Sunday, January 20, 2008

Winter Celebration in Ottawa



Where better to celebrate the Canadian Winter than in our National’s Capital? A two day short break enabled me to sample some of the delights of Ottawa. I stayed at Ottawa’s newest boutique hotel, Hotel Indigo Ottawa, ideally positioned at Metcalf and Laurier. Designed for relaxation and renewal, the décor changes seasonally and it is an apt and comfortable HQ for exploring Ottawa, positioned close to the many cultural attractions.

Culturally the National Gallery of Canada constantly amazes me. The permanent collection is wonderful and the Group of Seven exhibit always leaves me in awe. But the travelling exhibits are particularly noteworthy and this winter’s Ron Mueck’s installation of a giant baby is certainly that!

Christmas Lights across Canada


Of course winter in Ottawa means Christmas Lights and Winterlude. Too early for the world class festival of Winterlude which takes place in February, I was however able to enjoy the sparkle of the lights in the downtown area, which presage the great New Years fireworks display. And my CJAD co-host Sharman Yarnell certainly got into the spirit of Winter!

Sip Savour and Spa



Relaxation came in the form of a classical Thai massage at Holtz Spa – a rejuvenating experience perfectly complemented by a meal at Santé, the healthy eating restaurant onsite. And talking of eating – I was fortunate enough to experience - and I do mean experience – a culinary event of perfection at The Cordon Bleu Culinary Arts Institute. It was an amazing sequence of perfectly complimenting dishes and wines – just right for that very special occasion.

Finally no visit to Ottawa would be complete without spending time at the heart and soul of the city: Byward Market. Decked out for Christmas, there are cheese and pastry shops you can’t pass by and stalls selling everything from seasonal décor to my secret Ottawa vice – Beaver Tails!

Caladesi Island - the real Florida






As the sign says: Caladesi Island is the real Florida. Although it’s just a few minutes north of the buzz of Clearwater Beach, this State Park could be a million miles away. It’s accessible only by ferry from Honeymoon Island and the 20 minute boat trip transitions me to a world of mangrove swamps, hiking trails, and some of the most pristine beaches anywhere in the US. I spent the day with Carl, a Park Ranger who has been on the island over 20 years. Together we explored the trails, spotted tortoise, armadillo and ospreys. To my disappointment we couldn’t find one of the rattlesnakes that are common on the island. Then after a bite to eat at the little café, we took to the water to explore the tidal mangrove trails in a couple of kayaks. These arced tunnels vein the eastern side of the island and are a unique way to get up close and personal to the mangrove ecosystem. With a four hour maximum stay, my visit comes to an end much too soon, but I have been privileged to see this “real Florida”.

St Petersburg / Clearwater Sunsets




And ah!........those sunsets. One of the reasons why many Florida aficionados prefer the Gulf Coast to the Atlantic Coast are the spectacular sunsets every evening over the Gulf of Mexico.

Segways and Electric Boats



There’s some interesting ways to of seeing St Petersburg / Clearwater sights by land and water. For a sedate but fun way of touring down town St Petersburg / Clearwater I took a Segway Tour on an environmentally friendly two-wheeler. It takes a few minutes to master and then we were off on a guided route around the downtown neighbourhoods. Continuing the Green theme I then hired an electric boat and spent a leisurely and peaceful hour cruising the harbour amidst impressive yachts and around the inverted pyramid of The Pier, St Petersburg’s iconic landmark.

Tarpon Springs




No visit to the St Petersburg / Clearwater region would be complete without traveling to Greece…… at least the little bit of Greece called Tarpon Springs that is just a half hour north of Clearwater. Greek sponge divers came together a hundred years ago to form this fascinating community which developed into the world’s largest sponge industry. I took a cruise from the Sponge Docks on the Anclote River and watched as a young diver brought the valuable sponges to the surface from the depths below, using old- style diving suits. A massive and delicious Greek meal capped off the trip and a Tarpon Springs sponge now sites atop my bathtub at home.


Run Barbados

Barbados Dawn

A white latticed balcony at coconut level in the pre-dawn hush of an early tropical morning…The earlier chorus of tree frogs has quietened to an occasional chirrup – the only sounds are the rustlings of the palm fronds a few feet seaward of the balcony and the gentle chuckle of the waves teasing the beach. Then the first strident call of the island birds announces a barely perceptible translucent glow in the sky overhead, while the western horizon over the Caribbean remains night black. The glow expands perceptibly as dawn explodes over the island and within minutes the surroundings become defined: the massive fronds of regal palms, delicate casuarinas below, the meticulous resort gardens and lawns leading to the fine coral sand beach and calm waters of the Caribbean Sea. The first rays of the sun illuminate the topmost palm fronds and imbue Caribbean waters with their turquoise colours. Shadows creep along the sands. A dove perches on the balcony balustrade, head cocked to one side as if murmuring, “Is this the perfect start to a day, or what?”. And it is.

This first hour of the daylight day on Barbados is so often missed by vacationers and yet it is the most precious time of all: no meal times, activities or excursions to rush towards, no need to do anything but breathe deeply of the new day, relax wholly, completely and contemplate how fortunate we are to be here, now…

A Run in Barbados

Three o’clock in the morning is an odd time of day to be slathering on sun screen…Yet here I was doing just that in the depths of a velvet tropical night. I had learnt the hard way from my experience the previous year that although the Barbados Marathon may start under the cloak of darkness at five in the morning, recreational runners such as myself can expect to run half the race in the full glare of a fierce morning sun whose sizzling rays can burn a runner up well before the finish line. At 4 a.m. as we drive through the dark island lanes to the starting line on the outskirts of Bridgetown, thoughts not surprisingly turn to the question of why I ever planned to run over 42 kilometers in the tropics in the first place.

By 5 a.m. however, I am lined up at the start with hundreds of other half and full marathoners from countries all over the world. There are excited fraternal interchanges with Germans, Finns, British, Americans, fellow Canadians, and of course laconic and good-natured Bajans. The heat of the previous scorching day remains heavy in this hour before dawn as a pistol shot announces the start and the warm Bajan darkness swallows us runners.

Even after a few kilometers we are strung out along the streets of Bridgetown. Elite, true racers, have disappeared into the town and I am in the company of but a handful of fellow runners. Lights spill out of doorways and windows, and anonymous but universally supportive Bridgetowners cheer us on with cries of, “Not far now, man…”. “There’s another bloody 40 kilometers” I want to call out; instead wave feebly to them while I still have the energy to do so. Across the new bridge over the Careenage in the heart of town, past the statue of Lord Nelson that pre-dates the columned counterpart in London’s Trafalgar Square and on into the northern suburbs, past the first of the beguiling beaches that necklace the island’s west coast. In the darkness the senses work overtime: the pungent aromas of the fish market, the distant crows of rural cockerels, and the trickle of sweat as the body mutters, “hey: you’re not kidding about running this ridiculous distance, are you?”.

So, so quickly the hills in the east lighten and translucence races across the sky to the Caribbean horizon in the west. The road ahead becomes clear. Locals, waking to an early Sunday morning, appear surprised at the string of sweaty runners passing by, but react without exception with cheerful encouragement. After the first hour, I reach Holetown, where the first British settlers came ashore and where the church they built in 1629 still stands like an out-of-place British parish chapel. This is a low-point for me, as this is also the turn-around point for the majority of runners who are sensibly running the half marathon distance. Not only do I watch while they scamper past me heading for home, but I realize that my race is but one quarter run.

As the first sun’s rays gild the tops of the palms, I conceitedly congratulate myself – so far, so good. I am hydrated thanks to the copious water stations en route, I am breathing regularly, my legs are still in good working order and I am comfortably within my target of a sub four hour marathon. Then the first direct rays of the sun irradiate the road ahead – and us runners. Almost immediately, the heat begins to intensify, the sweating increases, the legs become heavier. The effect is momentous. At the 20 km marker, I know that the turn-around point is just over 2km away and this becomes the first of what will become many objectives: just keep going till then and I will allow you to slow a little, my brain tells my gullible body. Eventually, these objectives will narrow down to just make that bit of shade ahead…

The turn-around point comes at Speightstown, an old port in the northern part of the island. Perversely, the actual point of doubling back is by the beach of the Almond Village Resort where my day started some four hours ago and where I know the early risers will be sitting down to full cooked breakfasts washed down by fresh orange juice. As I turn for home in the full glare of the morning sun, the good news is that I am 20 minutes inside my four hour pace; the bad news is that my legs now apparently belong to someone else. Certainly I do not seem to have the motive power over them that I remember having just a few kilometers back. For the first time – and it will not be the last – I lapse from running pace to shuffling pace. It is a series of bargains that I strike over the last 20 kms of the race between my brain and my body. “Shuffle to that beach and we can run again”, “Run till we reach that water station, then you can shuffle again’. It became an out-of-body experience. Mentally I was still sharp, stamina-wise I was breathing fine, but the legs which I had also assumed would follow head and heart…well, they broke that contract in the furnace of that return route.

The beaches that had appeared so picturesquely on the way out now became evils seducers on the return. Their cool shaded coves were almost irresistible. The restaurants and bars that punctuate the route lost their former innocence and became dens of iniquity. Shuffle and run, shuffle and run. Still the locals cheered us stragglers on as vocally as though we were leading the way. We were now so strung out along the course that sometimes I lost sight of any others as I became more and more wrapped up in my private world of personal contracts: shuffle and run, shuffle and run. By Holetown I had jettisoned all thoughts of my sub four hour time in favour of a grim determination to simply finish. By the northern outskirts of Bridgetown, even this was in doubt and I was vowing never, ever, to run another marathon.

Still the good Bajan people offered their warmth and support, though they must have wondered what on earth this weaving, rubber-legged ghost of a guy was doing as I wobbled my way into town. Hymns spilt out of open church doors and briefly inspire me: run, run, shuffle, run. As did the fumes from the local rum distillery: run, shuffle, run, run. I barely make it across the Careenage in Bridgetown. Still 2.5 kms to go and I am already over four hours. As I begin another shuffle, yet another voice cries out to me from a doorway: a teenage girl and her mother exhort in their musical Bajan English, “Don’t give up now!”. And they bestow such radiant smiles upon the wreckage of what used to be this runner that the personal contracts disappear, my head picks up, my heart takes control and I run - no I sprint - the remaining couple of kilometers to the finish line.

A few seconds later, I am up to my knees in the warm Caribbean waters of an idyllic beach by the razzmatazz of the finish, my toes ecstatically scrunching in the sand and my thoughts wandering wantonly to the next time I will run this race…