06.26 THE OTHER WINDSOR

I felt a bit like a tourist today. Cycled to Windsor - the other Windsor - with the club. Covering over 60 km and holding 28-32 clicks most of the way, I was knackered once we reached the shop for a pick-me-up ice cream and cuppa in the middle of the Royal Park.

There was a funny sentiment about being in a place which my hometown is named after. I though of my home, off of Queen Elizabeth Road, which intersects with another street called Lloyd George (who I thought was a rock star, until I was at least 9 years old).

The Royal Park was huge, with shaded, hilly paves, a 5000 acre deer park and a wide-open space for Polo, where a few joggers were doing laps. We passed the equestrian statue of George III, overlooking Windsor Castle - beautiful view although it was difficult to take in as we were whizzing past at a quick pace.

After cake, most of the crew cycled on another 30 k to Clapham, and a few of us went into town to catch a train back, where I got a close-up view of the castle and a feel for the quaint touristy Windsor that in no way resembles my home town, apart from the namesake.

05.07 HSLP

Casey is running toward the mall in full stride. Not because she's entering a revival in her running career, certainly not because she's eager to join the hooded teens, hovering suspiciously around the entrance to the movie theatre -but because its pouring rain and she's dedicated the early part of our evening to consulting me on Canadian music.

The new album by Broken Social Scene is a must buy, since I'll be seeing them live (on her advice) next month. And after scouring the aisles, I settle on the Stars, who Casey will be seeing in concert tomorrow night. She knows the Arts & Crafts label inside out it seems, and while she and I have different appetites for music, she knows what I like.

On our way back to the car, Casey and I agree that we have spent far too much of our adult Friday nights at Devonshire Mall. We leave the parking lot and head for my parents dining table, where we spend the rest of the evening catching up on the months past since my Christmas visit, cup of tea in each of our hands. I go wild and go caffeinated. I guess we're the sort of "hslp" who can be anyplace having a good time.

05.03 HARDWARE

'Proudly Canadian'. The logo spans the front of Rona, where Reno and I scanned the aisles for, err, a strip of cherry oak wood. (Still the logo doesn't resound as patriotically as 'Canadian Tire'). Not really sure what exactly this was for besides the fact that my father will be installing it at my sister's place this week.

Going to the hardware store with my father is an age-old tradition. When I was a kid, we would frequent Canadian Tire then tour Home Hardware before scouring a few paint shops en route to a home that seemed always under refurbishment - and still does. I used to collect the colour strips in the paint aisle, spending the drive home carefully selecting my favourite - usually on the basis of the colour's name rather than its hue. Always favoured colours that had the word 'sea' in them, or that somehow reminded me of the beach.

Rona didn't stock cherry oak, or even a flat metal strip that might have served whatever purpose the latest 'Reno'vations called for. A good enough reason to spend the afternoon on another epic hardware-store-crawl...

(Some things never change.)

05.01 WELCOME PACKAGE

I was in London for breakfast and Windsor by lunchtime. Judy was anxiously awaiting at arrivals in Detroit Metro, while Reno kept the trusty old Sebring running and ready to shuttle me across the border, home.

In spite of telling mom not to bother bringing food for the road, she was equipped, as ever, with enough provisions to cover me through the journey to Windsor and back - which, I realised, given my father's Sunday driving on this Saturday was not a bad idea at all.

Politely, I turned down the healthy options to allow room to stuff myself with Timbits, collecting them in my cheeks in the fashion of my hamster John McPhee, and with the similar primal motive that tomorrow there might be none. I rifled through the pack of 10 until I found my first choice - an old fashioned glazed (a preference I am reluctant to disclose as I edge on 30 - my younger palate would have gone straight for the chocolate). Delicious.

A warm and stodgy welcome to warm and smoggy Windsor.

08.07 RE-EMPTYING THE NEST

Hopefully this is the last time I move out of my parents place. I wouldn’t describe the situation as a Failure to Launch, but rather the result of a Boomerang Effect with every catapulting exodus.

Twice, I moved out with the intent of returning home after spending a summer on Pelee Island and following my exchange overseas to Australia. When I finally packed the van and hit the highway to Hamilton we all though that this was it; I had emptied the nest.

But I returned last fall, after completing my studies, not really certain what I would do with a master’s in health psychology. The seemingly logical step is to go back for more. In an effect it is another sort of boomerang effect following one degree after another. I don’t plan on this becoming a chronic pattern.

The nest is emptied for at least a year and a half.
The next thing to clear out is the Nest Egg.
Since I’m moving to England, this should be no problem at all.

08.06 LILY POTATO

This is Lily. At merely eight months she was already walking and at one year Aunt Casey, balancing her by both hands, takes her for short sprint-running bouts. She’s a strong kid, and this is probably why I didn’t hesitate to sweep her up and carry her in my arms.

I am usually pretty uncomfortable with babies, especially newborns who appear especially fragile. With my arms folded awkwardly, I will hold a baby as though suffering an acute and premature onset of rigor mortis. But the helpless little thing realizes my discomfort and typically cries out for release before anybody actually needs to call an ambulance to revive me from the stress-induced heart attack that is sure to follow a baby-hold one of these days.

Time and time again, I have been told that babies are robust, that they can be carried and punted around like footballs. I refuse to believe this and don’t plan on finding out for myself. But from the looks of her, I think Lily could be tossed around like a Hot Potato and she would be just fine.

Maybe this is why Casey calls her Lily Potato.

08.05 WOAH JESUS!

In the beginning, there was a replica of The Last Supper in the basement of Tuna’s parent’s house. I wasn’t present at the genesis of the Woah Jesus stance but understand that it originated under the influenced of some herbal hallucinogen.

That night, after scrutinizing the painting like a bunch of DaVinci de-Coders, one of the girls noticed that James, the guest to the left of the Host with the Most appeared to be holding his hands up in dismay, as if to exclaim, “Woah Jesus!”

And so, on this day, the girls saw that it was good. And Landry does St. James' impression really good.

08.03 THE LAST STRAW

It’s girl’s night out and you’re hopping bars downtown as best you can in high heels and a mini skirt. After batting a few eyelashes you sneak past the line into Jack Rabbits and just as you’re about to tear up the dance floor (again, as best you can in high heels), you bump into your boyfriend hitting on another girl who can hold her own in stilettos.

You finally put your shoes to good use by taking one off to throw it at his head, now deflated from the ego-tearing rant you sputtered while he tried his best to look innocent. Then, in an effort to gain impetus you search for the straw that links your mouth to your fuel and suck back the frozen rock bottom of your daiquiri. There is a final gurgling slurp before you run out of juice and aggressively slam your glass down on the bar beside you.

He has a smirk on his face. Your anger turns to fury.
But why doesn’t he seem to get it?
It must have been the straw.

Tuna argues that it’s impossible to look angry while drinking from a straw.
So we tried to. It wasn’t easy.
What do you think?

08.01 MOVEMENT SCIENCE

With a background in Kinesiology I should have more confidence in physical therapy practices. It wasn't until my right limb had me teetering precariously with every step before I made arrangements to see my friend and physiotherapist Charlotte Loaring

In a single treatment she identified the potential cause of my right limb pain as a weakness in my gluteus medius. Time to get my butt in gear according to this prognosis

Limited strength around my right hip is causing this joint to drop with every step, throwing my gait out of line. The result is a cascade of mild injuries resulting from chronic stress. Damn marathon training.

A second and unusual problem spot is my right big toe. Instead of grounding my foot to balance every step it departs from the ground placing most of the impact on my already pancaked arch.

Its an ugly sight to see me run in slow motion.

After adjusting my ankle joint, stretching my metatarsals, and performing acupuncture along my right limb, Charlotte sent me off with a series of balance and strengthening exercises which should keep my injuries at bay at least until my training slows.

A reminder to this BHK that movement is indeed a science.

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.

07.22 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.

07.15 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.