Writing Beats Everything!

Absolutely beats any other activity you can possibly imagine doing. It's exercise for your brain allowing you to stretch and flex. It's exercise. It's fantastic. The feeling you get after a good workout, fill your lungs with air, stretch out your body, jump and skip, sweat and get tired. That's what writing does.

Drawing does that too.

Even doodles free the mind. If you want to doodle. People like to write, but not to draw. It's because of that emphasis in school of writing. It's writing, writing, writing all the time.

I had an art teacher in high school. I don't remember art much, that's because early on, she told me that I'd never be good at it. So I didn't take art classes beyond the first year of high school. I switched to metal workshop.

But I later on learned that there's nothing to be afraid of. Just draw. I learned that the best way to learn is by copying. Isn't that what all children do? Hear what their parents and then imitate it. Isn't that what school children are taught? Read this book and then regurgitate it in an examination.

Why are we so drawn to writing? So much to say, so little time. But still we write and continue to speak. It's better than sitting down to watch television. It occupies like no drug occupies. Fills those long drawn moments whether they be in the morning or in the evening.

And so I'll continue to write and draw because it fills a part of me that nothing else is able to fill. I'm happier when I write. I'm happy when I draw.

I've fallen, but I'm back up again!

Brace yourselves. The pictures you're about to see are quite graphic!

I woke up as normal. My alarm going off at 4:30am, a pleasantly soft and rising tone that eventually turns into a full orchestra blast unless I turn it off. Ten minutes later I got out of bed and proceeded with getting my ration of fluids and taking care of toilet issues. At 5:04am precisely, I was heading out of the apartment into the still dark night.

It was dark, drizzling, but I had my wind-breaker jacket on and even though it was a bit cool, I was comfortable. In my ears, Aretha Franklin was cranking out Jump! Jump! Jump! to it!

In 3 minutes I had reached Eglinton by which time my legs were fully awake, my body bouncing along lightly, and I felt like a god!

I always enjoy that first stretch along Eglinton. It's flat with a slightly downward incline once you cross the intersection at Martin Grove road. This is certainly the best way to wake up the body, at least for me, that early in the morning. The hills will come later. I continued to cruise along Eglinton, not paying attention to anything in particular, listening to my music and keeping my steps light and short, bouncing on my forefoot. Under the 427 highway and now going uphill towards Renforth Avenue where I made a left turn onto Renforth heading south toward Burnhamthorpe Road. It was possibly around 5:30am at this point. But Renforth is nice and quiet. There's enough light from the streetlights that it's easy to see where you're going. And the gentle curves left and right and left and right so that it's not a boring straight path. And it's all downhill with a slight rise as you get towards Burnhamthorpe Road.

Burnhamthorpe is a busy road and after the peace and quiet of Renforth my meditative state was disrupted. I had to pay attention to cars and the occasional person. Burnhamthorpe also runs over highway 427, a bridge, unlike Eglinton which goes under the 427, and so I have to run on the bridge over the speeding cars below. The 4-foot sidewalk is now just the side of the bridge, next to a railing with a long drop to the highway below. I hate looking down at the fast moving traffic going in the opposite direction it makes me feel unbalanced. The same feeling you'd get if you were spinning around on the spot, around and around and around, with your eyes closed and then you stopped and opened them.

It must have been about 5:45, or anyway a little before 6:00, leaving Burnhamthorpe road I turned left on Martin Grove heading now north as though back towards Eglinton. I like this stretch of Martin Grove. Its residential, old residential, with nice looking homes and large trees. Very quaint. Very quiet. At that time in the morning you really can't see the homes, but it's good to be in silence again.

Martin Grove at this time in the morning was indeed very very dark. The sun hadn't risen yet. Martin Grove is lined with old mature trees. Big trees. Tall trees. So the sidewalk was difficult to see in places. The street lights don't penetrate to light up the sidewalk. In some places, I could only faintly make out the sidewalk. It is an uphill run from Burnhamthorpe but even close to an hour of running I still felt normal. As I got closer to the top of the rise I noticed a couple of people ahead walking their dogs.

They're walking away from me.

Not a problem, this isn't new. I see people walking their dogs early in the morning from time to time, especially around Martin Grove, Islington and Kingsway.

If they're walking away from me, in the same direction that I'm running, I step onto the main road, leaving the sidewalk. This is so that I don't startle them as I pass them. It's also because in nearly all cases, the dogs are scampering about in front of them, on a long, long, long leash. I've found that dog owners are selfish this way. A sidewalk is barely capable of allowing three people to walk comfortably side by side, let alone two people passing each other in opposite directions trying to avoid bumping into each other, but dog owners believe, have strong convictions, that they alone in the universe own any sidewalk, or space for that matter, that they find themselves in. So in most cases, the dog's owner is normally well behind, either smoking, or talking on a cell phone, with dog scampering about at the end of a leash that's a mile long.

If I pass by the walker, startle him, or her, I'm then between the walker and the dog. And dog's get excited when they see you running. It's a call to play for them. But they're also especially protective of their owners, and if they see their owner startled, or the least bit frightened, they move into attack mode.

So I've made it a habit to step onto the road to pass any dog and their walkers, especially when its early in the morning. If they have their backs to me. On the other hand, if they're walking towards me they'll see me coming, I'll look at them, they'll look at me, and if I see them pull the leash to control their dog, then I might stay on the sidewalk. Sometimes they might just continue staring at me, in which case I'll point out that obvious rudeness by stepping off the sidewalk onto the road. Sometimes I make a point of running right in the middle of the road and looking over nervously at the dog. I've had a few run-ins with dogs so I don't take any chances.

Back to the story.

There I am, running up Martin Grove. I see the couple, and dogs and they can't see me. It's dark. I can barely make out the sidewalk so its time to leave the sidewalk and run on the road. It's going to be perfectly safe, there are no cars on the road and I'll be under the street lights instead of running in the dark. All positive advantages.

As I'm passing a house on my left, I decide to run down its driveway to my right which slopes nicely to the road. But I step to the right a little too early and my foot trips on something, possibly the edge of the driveway where it meets the lawn. It takes less than a second to fly face down to the ground. My hands don't even have time to react and I land on my left side. My face hits the ground somewhere above my left eye and I feel the asphalt, almost taste it. My left hand is still facing inwards so my knuckles also hit asphalt. My right hand slides forward to control the fall, too late.

My right knee takes most of the hit. I don't know how that happens because I mostly fall on my left side. My left leg lands well, straight.

 

But I pick myself up quickly, take inventory and start running again, slowly. I find it difficult to breathe because my left hand landed under my ribs and they're sore. It's difficult taking deep breaths, so I take short, shallow breaths. Each time I breathe deeply, it hurts and so I sip the air. I contemplate walking but I'm too far from home. At Rathburn Road I turn right, heading towards Kipling, which I pass and on to Islington. It's about 2 or 2.5 K from where I fell till I get to Islington, and by that time my right knee has stopped really hurting. Thoughts of stopping and walking have subsided so I feel mentally relaxed again. I'm able to complete my morning run.

I manage to run all the way home, and that's when I see the damage that was done. My right leg is bleeding all the way down into my socks. That looks like a lot of blood but surprisingly I don't feel too much pain. I stretch my knee and it feels sore, but not broken. My kneecap feels OK. That would have been a worry, any leg injury would be a worry to a runner. I have to wash my clothes then shower have a quick bite and head into work. After my shower, trying my best to wash my knee I notice that there are two especially deep cuts, holes, in my knee. They continue to drip blood.

I bandage the wound because it won't stop bleeding. By the time I get to work, the bandage that I put on is soaked through and there's a patch of blood on my jeans near the knee.

 
I change the dressing in our wellness room at work. It also gets bloody in less than 30 minutes.

 
By 10:00am I decide the best thing to do is remove the bandage and air the wound. So I roll up my jeans, remove the dressing and allow the wound to have some air. Blood is still coming out from the lower part of the knee. There's an especially deep hole in one of those wounds. It's dripping slowly. I use napkins to keep wiping the blood that's dripping down my leg. By noon I'm getting a bit worried. The wound hasn't dried up. It's getting harder to walk. I'm lucky that the only meetings I have are in my office so nobody can see under my desk where my jeans are still rolled up to my thigh.

 
By 3:00pm I've made up my mind to go to the walk-in clinic after work. I decide to go to the one at Richview near my apartment. I get there after work, close to 7:00pm. Once again the dressing I put on just before I left work bled through. After a relatively short wait, short for a clinic or any type of hospital, the doctor comes and sees me. He asks a few questions, puts on a glove and gingerly touches the knee, asks me if I think I need x-rays, if I think I've broken anything. I answer in the negative. I don't think anything is broken. He finally gives his recommendation, or prescription, which seems fairly obvious. Just keep cleaning the wound, keep applying Polysporin to help healing, changing dressings. If things don't look any better in a couple of days, return and see him. He also advises that I should take a tetanus shot, a booster he calls it. He then walks out saying that the nurse would be there to clean the wound for me and give me the booster.

The nurse is extremely gentle as she cleans my wound. Applying almost no pressure just soaking a piece of gauze in antiseptic and laying it on the wound. Not scrubbing at all. She uses long q-tips to apply generous amounts of a gel on the wound. I'm assuming that was Polysporin. And finally does a professional job bandaging my knee. She then does the same for my knuckles.

I'm still worried about the upcoming booster shot. Needles are not my favourite and I have particular memory of a vaccine that I received at Kenyatta Hospital in Kenya a long time ago. I must have been close to 12 years old but the pain I felt still reverberates 37 years later. Like the big bang that created the universe. The nurse prepared the needle, it looked small, non-threatening. I tried to laugh, joke about the pain factor, nervous. She asks me which arm I'd like it on. I say my right arm. I ask her if it will hurt. She tells me that the pain goes away in a couple of days. She then asks me which hand I write with. I tell her that I use my right hand. She says that perhaps we should inject the left arm. My brain wonders what kind of pain wouldn't allow me to keep writing. I don't tell her that I use both arms since I mostly type these days. I take my left arm out of my shirt. She proceeds cleaning a spot on my upper arm, takes the syringe, grabs my arm and after taking a few breaths (she takes the breaths since I'm holding mine) says, "here it is!"

The needle's a non-event. I feel nothing. Other than a tiny pin prick, there's no pain at all. I've felt more pain sneezing, and there's much more pain still on my left side when I breathe.

It's been at least 5 hours and I still don't feel any pain in my left arm. Perhaps tomorrow.

Terrorism in Nairobi

On Saturday September 21 while shoppers were enjoying a nice outing at one of Nairobi's best malls, terror struck. A number of terrorists threw a bomb into the mall and proceeded to fire on innocent shoppers.

Within a short time we were getting reports that there were twenty confirmed dead people. That number proceeded to increase and by Monday morning the news was that there were sixty-eight people confirmed dead. By Monday morning, the Kenya police and the Kenya army who had been trying to flush out the terrorists still hadn't captured the terrorists.

Sometime during the day on Saturday, the day it all started, the Al Shabaab terrorist group claimed responsibility for the killing. From what I've gathered, this was in retaliation for the invasion of Somalia by Kenyan forces. An invasion caused by the instability around the Kenya-Somali border.

By Monday, I was still waiting to hear what the Al Shabaab group wanted. They had some hostages in the mall but weren't making demands of any kind. Unlike most terrorist strikes, this one is quite bizarre. You'd expect the mayhem and havoc to result in maximum casualties at which end the terrorists would escape, die on site, or demand some sort of ransom, at least so that they can get out.

Not in this case. Not a peep from them. In fact, the single terrorist that was captured died of his injuries in hospital -- or was it before he got there? I forget.

In any case this attack is different from the one that Al Qaeda claimed responsibility for in the attack on the U.S. Embassy in Nairobi. Two hundred people lost their lives in that one in a single bombing. That's the sort of terrorism you mostly hear about. The quick in-and-out type. Not this siege that lasts days and days. Seems sort of medieval. I realise that the police and the army don't want to rush in and cause more innocent civilians to die, but given the fact that the terrorists area holed up inside a Nakumat store in the mall, they will have plenty of food and water.

A friend of mine told  me that religion poisons everything. He took this from Christopher Hitchens I'm sure. I've read the book. I read that on the Saturday that the terrorists walked into the mall, they asked all the Muslims to leave shooting at the non-Muslims. They supposedly identified the Muslims by asking them a question. The question was, "who was Muhammad's mother?" So clearly this was a religious war, whether the Muslim organisations will believe it to be so. If Christians were to walk into an establishment and start shooting Muslims, of course by first validating the Christians by asking them who was Jesus' mother, that would also be a religious war. It would also be a great time for good Christians to reconsider their choice of faith.

Kenya still sits in a precarious position as far as Al Shabaab is concerned. Even though there are many Somali Muslims who live in Kenya, many who were born there, many who run successful businesses there, including many who hold high government positions, it's still problematic that Kenya is so accessible to Al Shabaab.

President Uhuru Kenyatta came out with strong words during the crisis. He told Kenyans that we would not be intimidated by this act. In his words, "terrorism in and of itself, is a philosophy of cowards." This I totally agree with. Especially in the case of Al Shabaab where religious fanaticism has blinded an entire group of people. I find this disturbing. We are all brainwashed to some extent to follow some herd mentality. Whether it's in the way we obey western values, how we conduct ourselves, our business, raise our children or practise spirituality. Nobody stands alone. Is unique. Is one of a kind. But religious fanaticism is threat especially in the hands of maniacs.

A Dr. Seuss Day

My hat is old

My teeth are gold

I have a bird I like to hold

My shoe is off

My foot is cold

(c) Dr. Seuss

I had one of those days where words were just running through my mind. Wordless words, jumbled up, but making some sort of sense. Like the words above. I didn't know what was going on. Spinning out of control, not knowing if I'm going forward, if I'm making any progress at all, or if I've stalled. Nothing seems to be going.

The enemies have pitched their tents outside my castle and they're waiting for me to come out.

My shoe is off

My foot is cold

I have a bird I like to hold

My hat is old

My teeth are gold

And now my story is all told

(c) Dr. Seuss

Time to get out of under my skin and see what's really out there.

All Night Dancing!

When you get the feelin' deep inside your bones

Dancin' is the thing to do

Step into the lights, it'll take you to new heights

Dancin' is the thing that you do

Fantasize that you're the greatest

Close your eyes and make believe

You know you can do the latest dance

So dance with me, won't you do it with me

All night dancin'

I think about it all day long

All night dancing

Think about it all day long

Copyright: Lipps Inc 1981

That song's been buzzing around my head all morning. Forgot how good it was to dance to that music. What a group!

I'm on a running spree. Covering an easy 14.28 k every morning during the week and adding a couple more k's for the weekend. So far I'm healthy and injury free. I had hamstring tendinitis on my left leg which seems to have eased off by sitting on a tennis ball at work all day! Now I'm dealing with a problem with my right Achilles tendon. I suspect that a good stretching session will take care of it. It's all thanks to a change in my running form.

If I knew then, what I know now! Hindsight is 20/20! As clear as a cool northern brook. As obvious as a hangover after a night of shots. How youth is wasted on the young.

By changing my running technique to follow a more forefoot/mid-foot strike, my knees have miraculously healed themselves and my running has relaxed. It's about finding the dots (which I'll explain one day).

That's me above, I think it's close to the tunnel, finishing the Mississauga Marathon in 2013. As you can clearly see, I'm landing on my heels. I was tired and it's natural that I'm not as springy towards the end of a 42.2 k run as I would be near the start. But I'm noticing that if I concentrate on form even when I'm tired, I'm able to conserve energy and move a bit smoother.

Fantasize that you're the greatest

Close your eyes and make believe

Because when you're tired, you forget form. You forget all about your posture. You have to consciously remember to relax, get off your heels, and step back lightly.

The theory is that when you land on your forefoot, or mid-foot, there's minimal vertical impact. Minimal braking force. When you land on your heels, it's as if you're applying a braking force with each step. As though you're pressing on the accelerator and the brakes at the same time.

The ankle is plantar flexed (as opposed to dorsiflexed) when it lands. It lands close to the centre of gravity, not in front as it would in the braking motion. The body is moving horizontally above the landed foot. As the heel starts to come down to the ground, the Achilles stretches (loading like stretching a rubber band or a spring).

Then the body moves over the foot, not too much vertical motion. As it prepares for take-off, the Achilles shrinks back, lifting the heel off the ground.

The energy that the Achilles gets from stretching is then released as it shrinks. Allowing the toes to push off. The other foot is swinging forward on its own. Not because of force from the hamstrings. It will land also near the centre of gravity, not forcing itself forward and stretching out.

Source: https://sites.sas.upenn.edu/biol438/files/barefoot_running.pdf

It's about finding the dots. The simple way of doing things. The atomic, essence of the thing. And in running, this means the simplicity of slowing down and taking easy steps.

Think of skipping. You can't do that on your heels.

Think of dancing.

Wilson Kipsang breaks marathon world record.

I missed the race. Then again, Canadian television wouldn't waste a couple of hours showing a person running. It's OK that they would waste four, five, six or an entire day showing the Blue Jays spitting tobacco while trying to convince the world that they're athletes, but not running.

What Wilson Kipsang did on that sunny Sunday morning in Berlin is quite amazing. 2 hours, 3 minutes and 23 seconds to run 42.2 km. I'm very impressed. Then again, I was also impressed when Patrick Makau ran the same distance in 2 hours 3 minutes and 38 seconds. 15 seconds slower than Wilson Kipsang.

http://www.nytimes.com/2013/09/30/sports/kenyan-wilson-kipsang-sets-world-record-at-berlin-marathon.html

Paul Tergat was the first ever recorded to run under 2:05. And that's on a World Official Marathon course. I say recorded since you can be almost certain that others have run that distance, under that time, just not recognised or recorded. But a World Marathon official course is a good thing otherwise Boston would be the home of record breaking, not Berlin.

And a 2:05 is damned impressive. That's 125 minutes to run 42,200 metres. Or 7,500 seconds to run 42,200 metres, which boils down to just under 5.63 metres per second.

More statistics.

Tergat was running each kilometer in just under 3 minutes. And for those of you who haven't scaled to the heights of metric thinking, that's under 5 minutes per mile. Roger Bannister first broke the 4-minute mile in 1954. And that's running at top steam for a single mile. Tergat ran 26 of them in under 5 minutes each!

And Wilson Kipsang was even more impressive. As far as I know nobody has yet run a marathon under 2:03. But it's going to happen. I can feel it in my bones. As I sit here and breathe, a 2:03 will happen soon. After the race, Wilson Kipsang said that he felt fine and that he could have gone quicker. Looking at how he pulled away at 35k, I believe him.

But let's not forget the women in Berlin as we drool over how well the men did. Berlin isn't the home of the Women's world record, that would be London. That one safely in the hands of Britain's Paula Radcliffe. I think it will be quite some time till someone comes around to snatch that record out of her hands. The closest anyone's come to her world record time of 2:15:25 is Kenya's Catherine Ndereba who held the record for a year when she won the Chicago Marathon in 2:18:47. More than three minutes slower. In Berlin the women's winner was Florence Kiplagat who finished in 2:21:13. Not quite a world record, but impressive all the same. More impressive despite the fact that she had a blister in her right foot that forced her to slow down. This is the second time that Florence Kiplagat has won Berlin and in her interview said that she'd be back again. Unlike Kipsang, Kiplagat said that the race was tough. Not only did her blister bother her but the conditions were very windy from about 25 K onwards. In any case, that's all history. She has the cash, all $54,000 of it.

I reluctantly accept FUNCTIONALITY.

Larry Hendrick certainly wasn't the first to write about it, but he articulated what I thought about the language of technology; that it often takes a good word rich with meaning and destroy it with the three little letters, i t y.

FUNCTION is one of those words and as long as I've been a friend of that word, I've known a couple of extensions to that word such as functional or functions. But when I first heard the word functionality, I stopped breathing for a few minutes while my mind tried to reconcile the term.

What does functionality mean?

Looking at other ity words such as personality, brutality, generosity and respectability, I tried to determine how that prefix modifies the word. In the case of personality, the ity denotes the characteristic of being a person. In the case of brutality, the characteristic of being a brute or the act of being brutal. With generosity, its the characteristic or the act of being generous. And so on.

Functionality therefore must mean the characteristic of being functional.

Therein lies my problem. The word functional already describes a characteristic, that of having a function, or being able to function. A functional car is one that works. It can operate. What is the functionality of a car?

Quite often when you hear the term functionality spoken by people in the technology industry, they're mostly referring to a feature. For example, the ability of the software to save a document to the file system. This is a feature. When it works, its functional. When it doesn't its defective. But you will often hear the words the save functionality's not working. Larry Hendrick gave another software example, that of the search functionality. This is actually the search feature, or the search function. It's functional or defective.

We often refer to defective software.

I must admit, my command of the English language isn't native even though I've been speaking it all my life and there are time when I have to say things in my head three or four times before I think that they sound right, but this is one of those times when I can't get around the word. It feels wrong. Exaggerated, as thought its trying to sound more important than it really is. Reminds me of a skit by George Carlin where he's making fun of the prefix "pre." I can see the point of adding pre- to some words, but George was talking about its overuse. It's used way too much and for the most part, used to add a level of importance to the subject.

But my war with functionality is over. I won't stress over it any longer. I just won't use it, and nobody can make me use it. I'll sit quietly in meetings while that word is being bantered around and when it's my turn to speak, I'll use the words that I'm comfortable with.

This article forms the last time I write that dastardly word!

Some people just need a slap on the back of the head

There used to be a saying; there's one born every minute. On this planet of seven billion, and counting, it's probably insane to think that the reality of what that number really means now. Even taking mortality into consideration, assuming that the one born every minute isn't dying at the same rate as the others, then the situation on the planet is getting exponentially worse.

In 2012, the World Population Reference Bureau estimated that there were 267 people born every minute. There were 107 deaths in that same minute. Do the math. This means an additional 160 people to our already overloaded planet. That saying, or proverb, or phrase hasn't been updated in a long time. It's probably farer to say that there are at least twenty born every minute. One just seems so low.

So let's go with twenty.

Twenty idiots have been born in the minute that it took you to read to this point. Darwin would have told us not to worry. Natural selection will ensure that they depart from the planet on the next bus which is coming right along. It has space for 107 people and there are 20 spots reserved for the idiots. But that's not going to happen. Our wonderful medical system and all the safety measures we've put in place will make sure that not all twenty go away. So let's make it fair and say that six (one third, give or take) will meet their demise. This seems fair. So fourteen will be added to our overcrowded planet.

And that's every minute.

Seven billion people on the planet. We can guess all day about how many idiots there are currently. But it's more than a million, and I can guess it's really, really close to a billion. Really close. I know this because in the short space of thirty years, I've seen so many changes in how we behave. And this isn't because I'm getting older. This is real. We're less patient. We're more demanding. Less tolerant. More selfish, inward looking. We kill easily, much less moral.

In the old days you could walk around for days, even weeks, without running into an idiot. Some people lived a lifetime without a single encounter with an idiot. That's highly, highly unlikely these days. The chance of running into an idiot within fifteen minutes of leaving your home is extremely high. Even if you stay indoors, the chances of running into an idiot aren't reduced to zero. You're likely to get a phone call from one, or even see one on television. Worse still, you might even get a knock on the door from one.

There's also a fairly good chance that you live with one.

And if you do, your options are very limited.

There are only two options to you if you have an encounter with an idiot. Ignore them, or confront them. The first option, ignoring them, takes some effort. In the first case you need to recognise them first. Sometimes they hide and they're not so easy to spot, but you can detect them if you're patient and listen. Confrontation is the option selected by most people, and that's only because they're not aware of what they're dealing with until its too late. At that point your'e deep in the middle of an argument you can't possibly get out of, you look at your combatant and it dawns on you that you're dealing with an idiot and you can't untangle yourself from that mess. You feel a sense of duty to walk away with your dignity. Stopping now seems too much like giving up, admitting that you're wrong. You have to stay in there, no matter how silly it looks like. You feel as though you just can't let them win. But in reality, the idiot has already won. They sliced the ball just over the net, you ran like an idiot to hit it back at which point the ball was lobbed over your head bouncing safely inside the court. You lost that point. The savvy idiot will make you run to the net time and time again. Your desire to win points will make you rush to the net.

And even if you don't confront them physically, whether it's by shouting back because they said something, or getting irate, you may confront them mentally. That's even worse because you engage in this internal turmoil of which the idiot isn't a participant. That makes you even more irate and you therefore head into this downward spiral. Even if you're smart enough to engage in sophisticated rationale where you convince your brain that you're the better person, something deep inside you knows that you've ultimately lost. Like the idiot who cuts into the line in front of you, glares at you and you do nothing. Even if you rationalise that it's safer, more intelligent and civilised to say nothing, that heated feeling at the back of your head that rises and moves around to your temples won't go away. To ignore the idiot you really need a change of character. This isn't about convincing yourself that the idiot doesn't exist, it's actually knowing they don't. It's rising to that eleventh plain of awareness where truly as you can't see the air, the idiot also doesn't exist.

But still, some people need a slap on the back of the head. Not because they're idiots, but you have a duty formed from a deep sense of compassion for your fellow man and woman to make sure that they know you care. You slap them not because you're offended by the idiotic act, but to make them realise that you care.

Really, that's why.

The Toronto July 2013 Storm

GO Train stalled by water

On Monday, July 8, 2013, a huge storm passed over Toronto causing major flooding in parts of the city. Some of the major highways, such as the Don Valley Parkway (DVP) were turned into rivers and had to be closed by the city. The storm came at the worst time possible, at about 5pm, during the rush hour when everyone is trying to get out of the city and get home.

I live in Etobicoke a suburb of Toronto to the west of downtown. I work in the downtown core. It normally takes me an hour to commute into work. Fifty minutes on a good day. The travel home can be just as easy. On July 8, that stormy day, I left work at precisely 5pm thinking that I would be home at 6. 6:30 at the very latest. I got home just after 9pm cold and wet. A little over four hours.

Just two subway stops from where I normally get off, everyone was asked to get off the train. Shuttle buses were supposed to be running on the street above, in the same direction as the trains. This was not the case. After waiting in the rain for forty minutes, I decided that the shuttles weren’t coming so starting thinking about an alternative route.

... and the streets shall become rivers...

Toronto streets run essentially in a grid. Forget the shuttles. My route from work to home essentially takes me west and then north. I’d gone as far west as the train would take me, but not far enough. The shuttle bus that would have taken me to my ultimate western destination wasn’t in sight, so I thought that I could take a northbound bus and eventually find a westbound bus. It’s a grid.

But northbound buses couldn’t be found. Over an hour had passed and still only southbound buses headed to the lake were in plenty. Everywhere I could see the frustration. Families that had little ones in prams were mostly affected. With the crowds waiting for the non-existent shuttle buses, there’s no way a pram was getting into a bus. People had been at work all day. They were tired and courtesy was the last thing on anyone’s mind.

The tunnel at the Queen Street Subway Station

I looked around and observed. It was almost as though I was studying strange phenomena. For once, I wasn’t flustered or anxious at all. I didn’t feel bothered or irritated. In fact, I was thinking about my feelings and thinking how wonderful and how strange this all is. Wondering how this can happen in a first class city like Toronto. But then again, looking at people getting flustered and comparing them with the same unruly crowds that don’t line up for buses in Nairobi.

A northbound bus showed up but the crowds were too dense. I stepped back and let everyone in. Not everyone could fit, of course, and some even more flustered and angry people were left on the side. Inside the bus I could hear swearing and cursing. People were pushing and shoving and there were those who didn’t want to be pushed and shoved. I moved away from the bus and looked around. The shops had closed. The street lights were off. The traffic lights weren’t working but drivers were allowing pedestrians to cross and seemed to be taking turns to navigate the intersection.

The Don Valley Parkway... need barges!

The rain would turn to a drizzle and then suddenly increase in intensity. At this point, almost two hours at the subway station, waiting for the never-coming shuttle, everyone was wet. Nobody was bothering to wipe their faces. Shirts and blouses were wet. Shoes were wet. Little children were wet. Everyone was wet.

Quietly a westbound bus arrived. It had a different number, another northbound, but it didn’t pull onto the stage for passengers to get on. It stopped a little distance away. The driver got out, locked the door and rushed into the station. I assumed that he was going into the washroom and would come back and then let some more northbound passengers get on. Those who had been left by the one that had just left. But as soon as the driver returned, he changed the number on the bus and suddenly it was a westbound bus!

The 427 and Burnhamthorpe... barges there too!

So my journey westbound continued. I abandoned my original thought that I would go north.  Some people rushed out of the station as soon as they realised that this bus was going west. The driver was only going to make two stops. There was an Indian man standing near the front door of the bus, next to the driver. He was very anxious to get home and kept asking people trying to get on to get off! There were people getting on the bus that had a question, or two, or three for the driver. They wanted to know where he was going. This Indian man would shout “Kipling station!” at which point an additional question would come from the would-be passenger. “I’d like to go to….” But the Indian man would only tell them to get off, that they were delaying the other passengers on the bus. He eventually managed to get the bus going and we were off.

After a number of detours, I finally got to Kipling station, my westbound destination. I now needed to find a northbound bus, my bus number 45 to complete my journey. So I walked over to the bus #45 stand and there were a million people waiting. Well, not exactly a million, but definitely about four bus loads! Once again, I leaned against one of the doors, not going outside to the bus platform, and watched. I had no desire to listen to music or read. I couldn’t read; I was too tired. And music would have interfered with my thoughts. I just watched how people behaved.

When the first bus #45 appeared the worst of humanity showed up. The bus driver was shouting at the top of his voice, “stop pushing! stop shoving!” The mass of zombies forcing their way into the bus was relentless. Some zombies also were shouting.

While this was going on, a second #45 slithered past the first one, unnoticed, and stopped a little ahead. Those of us that saw it walked over and got in. It didn’t take long for this one also to fill up, but I was inside. That was all that mattered. It was probably about 8:45pm at that time, but I knew that I was home.

Once home, all I had to do was navigate up eight floors to my apartment, shrouded in darkness, take a shower, eat a guacamole, cheese and tomato sandwich washed down with soya milk, and I was done!

The DVP was really, really bad! But some people will try.

I monitored the twitter feeds from my phone. That was the only way to keep in touch with the outside world. Enbridge, Mississauga’s hydro provider claimed that about 50,000 people in Mississauga had been out of power, but that was being resolved. Toronto Hydro, our provider of electricity claimed that 300,000 people were out of power. And that’s across Toronto. Over two hours later, at 11:30pm, the twitter information has improved a little. Enbridge is reporting 25,000 out of power and Toronto Hydro says its 250,000 on their side.

Looking out of my window, towards the west, I can see the Mississauga skyline and I can tell that there’s a lot of bright electric light out there.  If I look south, at Etobicoke, we’re still in the dark. Someone needs to talk to our mayor. Perhaps arrange a meeting, a pow wow, with the mayor of Mississauga.

The Pen is mightier than the Keyboard

I've probably had this debate a million times. But I think I'm right here. There are certain things about the Pen that make it a lot mightier than the Keyboard.

One of my arguments went something like this:

When you use a pen to write your name, say Andrew, each letter is formed differently. You have to use your hand and stroke each letter differently from the next one. You're engaged not only in thinking about the result, the name Andrew, but also about how each letter should be formed. However, when you type your name on a keyboard, you can use a single finger and use the same repetitive tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap, six times, to write out the name. The letters are anonymous and the only thing that distinguishes them is their position on the keyboard. It's a cold, numb and mechanical process, devoid of feeling, emotion or any consciousness. It's like pressing a button to lower a mechanical saw to slice a branch off a tree versus using a mechanical saw, held in both hands to cut the same branch. In the first case, you see the result from afar, while with the saw in your hand, you feel the vibration of the motor as the teeth bite into the wood.

I'm sure that sometime in the future, someone will realise that a creative slice of our brain has forever been atrophied.

To add to this issue, you've probably read about the reasons why the qwerty keyboard layout is the way it is. My favourite one is a common belief, though untrue, that the keys were arranged to slow down the typist. In actual fact, the true touch typist has a lot of skill in moving their fingers along the keyboard and for the most part type much, much  faster than anyone writing by hand.

But then, it's not always about speed. It's not about putting down the most stuff as quickly as you can. It's not about just filling pages with words. It's about crafting.

Say what you will, messy, rough, crude, course, jagged and uneven. There's something human about the pen and about handwriting. It's like a comfortable pair of jeans, open shirt, rough sandals versus the clinical, disinfected look of the uniforms worn by the officers of the starship Enterprise.

Running in Etobicoke

I posted about running in Kenya [http://mwaisplace.blogspot.ca/2013/02/running-in-kenya.html] and now it's time to write about running in Canada (though I've probably written about that too before).

Etobicoke lies to the west of downtown Toronto, and borders the east side of Mississauga. In my opinion it has the best of both Toronto and Mississauga rolled up into a culturally diverse, clean, green and mostly crime free neighbourhood. I run around the Kipling/Eglinton neighbourhood.

I leave my apartment down a narrow hallway towards the elevators. This isn't the hardest part of the run, the hardest part of the run is getting out of the apartment. Once I'm here, it's all good.

Outside, I'm greeted by cooler air, the snow's still on the ground but as you can see, the sidewalk is fairly clear. Another good thing about Etobicoke is that there's very little people traffic. The people traffic that you see is also either running or walking their dogs. Like Mississauga, most people drive since everything is at a distance.

A better view of the route that I'm about to take. A run down the sunny path. Here's where I actually break into a slow jog. Wake up the legs. They're usually stiff since I don't stretch.

Now onto Widdicombe Hill Blvd, there's a nice chill to the air, but usually this part can be quite windy because of the tall apartment blocks and wide open spaces. The wind has to squeeze its way between the buildings. If the sidewalk is icy it's easy to slip and fall if the wind is strong.

This is at the south-west corner of Eglinton Avenue and Lloyd Manor, looking west towards Mississauga. I've just crossed Eglinton from Widdicombe Hill Blvd and about to head west. On the left side is a gas station. The bike path to the left is full of snow so I'm going to run on the sidewalk.

Further down the street, it's not too cold so the sidewalk's wet not icy. On bad days, I'd still run but put spikes on my shoes.

Now getting to the corner of Eglinton and Martin Grove road.

I've crossed Martin Grove road, still running along Eglinton and now you can see the bike path.

But even though you can see the bike path, I'm still running on the sidewalk since the bike path is covered in snow for most of the way.

Still running along Eglinton, to my right you can see the road sign. You also see the sign indicating that the highways are close. Highway 427 goes north to Pearson Airport and south to the Gardiner Expressway, to Toronto, and the QEW (Queen Elizabeth Way) to Mississauga. Highway 401 runs east-west, going all the way west to Niagara falls, and all the way east to Montreal.

Still on Eglinton, running on the bridge.

At the top of that small incline, past the bridge, the next intersection is the East Mall road. This runs north-south parallel to highway 401.

Crossing the East Mall continuing along Eglinton, the bike path's gone and now we're on the sidewalk. You can clearly see the highway overpass ahead. At this point we've run a little over a kilometre, The 2K mark is coming up under the highway.

Getting close to the highway. There was construction going on during this run. They were building an on-ramp to get onto the 427. In order to do this they had to remove a cemetery that was to the left of this picture, on top of the small hill that you can make out.

Underneath the highway. Not pretty, but in the morning there's little traffic and not a lot of noise. At the time  of this run it was pretty noisy.

Woo, hoo! Cleared the highway and about to emerge on the other side. A nice slow run up.

Eglinton looks really busy near Martin Grove, but here there's little traffic. I suspect that most of the traffic coming west from Toronto get off onto the highways and doesn't make it this far. At one point in the winter, this part of the sidewalk wasn't cleared and I ran on the road. Onto oncoming traffic, of course!

Still running up hill, this is tough in the mornings since my legs at this point are still only warming up. But the uphill grind is good for the lungs. This can be a bad stretch if they don't clear the snow properly.

Renforth drive intersection with Eglinton. For my weekday morning runs I'll turn left here and head towards a 14.3 K distance. Today we're trying to get close to 17 K so it's onward to Centennial park. This is just past the 3 K mark.

Despite what it looks like, this is really pleasant and peaceful in the Summer. After the uphill, this flat section is welcoming.

We're close to Centennial park. To the left is an indoor soccer arena.

I said indoor soccer didn't I?

Parts of the sidewalk are damaged. In this case there was some construction which wasn't completed. To the left is wet muddy snow. Where to go? Where to go?

I eventually skirted around the right side, onto Eglinton road and around to the other side of this pool.

This is the corner of Eglinton road and Centennial Park Blvd. You can see the sign for the golf range ahead. I'm going to turn to the left into the blvd. This is just over 4.5 K

Down Centennial Park Blvd. There's no sidewalk on both sides of the this road so I choose to run in the oncoming traffic lane. This way we can play chicken to see who moves out of the way.

In the summer, it's still quiet on this blvd. Surprisingly, I've never been hit by a golf ball though I've seen one or two bounce off the road.

It's a long winding road, about 2.5 K to the next major intersection on the other side of the park. We're past 5 K here going to the 6 K mark around the bend you see in front of you.

Centennial Park Blvd. changes to Mill Road which runs into Burnhamthorpe Road. This is the Mill Road and Burnhamthorpe Road intersection. I'm going to turn left and run along Burnhamthorpe. This is now heading back east. We're still in Toronto.

Looking east on Burnhamthorpe after the left turn above.

Up ahead is the West Mall road, which like the East Mall road, runs north-south on the west side of highway 427. I'm going to cross the road and head over the highway. This is about 8.5 K.

I'm at the west off-ramp from highway 427. Cars travelling south on the 427 getting off the highway end up here and they can turn left to go east towards Toronto, or right to head towards Mississauga. I'm going to continue straight on. This is just past 9 K.

Approaching the bridge to go over the highway.

I took a picture to my left, that's highway 427.

I'm in the middle of the bridge on Burnhamthorpe Road which goes over highway 427. Not a busy day and not a lot of traffic.

Getting to the other side of the bridge.

I've crossed the East Mall, still on Burnhamthorpe Road heading west.

Burnhamthorpe and Kipling intersection. This is about 11 K.

You can just make out the Kipling sign.

Still on Burnhamthorpe, now about 11.5 K. This is downhill and quite pleasant.

There's a ravine to my left. In the summer, you can't see it because of the dense foliage.

Dundas Street, I took a left off Burnhamthorpe. Some interesting murals in this part of town.

A better look from Dundas of Mimico Creek.

Yes, another bridge, this time it's Dundas Street crossing Mimico Creek. We're heading to the intersection in front. That's Islington and we'll make a left turn heading up.

See, I told you it was Islington!

And I also said it was Dundas.

It's going to be an uphill grind.

Uphill, so unfair after more than 12 K.

This is getting close to 15 K.

St. Georges golf club, very posh, very elitist.

They sometimes hold the Canadian Golf Open tournament here.

Passing one of the obscure entrances to the golf club.

Up this little hill.

Squeeze into that bridge.

Now I can see Eglinton ahead. The Eglinton and Islington intersection where I'll make a left turn heading back east. Past 15.5 K at this point and there's a slightly relaxing downhill section here.

There's the Eglinton sign. Why on earth did I take that picture?

I've turned left and Eglinton road is on my right side. To my left is Richview Collegiate, Andrew's first school on returning to Canada.

I'm at the Eglinton and Bemerside intersection. I lived at this corner (well not really the corner but the house on the corner to my left, which you can't see) from March 2007 till the end of November 2012. We're back on bike path country.

But we'll keep using the sidewalk since the bike path isn't clear.

And we've arrived at the Kipling and Eglinton intersection. Almost home.

I just have to wait for the cars to stop and run straight ahead.

Here we go...

This is the official 17 K turn. This is Widdicombe Hill Blvd.

The apartment block is straight ahead, another fantastic and easy run.