it was difficult to recruit new members because our main training venue, Mundy Park, was becoming ever more crowded with off-leash dogs.

In the past three weeks I’ve done several high intensity workouts with some Greyhounds 400m runners. And what’s the use of training on the track if you’re not going to race? So I plan to race the 800m and the 1,500m at the upcoming Canadian Masters Championships in Langley on August 12–13.

I know my times in these races will be dramatically slower than they were in Spokane in 2008. It’s not simply the age difference of 15 years. I’m not doing much running of any kind now—I can’t, with my arthritic knee. I’ve lost all desire to compete in 5Ks, and haven’t done a race since before COVID. It just isn’t worth pushing myself all-out in a race to run a mediocre time—and then feel the effects of pavement on my knee for a couple of weeks afterwards.

But I’m devoting all my running time to track workouts for a few weeks so I can try the track again, and perhaps experience some of the excitement along with the anaerobic pain. Maybe I’ll never outlive my competitive streak, which has made an appearance even in the Greyhounds workouts.

But accepting myself as a slow, limping runner requires a change in attitude. I can’t be too hard on myself. There can be no serious performance goals. My purpose in competing is to share the experience with other masters runners, reconnect with people I used to know, and cheer on my new Greyhounds teammates.

Epilogues

After 1988

I was never again as good an athlete as I had been at the 1988 Olympics. It took me almost a year to recover from my bursitis and Achilles injuries; then came pregnancy and motherhood. A year after my son was born in 1991 I ran under 32:45 for 10K on both the track and the road, winning the Vancouver Sun Run, but then the ominous symptoms of circulatory blockages began. By the time I had the second of two bypass surgeries in my femoral arteries, I was 39. It was time to look forward to being a decent masters runner.

After 2008

The Spokane trip with George, Dave, Warren, Kim, and me is a golden memory, a short moment in time that was followed by tragedy. Less than a month after he raced his last 1,500m ever, Dave caught a terrible bacterial infection that wasn’t treated properly. He was sent home from St. Paul’s Emergency twice, without medication, even though he lived alone. He almost died before his building manager broke into his room and found him unconscious. He lingered, semi-paralyzed, in hospital for about two months before dying at age 54.

George, in terrible pain with hip arthritis the last two years of his life, died in 2012 after emergency surgery on his heart.

Warren has continued to run sporadically, and made a good comeback with 5,000m track races last year. However, he’s been plagued by recurrent calf injuries so he doesn’t take running too seriously anymore.

Kim, despite her awesome sprint talent, gave up sprinting after Spokane because her true love is escaping to the wilderness with trail running. She survived a terrible fall on ice several years ago. Doctors weren’t sure if she would run again, or regain the use of one arm. She was on heavy painkillers for about a year. But she was determined to be a runner again, and she is, with full use of both arms and legs. She survived cancer, too. Kim is one tough woman. And she found a man who deserves her soon after the Spokane trip.

Readers of my blog will know that everything changed for me in the year after Spokane. I tore my ACL, went to Douglas College to train for a new career in editing, said goodbye to my son, and, ending my marriage, found a new partner (Keith).

After 2023

I don’t know whether there will be more track in my future. This may be my last kick at the can! But I already know this is a year of big changes for me. I’ve just bought a condo in the same building I’ve been living in for the past 11 years. In a couple of months I’ll be moving, and I’ll have a whole new outlook on life—five floors higher and facing southeast instead of northwest. Look out for the sunrise photos!

August 2008. A very special group, never to be together again.

Martin Amis, Vladimir Nabokov, and a cat named Tux

Fans of the CBC weekly program Writers & Company will know by now that after 33 years on air, this beloved program with interviewer Eleanor Wachtel aired its final original episode on June 23, 2023. Wachtel, who over the course of the program’s long lifespan has interviewed many of the world’s best writers (as well as movie directors, musicians, and other artists) is moving on to other activities. However, the program is still airing this summer with Eleanor’s Picks—10 interviews from the past, selected by Wachtel as her favourites.

On June 29th I listened to one of Wachtel’s interviews with British literary star Martin Amis, an interview that originally aired on February 4, 2007. Martin Amis died in May, 2023, coincidentally at the same age (73) as his father, the famous writer and poet Sir Kingsley Amis. The June 29 broadcast included a short segment of an interview Wachtel did with Kingsley Amis in 1992.

Listening to the replay of the 2007 interview, I was greatly impressed by Amis’s erudition, rational manner, and willingness to reveal himself at a personal level. A major reason the interview engaged me so deeply was that Amis talked at length about one of his lifelong intellectual obsessions: human mortality. In a grand sentence, he said: “The definition of philosophy, as someone said, is learning how to die.” He goes on to describe this task by saying, “It’s an impressively formidable dilemma that the human being has.”

I felt obscurely comforted to know how many others (whether they are philosophers or not) have struggled to understand and accept death. Perhaps I’ve been fixated on this too much over the past year, for reasons that include my father’s death from kidney failure last year, my beloved cat Tux’s recent death from the same disease, and my own health challenges as I get older. Logically and scientifically, the concept of death makes perfect sense to me. I know that all life on Earth is transitory. I can see the beauty of a flower unfold for two days, then watch its fading and death. I know that some insects go through all stages of their life cycle in a single day.

The difficulty in understanding death is not a failure of the rational mind, but a failure of the human imagination—the inability to imagine nothingness in place of my own consciousness, which is the centre of my universe. And what is the spark of my own consciousness in an unimaginably vast universe?

Religion exists to provide a way around the concept of personal non-existence. And during the 2007 interview, Amis said, in a tone not arrogant or condescending, but matter-of-fact: “If you really believe that stuff [religion] you’re no further forward than a three-year-old or the family pet.”

I remain agnostic. A book I edited a few years ago introduced me to the near-death-experience (NDE) genre, and I read several books about seemingly miraculous returns to life after medical crises. Some of these books were written by medical doctors and scientists, and offered persuasive “evidence” that human beings exist on a level that is independent of the body; that a person’s spirit is not extinguished when their body dies.

***

I’m certainly not capable of being comforted by such a possibility. Last week I had to watch my cat, Tux, decline day by day. By Thursday night I knew these were her final days. I would take her to the vet the next day so she wouldn’t have to suffer any longer, and I wouldn’t have to watch.

It was another perfect summer evening, and Tux and I were out on the balcony feeling the cooler air that comes after sunset, and looking at a splendid sky. I brought out a blanket, put in down on the hard concrete, and lay down beside Tux, stroking her soft fur. She purred a little. I felt hot tears on my face and a stabbing feeling in my chest. Our last night on the balcony together. To have the knowledge that something is a “last time”—that’s a painful burden.

The next day Keith and I took Tux to the vet. She had a peaceful death. After all, she was surrounded and touched by the two people who loved her the most. When we left with our empty carrier bag, we were both crying. It was unfathomable: 30 minutes earlier Tux had been alive; now she wasn’t. When we opened the door to my apartment, Tux was not there to greet us eagerly, as she always had been—and never would be again. Before and After. The pain of loss, knowing that Tux is irrevocably gone now. All the little times and ways I will miss her. A hole in all the places and times she was regularly with me.

Tux on our newly-cleaned balcony, September 2022

***

In the 2007 interview, 16 years before his death, Martin Amis was already confronting what it means to “learn how to die.” One thing he was certain about was that at the end of life, achievements aren’t meaningful—they “melt away,” as something “tinselly and worthless.” Then, “you’re left with just the human toll.”

All this talk and writing about mortality seems to suggest that Amis was a grim and morbid person, but that was not so. Like his father, Kingsley Amis, he was known for the wit and humour in his writing. Both father and son lived by the axiom, “There is a solemn duty to be cheerful.” Yet Amis commented that writing about darkness is easier than writing about happiness. “Happiness writes white,” he said, meaning that happy words are invisible on the page. Further, Amis commented, “Perhaps only Tolstoy’s writing made happiness swing.”

My enjoyment of Eleanor Wachtel’s interview with Martin Amis drove me to my local library in search of his novels, his memoir, Experience (2000), and his fictionalized memoir, My Story (2020). It turned out that the only Martin Amis book available at my library was The Rub of Time: Bellow, Nabokov, Hitchens, Travolta, Trump: Essays and Reportage, 1994–2017 (2017). After a few days, I’m almost finished reading this brilliant book, and the essay I’ve most enjoyed is one from 2011, titled “Nabokov’s Natural Selection.”

Amis’s admiration for two writers in particular, Saul Bellow and Vladimir Nabokov, is fluently obvious in The Rub of Time. Nabokov, most famous (and infamous) for his controversial novel Lolita, wrote many other critically acclaimed novels. He was also a poet and a translator. More startlingly, he was an acclaimed scientist; in the 1940s he studied butterflies and wrote papers at the Harvard Museum of Comparative Zoology. Nabokov was also the creator of world-class chess problems.

In “Nabokov’s Natural Selection,” Amis quotes from a book about Nabokov by Brian Boyd, Stalking Nabokov, describing Boyd’s work as “revising a titanic upward,” and “a tribute not just to an extraordinary literary animal but also to the size, force, and stamina of an extraordinary brain.”* (p. 133)

Here is Amis quoting from Boyd on “the timbre of Nabokov’s artistic spirit”:

He was a maximalist: someone who appreciated, as much as anyone has, the riches the world offers, in nature and art, in sensation, emotion, thought, and language, and the surprise of these riches, if we animate them with all our attention and imagination . . . And his generosity to his readers matches and reenacts and pays tribute to what he senses is the generosity of our world.

Amis’s writing about Nabokov pulled me out my my morbidity and negativity. It reminded me that at 64, in good health, I shouldn’t allow despair or depression to ever hang around for long. Instead, I can be inspired by Nabokov’s life and work. I love this quote from Nabokov himself: “[I]n life and in my whole mental makeup I am quite indecently optimistic and buoyant” (from Boyd); gloom and dejection are only for the “ridiculously unobservant.”

I should never give up. Boyd notes that when Nabokov was in the last year of his life, his French translator had a nervous breakdown while in the middle of working one of Nabokov’s longest and most difficult novels. Nabokov took over the translation himself, rising at 5 a.m. each day to make sure it got done.

***

I’m due for a trip to a different library. I want to be fired up by more books from Martin Amis and Vladimir Nabokov.

* All quotes in this article that were not taken from the 2007 Writers & Company interview are from: Amis, Martin. (2017). The Rub of Time: Bellow, Nabovov, Hitchens, Travolta, Trump: Essays and Reportage, 1997-2017. Alfred A. Knopf.

Except where otherwise noted, all quotes are from p. 138 of the book referenced above.

Seagulls at dawn

I love summer mornings. In May and June the birdsong begins when it’s still completely dark. On a sleepless night I hear the first birds chirping and look at my watch: 3:30. If I’m lucky sleep will come and I’ll wake up at 5:00 or 6:00.

As a chronic insomniac, I’m intimate with all the sounds of night in my neighbourhood. It’s usually very quiet, with almost no traffic sounds and few late-night partiers, even on weekends. During the night, several trains go by on the tracks nearby; only a couple are loud or have squealing brakes. On my non-insomniac nights I sleep through all of them.

Some nights, I sleep well until the time when the first light of day is gradually making all the features in my bedroom visible, first in shades of gray, then in colour. I stay in bed until around 5:00, listening to all the different bird songs I can distinguish. The first isolated sounds grow into a richer chorus—the best sound to wake up to! Sometimes I hear the occasional car leaving the apartment building’s garage, and the fainter sound of the first Skytrains of the day.

Now, in July, dawn is dominated by the shrieks and wails of seagulls. Their sounds are piercing, and they often wake me up at 4:30 when their day begins. There is a seagull family living on the roof of the building opposite my window; this roof is a few floors below my apartment, so I have a good view. Yesterday, knowing I wanted to write about seagulls, I noticed that one seagull was  perched on the chimney all day, at least whenever I looked. There is a nest behind that chimney. Just before 5:00 p.m., I heard a lot of seagull calls outside, so I took a good look. The seagull was flying around and flapping its wings. Then I noticed a small young seagull hopping around the chimney. I guess it’s not ready to fly yet.

I managed to take some photos. Zooming in so far with my point-and-shoot camera doesn’t produce good photos, but I can still use them to continue my seagull story.

Parent and chick after the chick first appears.

Can you see the second parent against the trees? Flying in.

Second parent landing as the chick looks on.

Second parent feeding the chick.

Their world—and mine.

***

You may ask yourself, and I ask myself, “What is the point of this blog past?”

There are two reasons I wrote it. First, I wanted to try to capture the wonderful sense of peacefulness and purity that I feel very early on summer mornings. The day is new; the air is fresh and cool; after coffee I feel able to take on all challenges. I am filled with hope and energy. How often I wish that sensation of optimism and power could last beyond the morning!

Secondly, I don’t think watching seagulls is a waste of time. They are my neighbours. I’m attached to my home and my environment in Port Moody. My surroundings—sky, trees, the ocean at the eastern edge of Burrard Inlet, the trails, the bears and coyotes I see occasionally, the herons, geese, ducks, and other birds I see all the time—this is all part of my world. So too are the fleeting fragrances of summer flowers, the freshness of morning air and the heavy heat of the afternoon, and the panoramic skies of sunset. I love summer.

I’m going to be a grandmother!

Being a new mother was tough!

In just over five months I will become a grandmother.

I responded to Abebe’s news with unbridled happiness and excitement.

Even a couple of years ago, I might have felt more ambiguous about it, less able to accept being old enough to have reached this milestone in life.

Now, like so many other people my age, I welcome the chance to have a grandchild. I like the idea that part of me will be passed on genetically. It’s the only kind of immortality we have.

Many of my friends love the time they spend with their grandchildren. Several of them are still fit and athletic, and have enough energy to engage with young children in fun ways or to join their extended families on multi-generational adventures.

However, my grandchild will be born in Osaka, Japan. My son met his wife, Chihiro, only two months after he arrived in Japan in September, 2009. They both attended the same university, one that specialized in language immersion. Abebe was learning Japanese, and Chihiro was learning English. They were each other’s best teachers!

Abebe was pursuing his childhood dream of becoming a videogame director. He has always loved Japanese games and comics (manga) in particular. Since graduating from university, he has worked in Japan for a small gaming company. In his first year, he was a locator (translator), but after that he became a full-fledged game designer. Then he was given the go-ahead to direct his own game—with a full team under him—a game made from his own ideas, writing, and creative vision. This project consumed five years of his life (more about this below).

Bayonetta Origins: Cereza and the Lost Demon was released in March 2023 and received many ecstatic reviews from videogame critics and fans (watch the Nintendo trailer at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9WNdU_TtFSU&t=50s )

Abebe and Chihiro visited Canada in 2011, and lived together for several years before getting married. There was talk of them having two marriage ceremonies, one in Japan and one in Canada, but because they were both so busy with their careers, they ended up getting married in a simple civic ceremony.

Abebe came back to Canada every 18 months or so in his first few years away, until the unrelenting pressure of directing Cereza meant that he never had him any vacation time of more than a few days. Japan is notorious for its demanding work culture, a work culture so extreme that it leads many people to suicide (there is even a particular word for this kind of suicide in Japan—karōjisatsu). This is only amplified in the videogame industry, where burnout is commonplace. Although Abebe never lost his enthusiasm for the game he was creating, he was frequently exhausted and depressed. There was a lot of uncertainty, too—would the game be allowed to proceed to completion? The producers imposed deadlines at several stages, and each time there was intense pressure to ensure that the game would “pass” the producers’ scrutiny and development would be allowed to continue.

This was the reason I didn’t see my son for over five years.

It is strange to have my only child, the person who was the main focus of my life for many years, almost completely out of my life. I knew, when Abebe left for Japan as an 18-year-old, that there was a possibility this would happen. But Paul and I didn’t want to hold him back from pursuing his dream. We admired his courage in going to a country totally unlike Canada, where he would have to learn a language that is very complex in both its oral and written forms.

With a baby on the way, it is unlikely that Abebe will ever live in Canada again. Chihiro is part of an unusually large family. She has four siblings. In Osaka, two of her sisters will be able to help with a new baby, and her mother is already planning to travel from her home on a southern island of Japan to Osaka to be with Chihiro for the baby’s birth.

Abebe and I keep in touch with Skype calls. The reassuring thing is that I still feel close to him; I never feel as though I’m talking to a stranger. When he finally came to Vancouver to visit last January, he told me about his sense of having two selves—he was a Canadian child and teenager, but he is a Japanese adult. After being away from Canada for over five years, he experienced a kind of “reverse culture shock” during this recent visit to Canada. He appreciates many features of life in Japan: the cleanliness and orderliness of public places; the almost total lack of crime; and the way so many things are thoughtfully designed for convenience and ease of use.

Abebe spent a week with me in Vancouver, and then we went to Toronto with Keith to attend my father’s memorial service. That was his chance to reconnect with our extended family.

Abebe is now hard at work on another videogame. He’s not directing this one, so his overall responsibility is not as great as it was when he was making Cereza; yet he is finding the work pressure mounting inexorably again. He thinks the producers’ timelines are always unreasonable. He explains to me that the creators on his team, people like himself who are passionate about games and have high artistic standards, can’t possibly meet these standards within the timeframes they are given. And in trying to do so, they work impossibly long hours, six days a week, for months at a time. They give up family time, a normal social life, and perhaps their health.

The last time I talked with Abebe on Skype, he was seriously thinking of quitting his job at his gaming company. He is questioning what kind of father he could be in this kind of work culture. He recognizes that he’s physically unfit and that the constant mental pressure is not healthy either. (I was shocked in January to see Abebe as a “toothpick” man—6’2” and almost impossibly skinny, with no muscles—a shocking change from the wiry, strong, gymnast/cheerleader/Tae Kwon Do athlete he was in high school.)

Abebe with his cousin Daniel in January, 2023

It is a huge choice he has to make. His success with Cereza is a big deal. It means his company’s managers will give him additional opportunities to direct games. He would be able to fully explore his creative ideas. He might become internationally famous as a videogame director. He would have no financial worries.

But he knows the price he would have to pay, and he knows there are alternative versions of his future. He could take a lesser job in the gaming industry that would allow him to work remotely, possibly living in the Japanese countryside, which he and Chihiro would prefer.

Or, with his fluency in Japanese and his insider’s knowledge of Japanese culture and business, he could get a very different kind of job with any international business that required his specialized communication skills.

***

Like Abebe, I’m at a crossroads in my life, though not one as critical as his. I’ve recently finished the biggest editing project of my career. What comes next? I don’t know yet. What I do know is that I can’t tolerate working long hours under high pressure for more than a few days, let alone months or years. For me, a balanced life has always been essential. All components—working out, relaxing time outdoors, working, reading, and writing—are parts of my life I’m not willing to give up. I can’t understand what it is to be immersed in an imaginary world, creating a videogame, for almost all of my waking hours, as Abebe has done.

Why have I never visited Abebe in Japan, though almost fourteen years have passed?

I went to Japan several times to compete with Canadian Ekiden relay teams, my last trip there being in 2001. In some ways, those were fantastic trips. Our Japanese hosts were courteous and charming. I’m not sure what they said about us to each other, but I know that my team members and I joked about our hosts’ absolute adherence to all rules and schedules. They plied us with many small, beautifully wrapped gifts.

In Japan, people have a reverence for long-distance runners, and the 42-kilometre race courses were always lined with spectators for the entire distance.

However, with my insomnia, I had terrible trouble with jet-lag and never felt good while I was there. And I didn’t like the high-density cities, where you were lucky if you could find a small park with an 800m path to run circles around over and over again. And, unlike the times I travelled with Canadian teams, when I visit Abebe I’ll have to pay for airfare and accommodation.

But when I have a grandchild in Japan, it will be different! I will be going to Japan next year, for sure. I’m certain that being a grandmother will arouse my maternal instincts again. I know I will love this baby because it is a part of me. I also know that I will feel compelled to pass on not only genes, but my part of the child’s cultural legacy.

A new baby! Abebe at two weeks.