Endurance

Growing up, no one ever labelled me as athletic. In fact, phys. ed. was my least favorite class. My mom scheduled my piano appointments for that time slot so I could miss it once a week. In my senior year of high school, I actually took a spare instead of gym class. Perhaps not so ironically, that was the year I discovered I actually like to run. I don't have superior hand-eye coordination or speed. My one athletic gift is endurance.

This morning came without its usual companion the rain. The sun waltzed in, acting like it had never been gone. My heart soared and my stinky old Adidas runners carried me to the Sea Wall, and I began to jog to Kits Beach.

False Creek was still. The pathway quiet. The mountains no longer hidden by a veil of cloud. Flowers were blossoming on every tree, in every flower bed. And if I listened, I could swear I heard a bird singing in the distance. Perfection. Vancouver is beautiful.

Coming around the corner by the Marine Museum, I crossed paths with an old man with a pair of dogs. As I jogged past he said, "You won't be able to do that when you're twenty-five." Feeling smug, I retorted, "I'm twenty six!" and continued to the beach.

(On later reflection, his comment makes absolutely no sense. If one's jogging is done at 25, that is a sad state indeed. I hope he meant 55 or 65.)

Vancouver in the spring is wonderful . . . when it's not raining.