Cycling at the marathon
+ brands, shows, and books I consumed in April
There are a few unoriginal things that inevitably make me cry. Olympic podiums (especially when the national anthem begins to play—no affiliation to the nation required). Videos of animals reuniting with previous trainers. The slightest melancholic or sentimental clip on a plane.
Yesterday, I added marathons to the list. My brother and a few friends were running the Toronto Half Marathon and Marcus and I biked down to meet them at the finish line. It was the first decent ride of the season for me, and a particularly satisfying one—marathon weekends in the city are bottlenecks and being on a bike feels like having a cheat code.
The last portion of our ride took us on the Lakeshore, cycling alongside the marathoners who were in the home stretch of the race. We met them at the 39th kilometer, where friends and family but mostly strangers, cheered. The sound of cowbells rang out between cries of encouragement, doled out generously, runner after runner. Almost there’s! and You got this! Some marathoners high-fives each other as they passed each sign that brought them closer to the finish line. 40 km. 41 km. The last leg.
As we pressed on in the closed off lane of the Lakeshore, my eyes filled behind my sunglasses. Moved by the overwhelming engine of support, of people showing up at the culmination of months of effort to fuel what was surely—at that point—a mental game.
In that moment, I understood what my dad had loved so much about marathon days. The energy that was carried not only by other runners who had made the same crazy commitment to themselves, but the one shared by the people who loved them. I’m sure now, that not even the fiercest of cynics could not be moved by the last few kilometers of a marathon.
It is sappy and sentimental and as my heart pounded—we had a steady to pace to keep in order to catch my brother at the finish line—I felt like I was sharing in an experience my dad had so many times over.
For most of his adult life, my dad was a runner. It felt part of his personality in a way that is not what people mean when they say that now. It wasn’t because he brought it up so much, but because of how it tracked across the way he lived. Continuously challenging himself, taking on lengthy projects, competing only ever against a previous version of himself.
He took part in a few triathlons, but marathons were his thing. We have a storage bin full of old bibs and grainy film photos, of time records and handwritten training regimens. An archive of a sport that gave him satisfaction and peace. Running was what he liked to do outside of work. Though he was a jazz buff and an audiophile, he never listened to music when he ran. Instead, he used the time and the quiet to think about tough cases he had as a refugee lawyer, to work things out in his mind. When we were kids we would sometimes drive up to Mount Pleasant and bike beside him as he ran with our mom. He is buried there now, not too far from the running path.
It’s not a sport I’ve yet connected with in the same way he and my brother have. A brief flirtation with it this winter (that I seem to engage with every few years) came to a halt when I slid on the ice and injured my tailbone. Maybe I’ll give it another go one day, though in the meantime, I do see myself in his preference of self-competition and trials of endurance.
Novel writing is a long and mental game—continuously deciding to get up an hour earlier every day to create the time to create, endlessly trusting that putting one foot in front of the other will eventually take you across the finish line. It does. Slowly, step by step, day by day, the continuous efforts are rewarded. Throughout, if you’re lucky, there are spurts of encouragement. Like cheering bystanders. Sometimes those are friends who cheers to the small milestones—the 10,000 word markers. Sometimes they are perfect, polished sentences that feel sent from a muse, that I imagine feel akin to a runner’s high. Sometimes they are plot twists that subvert your ideas in a way that gives you fuel to keep going on a particularly lethargic day.
Similarly to how my dad saw running, writing is a challenge that gives me time to think. Cycling is the only other activity that unplugs me and refocuses me in the same way. Unsurprisingly, they complement each other quite well.
On Sunday, despite it being my fastest ride yet, we missed my brother crossing the finish line. We missed both of his friends, too, though we stood by the gate as runners poured through. There were so many of them, all going at a clip too fast sometimes to register. For them, what mattered was that they’d done it. Once we reunited with them, we went back to my mom’s to eat bagels and good cheese and to toast to their success. Everyone talked about whether they’d do another, or a full marathon in October, and some of the spectators toyed with the idea of training—joining in for a “cheeky half”. Inspired and a little tipsy off afternoon beer. A good Sunday.
The next morning, I wrote 800 words and officially passed the 90,000 word mark. The longest first draft I’ve ever written, and I suspect, the tightest one, too. Finally, I hit the point in the project where I felt ready to print it out, take a pen to it, and read it in one breathless sprint.
Sitting at my desk, I felt my dad watching over me as I felt him watch over my brother a day earlier.
Almost there. You got this.
Recommendations
Reads
April was not a big reading month for me, though I did listen to Lena Dunham’s Famesick. To say I enjoyed it feels wrong (the writing was beautiful, though Dunham’s classic humour was sparse) but I found it fascinating. A bit like looking into an operating theatre—uncomfortable and squeamish, but fascinated at what it took to make The Thing.
Speaking of making The Thing, I’ll take this opp. to remind you that the paperback edition of The Afterpains is currently available for pre-order. Be the first to get yours by pre-ordering now (often, that means a few days before the actual pub date!). Oh, and the hardcover (out in all good book stores!) also makes for a great Mother’s Day gift!
Brands
I’m working on a piece about wedding accessories (more so wedding guest) because the thing I hear the most is that formal bags are hardest to find. But until I get that together later this month, I did want to shout out Naya Rae and La Villa Clementine, a couple of brands I found through 100% Silk when I was doing some digging for my own civil ceremony. Whether you’re a guest, a bride, or just a hopeless romantic, they’re both worth daydreaming about.
Watch
DTF St. Louis has an absolute stranglehold on us at the moment. It is so strange and dark and hilarious. Up next in dark suburbia: Beef season 2. I’ve only heard great things, and can’t resist a Carey Mulligan/Oscar Isaac moment.