Having just booked a ticket to Kathmandu, I felt the need to start a regular training regime, particularly one that includes stairs or steep inclines of some sort. As I run/walk/go in the general upwards direction, I think about how I've always perceived this place like I have Transylvania. Just saying the name of this exotic city aloud elicits thoughts of lingering and unexpected fog. It feels good to say it, so I do so on a regular basis. It imposes itself on otherwise humdrum conversation like an Irish accent and begs to be heard.
I'm going to come back to Kathmandu later. After all, I still have two-and-a-half months to contemplate it.
It's the training regime I want to talk about. I hate to use the word 'regime' to describe what has been a half-hearted attempt at best. Typically, I like to run down the promenade, down Victoria Park Hill and up the stairs from Victoria golf course a few times and run/walk home from there. I know this isn't much, but it incorporates a little of everything in a manageable time frame.
First off, stop laughing. Indeed, Edmonton has it's very own promenade perched on the lip of the river valley peering over Victoria Park Road. It stretches from 116th to 121st Street. I'm shocked at the number of Edmontonians who eye me suspiciously when I call this stretch of avenue a promenade. Honestly though, if you were over 75, you would know this place. It's the avenue of the old and wise.
The first time I ventured out to try my route, an 87-year-old woman (name unknown) waited as I ascended my final go of the stairs. "My daughter does that six times a day, you know." She also noted that if I continue to do this (six times a day?!), I would look as good as her at 87. She looked pretty able for her age! Noted.
The next time, I met Freddy. Where to begin with Freddy? He lives on the promenade and if you make eye contact, you may as well discount a good half hour from your day. Having said that, he will make it well worth your time. Freddie is 84 and here's his life secret: "No alcohol but the finest cognac." Oh yes, and only share it with your real friends (because it's expensive). How do you know real friends from your fake friends? "Look them in the eye and you'll know their character."
This man is straight out of a Dostoevsky novel. In the span of 30 minutes (him talking; me listening), I saw the lighthearted Freddy ("How old was that other lady you were talking to here? Does she live around here?" - referring to the 87-year-old lady from my last jaunt), the humorous Freddy ("you're young, but not that young."), the thoughtful Freddy ("this modern architecture [referring to a new condo on the promenade] it's built like a prison! Why would I pay $1 million to live in a prison!") and the dark Freddy ("I survived for 70 days on leaves during the war.")
After a half hour, I had to tell Freddy to save some stories for next time we run into one another and I cut my stair climbing short to make my escape. It's rare that you meet people so sure of themselves and of life. Over the weekend, I found myself wondering what Freddy or the nameless 87-year-old woman would think about _________. I wonder if I'll be more inclined to talk to strangers when I'm old?
Tonight...six flights of stairs, the finest cognac and hopefully another gem to add to the agenda.
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