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Post by harrington on Jul 12, 2010 11:07:08 GMT -6
All I want to say is that I am really happy that I decided to be in Madrid for last night.
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Post by woyts on Jul 12, 2010 11:24:02 GMT -6
That's it?!! Brutal.
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Post by lauzon on Jul 12, 2010 23:30:11 GMT -6
Harry! CTV just informed me that three Canadians were injured in the running of the bulls. You were just saying how you're mileage wasn't that high of late and I fear you may have ran out of gas and got trampled. Post to let us know you are ok!!
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Chump
New Member
Posts: 4
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Post by Chump on Jul 13, 2010 9:22:05 GMT -6
Harry! CTV just informed me that three Canadians were injured in the running of the bulls. harry is the reason the bulls run, the real question is how many bulls were injured by our canadian? Did CTV say? |
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Post by harrington on Jul 15, 2010 6:14:03 GMT -6
Still alive. Running streak is at eight days.
Usually just 45-60 minutes but I had a two hour run getting lost in Madrid and a double the next day consisting of 55 in the morning and a fartlek in the evening: spent an hour following the parade and chasing the bus with the Spanish National Team. Even with my time off I am still fitter than Spanish soccer fans. Good to know.
In the French Pyrenees now, actually in three hours after a train ride, going to keep getting fit and bumping up the mileage.
Not going to let Da Bears down.
Go Bears
Harry
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Post by kingsley on Jul 15, 2010 11:14:14 GMT -6
For a guy that's going to school to learn how to save lives, maybe you should learn how to live.
Or at least document it better.
We're not following the "Harry in Europe" thread to hear about your running. We all run, even I run. I don't want to live through you vicariously for your mileage. We want stories about womenizing, boozing, and heckling Germans.
Rob
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Post by lauzon on Jul 15, 2010 14:34:41 GMT -6
Seconded. No one cares that you ran 45 minutes yesterday. More detail about encounters with people who you don't share a common language with.
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Post by Raudebaugh on Jul 16, 2010 12:20:21 GMT -6
All I want to say is that I am really happy that I decided to be in Madrid for last night. There has to be more to the story than this. |
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Post by tyler on Jul 16, 2010 13:56:24 GMT -6
Since Harry doesn't seem inclined to entertain us with stories of his exciting adventure, I'll volunteer to be the first to make up a story about him. It's completely fabricated, but I'm betting a few people will skip the intro and think that Harry sent me an email from Europe relating this escapade.
Hi Everyone, Harry here.
First I'd like to apologize for not writing more entertaining emails. Sometimes when I’m dozing in the window seat of a trans-European train racing through the alps or catching a quick nap between 5k efforts with one of my beautiful Spanish mistresses I wake with a guilty start, realizing that I’ve failed to accomplish the primary goal of my trip—to provide the Bears with a vicarious moment of escape from the drudgery of their summer jobs. Imagining Joel leaned over his computer frantically performing Raudebaugh’s work while the Club Marathon record holder takes an extended lunch or Dave Brown journeying to Lethbridge to work the fields with his one unbroken arm fills me with shame. Their burdens should be lightened by dreams of their captain frolicking through Europe, experiencing life so thoroughly that his teammates left behind can’t help but be enlightened by association. My feet scuff the marble-paved streets as I sulk towards an internet cafe to provide an update. A real update. A tale of glory and wonder. A story of such grandeur that a less informed reader would assume it couldn’t possibly be true... but one that any comrade of Harry’s would never question. Real Talk.
I press my fingers to the keyboard, but can not type. I’m frozen. While the guys might find the truth spectacular, inspiring even, that inspiration will not drive them to run. I am a leader. I must take them to the promised land of CIS glory. So I confine my update to the mundane. I write about how many minutes I’ve run. I know they are doing the same thing at home and wish only for a diversion, but I will not give them one. They must stay focussed. I am their leader.
As long as you guarantee me that they will not hear this story, I will tell you. I have faith that they could handle it and not abandon their lives, but as their leader I would not force them to take that test.
Rome. July 10, 2010.
I walk purposefully through the Rome train station on the eve of the World Cup final. There are Italians everywhere. Four years ago tomorrow these people were in ecstasy while the rest of the world mourned the demise of a brilliant tournament. It’s always tough to take when the bad guys win. We’re raised in a Hollywood society that teaches us that it just can’t happen, but the real world doesn’t work that way. Sometimes the hero isn’t quite as pure as you had hoped, and he decides to headbutt someone in the chest. That’s life. I haven’t lost faith, though. Eventually, the beautiful game will triumph. The fans demand it, and the players must respond to the fans. They are both fuelled and sustained by the love of the crowd. That’s why I’m going to Madrid, to the heart of the country that currently most epitomizes the spirit of attacking football.
The train station consists of a seemingly endless series of parallel tracks. I approach the head of the lines, where all of the tracks come to a simultaneous stop. It’s like an invitation to experience the world: paths to anywhere you might like to go. All roads lead to Rome. A great flashing board directs me to the proper walkway. As I approach I see that my fellow travellers have arranged themselves in a makeshift boarding order. It’s pointless. There are dozens of train doors. Europeans couldn't queue to save their lives and they do it at the wrong times.
I drop my bag and lower myself into a crouch. Over the last couple of weeks I’ve found it to be a comfortable position in the absence of chairs, plus I’m ready for anything. I would not regret my decision. Hungry, I reach into my backpack and remove a Solo bar. It’s the only thing I’ve eaten for my entire trip. I had to empty my bag of everything but Solo boxes, but it was worth it. The nutrients and energy I’ve gained from their newspaper-goat’s hoof dominated ingredients has been invaluable.
Engrossed in the deliciousness of my Solo bar (endorsed by Olympian Paul Tischlaar) I fail to notice a couple striding towards me until it’s too late. Oblivious to my presence (the crouch holds the added benefit or curse of camouflaging one below the eyeline of mundane life) the man bungles into me. He falls awkwardly; one hand splayed out in front of him the other grasping backwards, away from where he’s headed. Away from the train tracks. I catch my balance with an easy crab scurry. You can’t beat the crouch.
The man tumbles headlong onto the train tracks. The screech and rumble of trains is all around, but instantly it seems closer, more pertinent. Our train is approaching and he’s upside-down on the tracks, his feet splayed at ridiculous angles above him. The woman with him screams out. Paulo! That name is a little too close for comfort. The hero gene in me takes over. I instantly leap forward onto the train tracks and grab hold of the man. Paulo is in a panic like a dog trying to swim up the Canmore River. With the train bearing down on us, I overpower him and throw him down between the tracks. To any observer, the time between me covering his prostrate form and the arrival of the train is nonexistent-tenths of a second. Luckily I deal in hundredths.
The train rolls to a stop. It doesn’t stay above us long; it’s got a schedule to keep. Mussolini may have been a massive fascist douche, but he got the trains to run time. As it pulls out, the two of us rise. The platform is empty except for my bag. The woman caught the train.
The train is receding into the distance. Events are trying to conspire against me, but I choose my own destiny. I vault onto the deck and hoist my bag in one motion. My legs are already starting to spin. They’re itching to fly. It’s time for a quick 200. As I race off in pursuit of the train the man yells from behind me “Keep her safe.” He knows I’ll catch the train. For me it’s an easy stride and nothing more, just a warmup. On board the woman is waiting for me to keep her company. It’s a long train ride to Madrid and the train cars can get cold at night.
Next time on Harry’s Adventures: The train ride.
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Post by lauzon on Jul 16, 2010 16:15:37 GMT -6
The Train Ride:
Harry here. Much has happened since we last spoke, and to humiliate the fantastic going-ons by condensing them into a quick email would not be just, but my green and gold spirit that is deeply routed in my humble hometown glows strong so I will share what I can.
I pull even with the train with little more than 10 meters of platform remaining. Might as well have been a mile. I quick step the small gap between concrete and machine, grabbing hold of the last remaining handrail. Glancing back quickly I catch a glimpse of the man I left behind, kneeling, helpless, weeping. Hardly a man if you ask me.
Upon entry of the train, I find myself in a strange new place. Unsteady on my feet I reach for the first cabin door and slip inside. With 4 hours sleep in the last three days I welcome the thought of some much needed rest, which I very well might have gotten... if I didn't pick THAT cabin door.
"I didn't think you'd make it" she says, as if at some point I was cordially invited. I wheel around to find the petite brunette who stranded Paulo back at the station. We skip the pleasantries. I don’t need to know her name, and she has no use for mine. “Funny you were expecting me, and not the man you came with.”
She hesitates, its not guilt she’s emanating, quite the opposite actually. “My husband and I have been growing apart for some time… there was nothing left”. She doesn’t have to validate herself to me, and she knows it. Her smile is subtle and charming (like Mills). Her body is slender (like Wilson’s). It’s not a voluntary act to sit down close beside her. It’s what her body language implicitly (and directly) told me to do.
The remaining hours are a blur. A detailed description would not save the moment. The feelings deep inside me (and deep inside her) will remain on those two benches, that floor, and the bathroom on that train. If you need to know more, the only witness was the Spanish moon, who will advocate that both parties were left deeply satisfied.
The train lurches to a halt in Madrid, signaling the end of our connection with an abrupt whistle. I dress, grab my pack, exit the cabin, step from the train and disappear into the crowded platform of the new city. Considering our greeting, a goodbye seemed inappropriate.
There is an air to the city, more than excitement, more than hope. It’s unity.
Next time: The match, the aftermath.
Go bears,
Harry
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Post by norminton on Jul 18, 2010 22:51:26 GMT -6
Tyler/Joel: Awesome.
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Post by harrington on Jul 20, 2010 12:04:43 GMT -6
Work boys. Keep my updates coming.
I've been keeping quiet first cause it takes too much time to update properly and second cause I want some stories to tell roound the fire at Skyline.
I was 3km from the finish on Ax 3 Domaines: No Shirt, Polka Dot Cap, Blue and Yellow Board Shorts. Hopng to be near the Summit of the Tourmalet. Slept outside the last two nights (not in cqmpgrounds). Been bathing in the river. Staying tonight with a guy who picked me up hitch hiking.
15 day run streak (not that you care).
Go Bears
Harry
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Post by lauzon on Jul 20, 2010 13:18:01 GMT -6
bump
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Post by woyts on Jul 20, 2010 13:58:53 GMT -6
Work boys. Keep my updates coming. I was 3km from the finish on Ax 3 Domaines: No Shirt, Polka Dot Cap, Blue and Yellow Board Shorts. Hopng to be near the Summit of the Tourmalet. Slept outside the last two nights (not in cqmpgrounds). Been bathing in the river. Staying tonight with a guy who picked me up hitch hiking. 15 day run streak (not that you care). Go Bears Harry don't change your clothes and make sure you are running when the leaders come by...we can't pick you out of the other pasty white bodies, but if you're running, we'll know for sure. |
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Post by harrington on Jul 23, 2010 7:05:38 GMT -6
It was rough on le Col.
Showed up the day before and it essentially rained constantly for the 24 hours I was there, that and there was a constant fog. Slept in the stairwell of a French condominium complex, it was empty since Les Monges (the town 4km from the summit) is a ski village. If it was clear we could have seen the riders coming up from a good 3k away but the fog limited visibility to the road in front of us. Still cool to be a couple feet from the stars of cycling. I was 500m from the summit with a bunch of Welsh people I met, too crowded and too many Gendarmie (army types) to run with the leaders. Will be on Les Champs on Sunday.
Trip 2/3 done.
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