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I did two good deeds today. Its inconvenient for us to think that we would only do such deeds during the holidays, but its certainly no coincidence that I’ve never felt more aware of my past guilt than during Christmas. I gave a reasonably well-dressed young man a subway token, when he at first asked for spare change (no, it wasn’t Liam, although I did give Liam a token too. I’m more or less use to him asking me for spare change and unwarranted high fives).

Its been a few years since I’ve been a regular transit rider, and on the subway today, I grew fondly reminiscent. Mostly of the passing daydreams and secret TTC crushes, and less of the interminable waiting periods between streetcars. It is perhaps, if anything, comforting embarking on this solitary travel by the companionship of a million strangers.

Taking transit gives us an opportunity to sit quietly and anonymously, sometimes overhearing odd conversations between passengers about their lives. I overheard one group as they discussed their friend’s recent abortion. The girl was 16 and already had two abortions, one caused by her boyfriend throwing her down a flight of stairs. I was certain that was just an urban myth, but apparently, it seems to work reasonably well.

In passing, I have seen the faces of dozens of remarkable and unremarkable people, knowing that I would only see them once, and nevermore.

In Vancouver, I rode the bus often, and just as often, slept soundly with head against the window (likely with gaping mouth and drool coming out of the corners). It was hardly a welcoming sight for people to sit next to me. I suppose when the bus is full, if anyone would sit next to the smelly, greased-up fat guy, that wears a wrinkled suit everyday on the #6 Davie bus, I would be a welcome alternative. Well, maybe that is extreme.

On one of those trips, I awoke and realized I was sitting beside a young girl about my age. She looked over at me as I roused. Feeling her eyes, I lifted my head and deftly wiped the tiny bit of spittle from the corner of my mouth. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and smiled at her. She had on a light blue tank-top with white trim and held a gym bag on her lap. The tank-top straps hung loosely on her shoulders.

She wore her strawberry blonde hair down (more blonde, than strawberry), falling lightly around her bare shoulders and framing her slightly rounded face. I can remember this clearly, and without much effort, even though this was more than two years ago.

Her figure was average, though she carried herself with a delicate grace and balance. She had bronzed skin, likely from being outdoors and her smile was spellbinding. She asked a quick question about the upcoming stop, and I gave a short reply. It hadn’t crossed my mind that she might be interested in having a conversation about more than just transit stops.

We continued to chat and have small talk. Having grown up in a relatively small town, I tend to relate better to other people from small towns, and she had grown up in Delta. While the conversation winded its way around friends, and hang-out spots in Vancouver, I noticed the bus was soon heading to its final stop.

We got up and said our goodbyes. I walked away in the opposite direction, almost immediately regretting that decision. I knew I would never see her again. I turned around and nearly ran back, searching for any sign of her. I ran down the six-stories of escalators of Burrard Station, looking for her and uncertain what to say if I had found her. Of course, she had long gone by then.

The regret then eventually dissipated. I began to take on a different perspective of these encounters. Are these moments regrettable? I think that these encounters are meant to be enjoyed for the time that they happen. Live that moment, remember it, and then let it go. You can’t cling to those moments anymore than you can contain it in a bottle. Otherwise, there will only be the unbearable heaviness of being.

Becoming light puts into perspective these moments and reveals their fleeting nature. Hold onto it, and you will grieve over it. Let it go, and you remain the victor, having received all its spoils. We shared that moment on the bus, and passed through each other’s lives as we were in transit from one point to another. That was the moment to remember, and that’s what it will always just be.

I did it. My first half-marathon and I hit my target of 1:45:12. And all it took was 14 weeks of training, a week of healthy eating, and cutting back from five packs to one pack of cigarettes a week. I felt it was too dangerous to my health to cut back on the drinking, so I kept booze in my training diet. I ran a 8:06 mile the whole way, with a negative split-time. I placed around 500th out of 2355 in the Men’s Division.

But honestly, without those Kenyans, I’d probably have placed in the top 100. Actually, I don’t think Kenyans bother running the half-marathon. It’s more of a warm-up for them. Considering how easy marathons are for them, I can’t imagine why they would even bother running a half, unless its for practicing their sprinting skills

There was one point in the race that I remember clearly. The hardest part of the race, found itself in the center of Stanley park, where we had to run up Prospect Point, which would be better described as a mountain, rather than a point. Two-hundred feet in elevation, and about a mile of winding road leading up to the apex, I felt my legs burning through lactic acid; almost like the way I burn through credit cards.

With the top of the hill not in sight, I never knew when it would end. I just knew that I was continually going higher and higher.

Finally, after reaching the top and cresting over that monster hill, I felt absolutely amazing. It was the most exhilirating feeling in the world, only to be compared with crossing the finish line. I look back at the race, and remember looking down ahead of me from the top of the hill, seeing hundreds of people running down the road, flanked by giant, majestic Redwood trees in the drizzling rain. The serenity and silence of the scene was tranquil and peaceful, occasionally interrupted by the wretching of fallen comrades at the side of the road.

With the toughest part over, I only needed to keep my legs from giving up on me. Overcome with pain, I came into the 12th mile ready to quit. With only one more mile to go, my legs were screaming to be let go. The last mile started with another brief hill which was going to be the TSN turning point.

Just as I was about to stop, from behind me I heard someone say, “Hey man, don’t stop now, you’re almost there!”

I turned around and it was the same guy that I had been running with off and on during the grueling hill-climb. A complete stranger before the race, but now a comrade in arms. We had been passing each other back and forth, and he had caught up to me at my moment of self-defeat. I looked at him and his face was smiling, as though he had already finished the race.

I saw that look, and I wanted it.

I wanted to be able to look like I just finished the race, completely finished the race, without stopping. I was fueled with a renewed energy and picked up my pace to run beside him to the finish line. With five-hundred metres to go, he burst forward and I followed suit. I forced my legs to do what it told me it couldn’t and I ran as fast as I could, screaming out a war cry I once heard in Mongolia.

I crossed the finish line and stopped dead in my tracks. I raised my arms up and turned my face up to the grey skies above letting the rain drops fall on my face and yelled out, “Undefeatable!” I’m not certain which was more awesome: finishing the race, or yelling that out behind the five-hundred other people that just crossed the finish line ahead of me. I was, however, slightly disappointed to find that there was no ribbon to break through. They should have a ribbon for each person, in my opinion.

Rich found me at the end and snapped a photo. I was wearing my Allen Iverson arm-warmers which I deftly made out of a pair of nylon socks. I didn’t look so much as a runner, as I did a baller. I’m certain people were all wondering if I was trying to find a basketball on the race course, rather than actually running this half-marathon. Perhaps next year, I will in fact bring a basketball and dribble for 13 miles.

Two weeks ago, I ran in the Vancouver Sun Run and did it in 50:11. This year, I signed up in the 0:00 to 44:00 group, which is generally restricted to Kenyans and cheetahs. Somehow, they seemed to think I was one of the above. Still, I was only 6 min off my mark.

I’ll be running in the Vancouver Half Marathon this Sunday. It’s entirely possible that I might not be able to stop running and somehow, end up in Toronto at the end of it. Twenty-one kilometres of pavement and (hopefully) sunshine. Apparently, there are water stations and more interestingly, sponge stations, along the race course. Sponsors welcome and donations are accepted!