07.31 NEIGHBOURHOOD WATCH

Nearly every evening my neighbour Loretta joins my mom at the end of our driveway to people watch and chat. Often the exchange of gossip is trivial - the Stevensons went on a cruise and the McIntosh family bought a new car. Other times I wonder if we actually live on Wisteria lane.

I like to call their meetings the Neighbourhood Watch.

When I was a kid I carried a certain skepticism about the Neighbourhood Watch stickers that identified various households as members of a protective ally within my community.

I wasn't sure what my neighbours were watching. Still encumbered by the egocentric mind of a child, I supposed they were watching me and felt imposed on. What if I fell off my bike and somebody saw my embarrassing tumble? What if I stuck my finger up my nose and was caught?

It seemed everybody in Fontainbleu had their eyes on me. And even if they didn't they were watching out for something or somebody, an act that signalled danger.

The Neighborhood Watch Registry was introduced to Canadian communities in the early 80's as a measure to improve community safety. It educates citizens on measures which, for example, discourage theft and identify suspicious activity. But I never felt unsafe in my neighbourhood and wonder whether this was an overprotective program that contaminated the community with unnecessary fear and distrust.

While my parents worried about kidnappings and burglaries, I wondered whether criminals disguised themselves behind registered screen doors hoping to lure children like myself into a modern-day Hansel and Gretel scenario

So I began to spy on my neighbours' every move. Finding no suspicious activity, I quickly grew bored of playing detective.

Today I enjoy sitting in with my mom and Loretta in their vigilant scrutiny of our neighbours quirks and routines. I sleep easily knowing that the most suspicious activity on our street is the blatant spying that takes place on my driveway.

07.30 OVERWEIGHT

I consider myself a minimalist, but have come to realize this is only justifiable by relative terms. What is essential by modern standards extends beyond what is simply necessary for survival and includes all sorts of paraphernalia for thriving in a socially- and technologically charged environment.

Somehow, my survival package includes more than the capacity deemed appropriate by most major commercial airlines. Twenty pounds overweight, my suitcase will cost an arm and a leg to get onboard my flight. The cost of a lower limb is not worth carrying a dozen pair of shoes, half of which would consequently cease to be of use.

Packing is a chore. It reminds me, to my dismay, that I am an accumulator of things, of items that are not necessary for survival, but that I have come to value by imprudent reasoning or material desire. It reveals a disabling behavioural pattern that rationalizes unnecessary purchases by an immediate gratification but then exacerbates ungratifying anxieties with the arrival of a sobering credit card bill.

Without a steady income at least until the new year, financial stress at the point of purchase should prevent this negligent pattern from occurring. Every purchase I make logged into a budgetary spreadsheet, providing a blatant reminder that breakfast cereal is necessary while another pair of pyjamas to enjoy my bran flakes in is not.

07.29 TIM TAMS

When I'm craving Timmy's its usually not a double double that I'm after. Tim Tam is a brand of Australian chocolate biscuit, or "bickie" as an Aussie would say that hit the caffeine craving like no coffee could.

Like the legendary hockey great, Horton, the Tim that went down in the books before becoming immortalized on a mass-market label, was also a star athlete. In this case, Tim Tam is the name of the 1958 Kentucky Derby Champion.

I tasted my first Tim Tam when I was visiting Australia a few years back. Since then, I've remained hooked on the sweet treat thanks to a steady supply of overseas shipments from Erica. That's what friends are for.

I admit, just eating a cookie from the box is good, but if administered correctly, the intake of a Tim Tam can be like finding the G-spot on your tongue. This is how it's done:

1. Carefully remove one cookie at a time from the container. Tim Tams are a delicacy and should not be approached with the mannerism of Sesame Street's Cookie Monster.

2. Carefully bite off two opposite corners of the "bickie." The bite should span a radius of only a half centimeter or so. The more cookie you can leave behind, the more there will be to melt in your mouth.

3. Dip one bitten end of the Tim Tam into a warm drink. A Tim Horton's coffee makes for a splendid Canadian-Aussie fusion.

4. Quickly suck the drink through the opposite end of the Tim Tam, using the cookie like a chocolate straw, until you can taste a bit of the warm beverage.

5. The centre of the cookie should be slightly melted, gooey, and just barely starting to coat your hand in chocolate. Indulge.

6. Hide the biscuits in a secure place(not a cookie jar, that's too obvious), lest you become obligated to share them,until your next craving for a Tim Tam hit.

I shared a box of Tim Tams with a few friends tonight, one of whom had just returned from a visit to Australia and brought back a stock supply himself. There were a few cookie monsters among us who needed a lesson in the art of savouring, but not a crumb was left. I am lead to think that I could profit tremendously if I opened a Tim Tam drive through in Windsor.

07.28 MORNING RIDE

I know you're reading this.

When Jen isn't glued to her computer screen reading my photo journal she's typically out for a run, in the pool, or off on her bike for a ride along Hamilton's escarpment. In her spare time, she is hard at work on a research project helping individuals with spinal cord injury get active too

It didn't take much to convince her that this was a good morning for an early ride, despite the imminent rain clouds and the humidity that fogged our shades.

After all, I had missed the boat on the scheduled group ride last night because of a minor miscommunication that left me waiting on Jen's porch while the rest of my friends worked up an appetite for the enormous barbecue planned that evening. She owed me one and I wasn't leaving Hamilton without a ride under my over-stuffed belt.

By 8 AM we were out the door and winding up Snake Road. My legs don't usually carry me uphill very quickly, but this ride could have earned me a polka dot jersey had Jen not blown by on every climb. Argyle is my pattern of choice to polka dots anyhow

In any event, it was an awesome ride - and I'm not just talking about the downhill coasting. But if there was a jersey for the most graceful coast, or perhaps for the rider who can most elegantly tip over, cleats clipped in of course - I'd like it designed with a paisley pattern in a shade of Olive, extra small.

07.27 HAMILTONIANS

Every time I return to Hamilton I feel at home. It's not because there is a place in my heart for the smokestacks and steel factories that come into view as the 403 winds down the Niagara Escarpment. No, that certainly can't be it.

And its not because I long to revisit my old apartment, cater- corner to the train station, where passing cars shook photos off my wall and blurred the morning news just as I was trying to catch the weather report. Nope, don't miss that very much either

It's not the Beeline bus stop, right in front of the exotic dance club on King Street East, where I'd stand on weekdays, waiting in front of neon lights as patrons break-their-erotica-fast in the early hours of the morning while I tried to look discreet wishing I hadn't worn a short summer skirt on a Monday. No...I don't miss that at all

What explains the warm, fuzzy feeling I get every time I take the Aberdeen exit is the company I am in when I visit. I look forward to seeing my Hamiltonian friends.

From right to left: Shawn, Adrienne, Kevin, George, Kelly and Jen. Soon to arrive and steal my vacant seat is Rako. Sydney is also MIA this evening. Together, they form a posse who I grew close with while at McMaster and remained close to since I left town.

Get-togethers typically begin as Jen brings me up to speed on current gossip. I admit, I have picked up on some investigative skills from that girl that might come in handy once I get going as a journalist. We manage to cover a range of juicy news over skewered antipasto-kebabs but by the time we get to the main course -and the boys joined the table- the conversation shifts, as it inevitably does, to training.

By comparison, these guys make me look much like a sloth, without the fur. But their company, along with the surroundings (I'm thinking escarpment, hold the smokestacks) is motivating. They are an energetic crowd, a group of kinesiologists, a bunch of endorphin-hungry athletes...like me. The motivation lasts only until Shawn gets the blender going. He is known to mix a fine frozen bevy and tonight's concoction including at least three different flavours of Bailey's brings my metabolism, and my mind, back to holiday-mode. I bet you wouldn't have thought of the Hammer as a holiday destination. I assure you its mind over matter.

I click my heels three times, but I am still here at my computer desk in Windsor.

There's no place like ...

07.26 MANDY

There is no single person who I shared more time with while I lived in Hamilton than Mandy Vyce. She was my training partner for the two years that I ran as a McMaster Marauder and Alumni. We logged hundreds of miles together.

Today neither of us is running much at a competitive level. While I am training for a marathon "just for the heck of it," Mandy is spending more time in the pool while she nurses a couple of chronic injuries and a tumor in her foot that caused a recent cancer scare.

Having plenty in common aside from our interest in long distance running, the conversation never grows dry. About the only thing dry is the red wine we enjoyed with our My-Thai picnic by Cootes Bay this afternoon. She and I both love good food and wine and I am begining to realize this is the foundation of a solid companionship...

Another common thread is our independent decisions to return to school. Mandy acted as the program coordinator for a Jewish seniors home for over five years before deciding to complete a second undergraduate degree in political science. She plans to pursue post-grad studies in International Development next year. Eloquent and opinionated, I bet she would make an excellet corresponding journalist.

But then I am the one going on to study newspaper reporting. In England, fancy that. I remember deliberating with Mandy over an opportunity to do a PhD, gaining ideas and advice from her. At the same time, she was struggling to relinquish a comfortable lifestyle and hit the school books once again. We were both befuddled, and frequently exchanged the details of our personal and academic tribulations over long runs and shrimp khorma.

It is interesting to sit across from her today and realize how far we have come. Not just how far our feet have trod, but also the distance we have gained from our muddled minds.

Methinks the moment me legs begin to move, me thoughts begin to flow." - Henry David Thoreau.

07.25 KULTURA

My sister is a producer in Toronto's advertising industry. Clair's job is to coordinate people who can sufficiently complete a job under a set budget.

In a way, taking her work home means organizing social gatherings after hours. Tonight, the budget was flexible and the task at hand required polishing off a few rounds of Tapas and a couple bottles of white wine. Piece of cake.

Actually, we had just about everything besides a piece of cake, from salmon tapenade to curried lamb tips. I even tasted soft boiled quail eggs. The food at Kultura was delicious but, as I mentioned to her friend Thierry, even a dish as scrumptious as strawberries and cream is improved with good company.

And amidst superb company is where Thierry found himself this evening. He was the Snow White among seven lovely ladies, none of whom were Bashful or Grumpy. We all may as well have been called Happy-it must have been the Pinot Gris. The assembly included Clair's invites along with a few of my good friends who have migrated from Windsor to Hamilton over the years.

Good food and good company. No leftovers.

Job well done sis.

07.24 ADVICE

I hit the highway this afternoon destined for Hamilton and Toronto where I will be spending the next few days visiting friends one last time before I depart for England.

My first stop is McMaster University where I met with my master's thesis advisor, Steve.

Like a mad scientist, Steve is eager and dissecting, with an originative curiosity. His hair falls naturally over his forehead, partly covering the wrinkle caused by the fixed look of question on his brow. Occasionally, he runs his hands through the length of his locks, as if to comb through any confusion, adding a slight tug at the ends when he is especially frustrated.

Today his brow searches for a reasonable explanation for finding himself in front of the camera lens in the midst of a mid-afternoon coffee break.

He recalls the photo journal I complied just a year ago and rolls his eyes at me. He looks annoyed, but there is the turn of a smile at one end of his lip that gives me the okay to aim and shoot. Its probably the same look his sons, Conner and Willy, receive when they've been up to something.

It is a familiar and comforting look. As my advisor, Steve exuded a paternal concern that was benevolent, but never degrading or intrusive. I don't think he can help it. He is a father before he is a mad scientist, I suppose. But it is an endearing quality of his and one that drove me to impress him with my work, as though he might stick it to his refrigerator alongside his kid's crayon drawings once he got home.

This afternoon, Steve managed to squeeze in a bit of fatherly - or advisorly- suggestions on work opportunities at Nottingham University and ideas on how I can advance my CV to other British mad scientists who have a wad of extra funding to spend on an overqualified teaching assistant. Steve always manages to get the cogs turning, and as usual, I left our afternoon meeting full of ideas. His eagerness is contagious like that.

07.23 NINE to FIVE

It's Monday and I had the day off. It's been a long, relaxing weekend since my last day of work at the vascular lab on Friday. My former co-workers, who I met for dinner and drinks, beg not to be reminded that they have a full week of work ahead and an endless summer of forty-hour work weeks, to boot.

I am not capable of the nine-to-five lifestyle that many hard-working individuals, like the girls at the lab take on. When forced against its circadian rhythm my appetite turns ravenous and my body fatigued. Worse yet, it leaves me demotivated and unhappy. By forcing myself into an unnatural routine, with alarms that interrupt rapid-eye-movement and lunch breaks scheduled before my stomach growls, my body responds in a self-punitive pattern that resembles the single-handed fight scene between Jim Carrey's dual characters, Hank and Charlie, in the flick Me, Myself and Irene.

Now that I think of it, how do I survive this?!

First, many desirable jobs, especially those in the health industry, offer a set schedule instead of flexible hours. I like my work at the lab and the generous wage that I could not survive without. In addition, my schedule has been primarily part time, allowing shorter weeks and longer breaks between shifts. It is a luxurious lifestyle that I certainly do not take for granted. Finally, there is a tiny part of my psyche that loves routine, seeks out regularity, and thrives on the little extra organization that is demanded by a set schedule.

That tiny part is the "Charlie" in me that Hank is constantly trying to knock out.

After dinner, the girls scrambled to get home in a hurry. The relaxing effect of red wine and a full stomach was abruptly nullified by the realization that Tuesday is a work day and there is much to be done before the body shuts down for a night's rest. I could have stayed for another glass of wine or two, or just enough to leave that nagging, responsible Charlie in the dust that settles at the back of my mind.

07.22 LUAU

It's the Luau Barbecue at Cone's, an annual gathering of local paramedics, firefighters and, well, the rest of us. The event traditionally begins with coctails under the sun, which leads a few staggering guests to the slip-and-slide on the front lawn, then carries on until enough people have been sobered by the loss of their cell phones in the pool, or otherwise pass out.

In the past, flowery leis and fruit trays were staple to the party. Since Cone's boyfriend, John, joined as co-host, the event has been masculinized by the inclusion of a pig, roasted of course, as well as blow-up dolls with orifices tattooed in permanent marker afloat in the swimming pool.

Another novelty to this year's luau was the penis-shaped pinata, which guests of either sex battered with the passionate intent of a blind-folded Lorena Bobbitt. The final blow threw the pinata across the fence, fertilizing the neighbours lawn with a candy sperm.

In any event, the pinata added a Spanish twist to the Hawaiian-themed party, making it a multicultural event, in true Windsor fashion.

07.21 THE WIG

I have been growing my locks for nearly three years. Initially the intent was driven by vanity. With the blunt Cleopatra-esque cut I was sporting there would be no prospects for an Alexander the Great to suddenly sweep me off my feet.

But after Casey donated her hair to the Canadian Cancer Society's drive for wigs, my motives became philanthropic. I was inspired. My hair could actually be used to manufacture a wig for a person who has lost their own to chemotherapy.

Donations of 8 to 10 inches of healthy, untreated, and uncoloured hair are accepted by various organizations. Today, I cropped nearly 12 inches in one blow. It was a dramatic change that left me suddenly self-conscious as though I had gone bald myself.

But any reservations I had about donating my pony tail were eliminated when I examined a patient at work on Friday who had lost her hair to chemotherapy. She didn't wear a wig nor did she conceal her scalp with a bandanna or hat. I realized she is among the few fortunate enough to remain confident despite the most obvious side effect of this treatment.

For others, the dramatic change in appearance can become extremely distressing.
How could I not share of this very natural and renewable resource? My hair can grow back.

I will admit, growing the length was a long process, and maintaining a healthy ponytail took a lot of effort. At times, it was tedious. But knowing that one donation might help an individual cope with the harrowing difficulties of cancer treatment is well worth it, and makes even the worst hair day feel pretty good after all.

07.20 RETIREMENT

Today was my last day of work at the Windsor Vascular Lab. The girls bought cake to celebrate my retirement. They'll find any excuse for chocolate cake.

I have been involved with the WVL since 2001, when I took up a placement there during my studies in Human Kinetics at the University of Windsor.

I received training as an ultrasound technician and also assist with the walking rehabilitation program for patients who have claudication, a symptom of leg pain caused by poor blood circulation. I was so intrigued by this debilitating symptom that while attending McMaster University I also conducted three research studies on site for my master's thesis.

Since January, I have been back on staff part-time, probing around patients' feet for pulses and pressure readings. I got to know many of the patients here on a personal level...right down to the ticklish spots on their toes.

Many of our patients are older adults who confide in the staff and seek companionship during their visits. This afternoon, I scanned Ed, a patient who was a part of the walking program when I first began working here. Catching up with him meant going back six years when he was a regular patient in the exercise program. He told me once that I haven't lived until I've darned a sock and milked a cow.

I have since darned a sock but have yet to milk a cow.

I will miss the interaction with staff here, and especially with the patients. Being around older adults is invigorating, much like being around children. Except seniors make me feel a lot younger. They tell me I am merely a Spring Chicken.

Often they talk about the weather, their garden, and their grandchildren. They inevitably complain about their most recent visit to the doctor. Aside from this, there is always a store of knowledge and insights and incredible stories to be tapped into. Their conversation has been a rewarding aspect of this job that I will miss as I move on.

And what shall I move on to? Now that I'm retired, I might just live it up and find myself a cow to milk. But then this is an early retirement - perhaps I'll save that one for the golden years.

07.19 RAINY DAY

A thundershower broke the near-drought we've had.
It left some pretty puddles here and there.
No worms.

07.18 SNAKEBITE

I’m not sure if this is the look of Trevor biting a snake, or if this is Trevor getting bit by one. Either way, he is about to sip the venomous combination of Strongbow and Guinness.

It was Pub Etiquette 101 this evening at Spicoli’s. Together, Trevor and Bernie introduced me to a variety of labels that are popular in the UK and also locally. I tasted a half-pint of Strongbow, a sweet, refreshing brew that brings my imagination back to Robin Hood country. It’s all in a name, right?

So I looked up the name Trevor, just out of curiosity. Several similar results turned up including, “homestead.” A homestead is, well, the place where one’s home is, and often describes a settlement used for farmland. How appropriate. Trevor loves to garden and along a run this afternoon, he and I confessed to being homebodies at heart. Nothing like a quiet evening spent cooking and reading.

Sounds like fun, but this afternoon Trevor and I exchanged our own independent plans to relocate – to pack up our present homesteads and go.

In my case, the departure is imminent. Although I’m not quite packed-up, I am set to go. In only two weeks I will leave my hometown with an open ended ticket to the land of Snakebites and bitters with lime.

For Trevor, a migration is undetermined. I think he might be happiest in an environment that allows him to be self-sustained, labouring to live off the fruits of the earth that he cultivates. Right now, he is considering in advance, an opportunity to venture westward with a close friend sometime next year.

How appropriate. The name Trevor is also defined as, “prudent.”

07.17 VENISON

Ironwoman joined me for dinner tonight. I prepared a venison roast and although she is almost vegetarian, Casey devours wild meat.

I suppose the sport of hunting is environmentally and economically more sound that raising cattle for slaughter, and somehow poses less of a moral challenge for me. Still I find it far more difficult to dissociate the spirited wild animal from its bloody shank of muscle tissue on the bone.

Casey doesn’t. But then, she didn’t wash and prepare the roast. She didn’t trim the thin layer of fat from the sinew. She didn’t eat from the rare-cooked midsection of the cut, where blood trickled as I sliced through the meat.

I bet she didn’t even cry when she watched Bambi.
Neither did I, but I bet I would if I watched it today.

07.16 OASIS

Eight weeks ago I committed to training for the Robin Hood Marathon in Nottingham. The race takes place in September and today I am halfway there.

At the time, I was feeling strong after a solid hill workout at Malden Park when I figured I would enjoy sixteen weeks of heavy training and high mileage. The endorphins were high and I wonder if this blurred my capacity to reason.

Nevertheless, at halfway I am still plodding along and I find myself back where I started. Once again (and nearly every week), I am at Malden Park propelling myself upward, remembering that what goes up has the pleasure of coming back down.

I like to take my runs out to the old landfill-turned-park. I have trained here for over a decade, contributing to the worn trails and treaded paths that map out mile loops and warm up routes. My favourite spot is the picnic table at K9 Corner, a landmark starting point for most workouts that gained its title after a pair of barking dogs fenced within the yard along this end of the park.

Along with the dilapidated picnic table, a canopy of trees contributes to this oasis, an escape from the treacherous climbs and sweltering sunshine. K9 Corner is a place of rest, where intervals end and water bottles are collected like a waterhole in the middle of the Sahara.

Speaking of the middle, this brings me back to the topic of this journal entry which is the point I have reached in my marathon training. Half-way. I don’t think I would have got this far or enjoyed the process at all had I spent any less time at Malden Park.

07.15 HARVEST

People say you should face your fears. On an intrepid whim earlier this spring, I set out with a shovel and a package of dried peas to the garden to do just that.

It was a warm afternoon in May. The last rainfall had been weeks earlier and the ground was dry but for the manure that had been shovelled in after the till. In a few days the moon would be full and my green-thumbed neighbour, Loretta promised that this would boost my mini crop.

For Loretta, as for most gardeners, tending to the yard is relaxing pastime with an element of ritual gained over the years. It is a rewarding labour, producing a variety of actual fruits – as well as tubers, bulbs and stems depending on the seed you sow. I don't find it very relaxing at all and often wonder if having fresh produce is worth the sheer terror of splicing the earth with a shovel.

After all, I could splice through an earthworm.

I am a Helminthophobe. I realize earthworms are harmless and that my fear of these crawlers is senseless. Indeed, they are among the most productive and vital organisms. I learned plenty about their do-gooding in a book called, The Earth Moved: On the Remarkable Achievement of Earthworms. The author, Amy Stewart, is a gardener who elaborates a profound interest and appreciation for the creatures. I read the book hoping that learning something about worms would help reduce the fear factor.

It helped. I gained a better understanding of their pivotal role in the life cycle, and now choose to cultivate worms in a compost heap. Still I keep a distance, tipping the lid with a broom and tossing banana peels and apple cores in from afar.

Planting peas this spring was a method of tackling my anxiety surrounding the earthworm. It was similar to the task of eating gummy worms I took on a few years back. Every now and then I have to desensitize myself.

I faced my fear and am finally reaping the abundant reward. With the cooperation of the earthworm, my peas are now grown and ready for harvest.

They are almost as delicious as a red and yellow gummy worm.

07.14 MARTINI CHEWS

Running has become a recurring theme in my blogs this past week. Training for my first marathon, it seems, has me revolving my days around the revolution of my lower limbs

Often, these revolutions initiate at The Running Factory, the RF, the hub of Windsor's running circuit. This is the spot where local athletes meet to talk tactics, build mileage, buy shoes.

This morning, after a 9-miler that started and finished at the shop, I dropped in for a chat with Meredith and Josh. (As you can see, they are hard at work as usual. No time for horseplay. All serious, all the time.) I managed to convince Meredith into joining me for a run later this week before the conversation shifted to the tedium of training as it often does between the two of us.

We then got caught up on recent happenings over a package of Cliff Energy Chews - Martini Style. Of note, the flavour received only mediocre reviews from all three of us. (Stick with raspberry instead)

On the other hand, if the Martini energy chews actually came on the rocks with a shot of vermouth and an olive or two, I think they would be a quick sell at the RF. The place already attracts loiterers like myself: lonely long distanced minds just looking for a place to forget their running woes and wash down their ankle aches over a drink or two.

The theme song from Cheers has come to mind.

I can picture it already. The RF obtains its first liquor licence and Josh is set to bounce at the door, enforcing a dress code that restricts spandex to women only. Runners come in for a pint and a power bar before retiring to a long run. Late nights, the lights are dimmed and the music cranked as the Culligan tank becomes a popular meeting place for singles seeking training partners.

But before my imagination runs wild I'll down one last, sobering morsel of Martini flavoured energy chew from the package I bought today. Yeah, I think I'll stick to raspberry.

07.13 THE FASTEST PAISAN

Tony Didonencio and Armando Bonfiglio were among hundreds of Italians on Erie Street this Friday night. While most were perched on patios, strings of twirled noodles lacing their hungry jaws to bottomless bowls, these two were twirling the laces on their flats at the Running Factory's Beat Beethoven 8KM Road Race.

So was I. It was my first race in Windsor for over two years, yet it seemed as though little had changed. Armando was among many familiar faces at the start line. He carried me through a 40 minute 10K nearly a decade ago - a time that remained my personal best until last spring.

This time, I was just barely ahead of him, my pace sustained by the smells of pizza and pesto moreso than the swash of gatorade I choked down between heaving breaths every 2 km.
After the run, Armando and I exchanged splits and stats as we replenished together among a hoard of sweaty, spandexed runners corralled in front of St. Angela's Church as they crossed the finish line.

He won his age group, first among six other men aged 60-64 just barely over 35 minutes. Incredible for a guy his age. I call him The Fastest Paisan.

07.12 THE W.R.A.C.E VAN

The W.R.A.C.E. van lives on Ellis and Moy. I tip my imaginary hat as I walk by every day after work. Walkers and Runners Around the County of Essex, or W.R.A.C.E., is a non-profit organization that was founded by Jerry Slavik along with Dave Orshinsky back in the 80's.

Jerry is reliably present at the start line of just about every track and field event in the city. He hold the starter's gun and defeats any statistics we learned about age-diminished response time in Motor Development and Learning a few years back at uni. He never misses a beat.

The organization he established raises money for local charities by hosting a series of road races throughout the year. For the past few years the crew has run a tight budget and I worry that WRACE will dissipate as more and more sanctioned and competitive road races are being hosted in the city.

Financial woes harbour the capacity of this small organization to expand their season schedule and compete with sponsored events. Still, the board of directors includes a passionate group of locals with their hearts devoted to keeping W.R.A.C.E. up and running along with its participants.

Several years ago, I took up the opportunity to work with this board. I held an executive position, acting as the W.R.A.C.E. Newsletter Editor and Communications Coordinator. It was my first dabble at writing for a real audience and resulted largely in positive feedback. While I was an adequate contributor to this organization's purpose, my work was merely a fraction of the tireless efforts of other board members.

Nearly every weekend Jerry Slavik is on the oval, ears plugged, gun in hand. The starter.

He gets to see the finish every time.

Lets just hope he doesn't see W.R.A.C.E. cross the finish line anytime soon.

07.11 BERNIE

It's Wednesday night at the Running Factory. Present at this weeks conglomeration of marathoners, half marathoners and recreational runners is local veteran athlete, Bernie Collins.

Bernie moved to Essex County, Ontario from England's Essex County in 1975. His wit and charm, enhanced by a British accent lets him get away with colourful short shorts of the early 90's fashion. He is often sporting a worn-out singlet that clashes somewhat with his bottom half.

Bernie and I once shared perogies at Patrick O'Ryans after a run. He is very generous and also has a store of training tactics and marathon tips for sharing. He can talk about running unremittingly, to boot. Then again, I can listen to a British accent without tiring which is what makes him such a great partner for a long run.

07.10 PROLACTINOMAS

Hypochondriacs like to talk about their conditions. It wasn't long after I introduced myself to Crissy Appleby at a mutual friend's barbecue tonight before one of us mentioned pituitary adenomas. She and I share the riveting experience of hearing the words brain and tumor in the same diagnostic sentence.

Nearly two years ago, I was diagnosed with idiopathic hyperprolactinemia, or elevated blood prolactin, a condition with a prevalence rate of up to 10% among the general population (Serri et al., 2003). Prolactin, a naturally occurring hormone controlled by the pituitary gland is often caused by the presence of a benign tumor or adenoma in the gland. In my case there is no identified cause, my MRI producing a picture perfect black and white image of healthful cerebrum.

Prolactin is most associated with pregnancy, when it is secreted by the pituitary at higher circulating levels in order to regulates the menstrual cycle and facilitate lactation. That's right, it turns the body into a breast milk factory.

My pituitary gland has tricked my body into behaving as though I am pregnant, at least at the hormonal level. Fortunately the package doesn't include water retention or morning sickness and I don't wear pants with elastic waistlines. My blood prolactin levels are only just slightly above the upper level considered normal. Still, this excess is enough to throw my body for a loop, lowering estrogen production and causing irregular menstrual cycles. My body has its own built in contraceptive system and instead uses the birth control pill as a hormone replacement therapy.

Fortunately I am as fertile as the soil in my backyard. And there are more tomatoes in our garden this year than I can eat. Still, it is frightening to consider the disarray of my hypothalamic-pituitary axis, the primary site of hormonal secretion. This is why women like myself and Crissy fire off stats from our latest blood test results and carry on about MRIs. There is a great deal of consolation in commonality.

07.09 GETTING FRISKY IN BED

It's been a while since anybody crawled into bed with me. Just my luck, tonight it happened to be a furry feline intruder.

Frisky, or Friskers by my own term of endearment, is named appropriately for her liveliness. Apart from the 16 hours a day she spends asleep, she exhibits spurts of "friskiness" charachterized by energetic hissing and aggressive clawing. Often these episodes are triggered by a friendly pet of the collar or a gentle tug at a mat of fur.

I am house-sitting for a friend this month and Frisky came with the package. Initially she expressed her distaste for me by vomiting hairballs at the front door and just narrowly missing the litter box. After the second week of cohabiting her home on Gladstone, or Happyrock as it has been otherwise pegged, Frisky's feelings have taken an affectionate turn.

It might have been the tuna we shared for dinner, or the extra milk I left in her dish the other morning. Perhaps it was the hairball I trimmed from her back side. But I am no longer treated as an impostor of Frisky's domain. Then again, she might have left me cramped in a fetal ball on the upper half of the bed tonight as a signal that she has expanded her territory.

Now who is really the intruder?

07.08 JUNIPER BOOKS

I have more books than I can read. At the turn of the year, I resolved to buy not a single book until I had read everything on my shelves. Like most New Year's Resolutions this one barely lasted through January.

Today, I broke the rules once again. Along my walk home from the marketplace I passed a used and rare bookstore, its front doors wide open, beckoning my entry.

Juniper Books is owned by an unassuming gentleman named Roger, who collected my birthday so that he could send a coupon as a gift by mail. He read somplace that the last page of Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby has been identified as one of the most powerful pieces of work. (I prefer F. Scott's short stories). Roger is reserved yet friendly in his own manner, akin to a librarian moreso than a shop owner.

The bookstore itself is quiet despite the eclectic sound of indie rock projected by the speaker system. It is located in an old post-wartime house on Ottawa Street with each room designated to a genre of books. When I entered the kitchen, I found the cupboards appropriately stocked with a variety of cooking books.

A quick look around is all I intended but then perusing takes some time, right?

Even in this tiny house, I became lost among shelves of familiar titles and engaging subjects. I found a cozy chair situated suitably among Psychology, Social Sciences and Media and Culture topics and made myself at home until my stomach was growling for lunch.

Before I entered Juniper books, I determined that I would buy one, and only one book today, keeping in mind my January resolution. Instead, I left Juniper Books with Bill Bryson and Margaret Atwood in hand, along with a copy of the classic poem, Beowolf.

07.07 KLOPPS

If you've spent any time running with a person you will learn to recognize their gait from miles. Three quarters of the way through a two hour training run this morning, I noticed an lanky, heavy heeled figure heading my way. It was, unmistakably, Mark.

Also known as Klopps (short for Kloppenburg), Mark and I met and became training partners in high school, back when I could keep up with the boys. Between then and now he's overtaken me with his lengthy stride. At 6'2" and all legs its no wonder.

This morning, the multiple ironman triathlete had just set out for his first run in weeks and was, like the good old days, keeping up with me. (Alright, so I picked up the pace a bit once he joined me.) When we crossed paths I convinced him to keep me company for the rest of my mileage. I even talked him into running me home where I could take a pic for the photo journal - I like to know that I can still exercise a level of influence over my ex-boyfriend of six years.

Mark has recently taken on a position with Windsor Police, and like a good officer, kept an eye out for oncoming traffic as I haphazardly jay-ran across busy city streets. I wonder if I would recognize Mark if I saw him in full uniform. Constable Mark is not the Mark that I know. But I am certain to never mistake his running stride. We've spent a lot of runs side by side, Mark and I.

07.06 FESTIVAL EPICURE

Festival Epicure was nearly a no-go this summer. It is one of Windsor's most widely attended riverfront festivals, coralling nearly 30, 000 people into the gates of the waterfront terrace to bump elbows in line for overpriced food and wine samples from local patrons. Still, Festival Epicure is one of my favorite events. Any occasion that brings people and food together is worthwile, if you ask me.

This year, the festival was particularly important for rejuvenating community morale. Major cutbacks in manufacturing jobs and a lull in new investments have had a devastating impact on Windsor's economy, and many festivals and events have lost sponsorship and interest in turn. When the major sponsor for festival epicure withdrew earlier this year, Windoreats.com, a website that promotes local dining, launched a campaign in support for the event, reminding the media and city counselors of Festival Epicure's cultural significance. The website is co-owned by Adriano and Pina Ciotoli. For this sibling duo, who both work for the city of Windsor, facilitating community involvement is important, but the need to help out local businesses is especially urgent at this time.

Over the summer I have been able to help Adriano and Pina's cause by contributing in writing to their website. It is a pleasure to promote local dining establishments but especially encouraging to work with individuals who actively support our hometown. If you ask me, their tent deserved centre stage at Festival Epicure this year.

07.05 EAT YOUR GREENS

Warm artichoke spinach dip, mixed green salad, spinach pesto pasta, pistachio cheesecake, mint green tea soy lattes, and dried kiwi fruit decorated the dinner table tonight. Perhaps the colour green was too easy. Maybe we should have rented The Colour Purple, Blue Crush, or Pretty in Pink instead. It's possible then that I wouldn't have such a stomach ache from the abundance of food at our Shrek-themed potluck.

Keeping with our wintertime tradition of getting together for experimental eats and prime time TV drama, Jen, Casey and I rented the first sequel in an effort to catch up with the rest of the world already viewing Shrek 3 in theatres. Josh and Alexander joined us and both watched the flick for the second time. The movie is clever and fully entertaining, and Antonio Banderas' voice over for Puss in Boots inspired the idea for a Spanish-style dinner party next week. I still haven't seen The Legend of Zorro. Tapas anyone?

07.04 LE STEAK

I spent the lunch hour enjoying fine French food with an Italian couple from Manhattan. Claudia DiNatale, a long-time friend dating back to summer track club, and her husband, John Figliolini co-own Le Steak at Fillmore East, a Jazz Supper Club and French Bistro in downtown Windsor. I am profiling their business and backgrounds for an article I will be writing for Windsoreats.com and BizX Magazine. Here is a clip:

When they returned to Windsor to be closer to family and friends, the unsuspecting couple embarked on a new project that would allow them to bring an element of New York, their home away from home, to our downtown district. With a bit of handy work and a great deal of ingenuity, Le Steak at Fillmore East was established. John and Claudia had transformed a local bar into a unique version of a New York style Jazz Supper Club.

“We wanted to do something completely different in terms of blending French food with Jazz music,” explains John. Claudia continues, “If we didn’t have the live entertainment on the weekends, it would just be another restaurant.”

Or would it? Executive Chef David Grascoeurs brings an authentic taste of France to the table at Le Steak. Originally from Brittany, Grascoeurs left his mark across Europe before moving to Canada. He worked at several renowned establishments in Ontario and Quebec, including Starfish Oyster Bed and Grill in Toronto, before relocating to Windsor. When John and Claudia had a sample of his work, they immediately put their menu in his hands.

07.03 IRON WOMAN

Casey dominated the previous photo journal, with more appearances in my life last year than anybody else. Today is her debut in three sixty six. She swung by for a visit this evening, claiming to be in top form since she started including more iron in her diet. She does look well. It is the first time she has felt positive about her health in months. Casey shares the habit with many men of avoiding doctors and ignoring symptoms. Her negligence makes me anxious, and if it could the hypochondriac in me would shuttle her to the nearest clinic for a full round of blood tests and a urinalysis. Still, I'm glad to see the home remedy helping.

It is a relief to hear she is physically well but I wonder if she might also be going mad when she mentions an appetite for liver. Despite a tendency to acquire a liking for awful foods that are nutritious, I have never had cravings for liver. My preferred source of iron is molasses. A few years back when I heard that molasses is chock full of the nutrient, I started pouring it over everything from pancakes to potatoes. I happen to have a molasses cookie on hand that I share with the iron woman. It should hold her over until she gets her hands on an involuntary bovine organ donor.

07.02 DUTY FREE

I brought my parents banana bread at dinner today. I was recieved graciously, but my mother had already baked banana bread this week. We traded. I certainly got the better end of the deal which, aside from the fact that her baking is far better than my own, included some fresh spinach and peas from the garden, as well as strawberries, bagels, cheese, and pastries to tie me over for the 10 minute car ride back to my place. In an act of shameless gluttony, I tried to smuggle some chocolate in my purse, and only narroly got through customs. It seems that sugar is duty free at this border.

07.01 CANADA HOUSE

Like I mentioned, my story begins in Canada. I could think of no better occasion to inaugurate this photo journal than on the First of July. It is Canada Day and I am dutifully wearing a favorite pair of DeFeet brand socks, designed with the Canadian flag logo.

The socks were manufactured in North Carolina.

I decide it’s too hot outside to be wearing socks. Especially imports. I take them off, slide into a pair of flip flops and head out the door.

A few blocks away from my home is a more appropriate symbol of patriotism. I call it Canada House. If you are ever in Windsor, head over to the corner of Lincoln and Erie Streets and you will see more maple leafs than the penalty box at Toronto’s Air Canada Centre has capacity.

I am paying my respects as a Canadian citizen to this maple leaf shrine. Up close, the house is at once both astonishing and amusing. The mailbox alone has five emblems and is mounted onto a wood-carved maple leaf beside the front door. I have driven past it in the evening when it is lit up as though it were Christmas in July. Solemnly entering the red and white gate, I make my way past a drape of flags to the porch where I hesitate before ringing the doorbell. I feel a little out of place. I should have kept my socks on. Just the same, I was hoping to wish the people who live here a Happy Canada Day but instead am left alone on the porch with the sound of a windchime, most likely picked up at a Niagara Falls souvenir shop, answering my ring.

I leave content in assuming that the homeowners are happy today.

The Countdown Begins

A picture is worth ten thousand words. In an attempt to expand the value of my amateurish photography I am journaling a year of my life using both photos and words. It happens to span the twenty ninth day of February 2008 making it one day longer than the typical Gregorian year.

This blog will capture extraordinary occurences and exceptional encounters as well as the banalities of everyday life. I'll try to keep it interesting.

On that note, I anticipate an eventful year with plans to leave my home in Windsor and study journalism in England. My story begins in Canada but I dont really know where it will end. I suppose I'll still be plodding away at my second master's degree a year from today...so I would rather not look too far ahead. Let's just take it one day at a time...three sixty six to go.