The year picked up right where the previous one left off: at least twenty outings a month, helped along by a milder climate in a new country. January and February brought daytime temperatures around ten degrees — I hadn’t seen a single snowflake. That was new to me, and I was more than happy about it.
Ten kilometers was the standard distance by then. I kept it there most days, though it varied between six and thirteen depending on the time I had. If I was really short on time but felt I’d lose my mind without a run, six was enough. But that feeling — I have to go out or I’ll go crazy — was showing up more and more often. I had to face it: I was addicted.
Canada
That became clearest when I was invited to Canada — twice, in April and June. I’d always been curious about the country, so I looked forward to both trips. But when I sat down to plan, the first thing I did wasn’t look up tourist sites or restaurants. It was searching for running routes near where I’d be staying. Parks, trails, bike paths — anywhere I could get my daily hour in.
What I hadn’t experienced before was serious jet lag. At first the excitement carried me. But soon enough, I was completely wiped out by four in the afternoon — and wide awake at three in the morning. I could usually only run in the evenings, which for my body clock was already deep night. I wasn’t at my best. The flight home was worse: the plane left at four p.m. and landed at six a.m., and I didn’t sleep a single minute on board. I’ve never been able to. Two days off before I could run again.
Ottawa: Snow in April
My first stop was Ottawa. I found a running route near a stadium not far from where I was staying. As it turned out, my host had been a serious runner in his younger years — he showed me photos from races he’d done. We clicked instantly, and that’s when I first experienced something I’d encounter many times since: two runners, anywhere in the world, greet each other like old friends. Like comrades. The conversation is nearly endless, and outsiders understand none of it. (What on earth can you talk about for that long?) That bond would come back again and again in my life, sometimes across language barriers — a few photos, a handful of shared words, and the conversation flows.
The weather, though, had a surprise in store. I’d left home in twenty degrees. When I landed in Ottawa in late April, everything was covered in snow. Someone looking out from the fifteenth floor at the half-frozen river smiled and said: “Spring is here.” Snowbanks a meter high lined the sidewalks. One morning at breakfast, a fellow guest asked me what kind of shoes I had. I hadn’t yet looked outside. When I did, I understood the question: the ground was a mess of melting slush. I didn’t have proper shoes for that. Certainly not running shoes. I came back from eight kilometers soaked through. I ran four times in Ottawa — two days in heavy rain and slush, two dry. I wouldn’t have skipped a single one.
A Small Town, and Twenty Degrees of Difference
The second trip took me to a small town, a completely different setting. I stayed in a motel on the outskirts, closer to nature — a welcome change from running alongside highways. But the weather played its tricks again. On the Sunday I arrived, it was thirty degrees. By Wednesday: eight. I was standing around shivering in clothes meant for summer. Then by the weekend, thirty again. The locals told me that in winter, people sometimes drove to work in the morning and couldn’t drive home because of the snow that had fallen in a few hours. After what I’d seen in June, I believed every word.
I managed to run several times there too. Another country on my running list. Not entirely a different world — but different enough. Different culture, different cars, different people. I’m glad I was part of it.
Illness, Hail, and the Art of Timing Rain
The summer passed quietly. Then in early October — for the first time in years — I got sick. Some flu-like thing with a fever knocked me out for nearly a week. That’s rare for me; running keeps most of it at bay. Getting back out after a week off felt strange, but thankfully it felt good almost immediately. This time I didn’t miss running as desperately — when you’re running a fever, there’s no pent-up energy to burn.
Autumn caught me in a few serious downpours mid-run, and in December, a proper hailstorm — pea-sized hailstones hammering down for a few minutes. It caught me in open ground, halfway through, with no shelter in sight. The hail vanished as fast as it came, but for those minutes the sidewalk looked snow-covered.
Over the years, I’ve gotten fairly good at reading clouds — whether rain is coming, and what kind. If it looks serious, I wait. But once or twice a year I get it wrong: I head out thinking this won’t turn into rain, and then I get thoroughly soaked. That’s an acceptable margin of error.
2007: 251 runs / 2,578 km / avg. 10.3 km per session
Since 2002: 798 sessions / 6,775 km