"It" Happens Around the Bay

On Christmas Day in 1894, Billy Carroll, the Hamilton Herald Newspaper and a cigar store owner, was the original sponsor of a 30 km run called Around the Bay. It is the oldest road race in North America; its inception three years before the Boston Marathon. Its early winner, Jack Caffery, went on to be the first Canadian to win the Boston Marathon. Hoping to make my mark in history, I too, signed up for the Around the Bay race. And, it did not disappoint. In fact, it turned out to be a historical run for me too, but for a very different reason…

My friend, who was going to run with me, Betty Ann, dropped out because of a hip injury. A team of highly skilled experts tried to put her back together. Her right butt cheek got more attention than Meghan and Harry leaving the royal family. Regretfully, she traded in her running sessions for physio sessions. Consequently, I traded in my running buddy for a running bunny.

Unlike Bugs Bunny, a chocolate bunny or the Easter bunny, running bunnies are actually pace rabbits and in fact are not rabbits at all. They are people, kind volunteers who run the entire race wearing paper rabbit ears on their head while holding a sign with a designated time. These poor sods do all the hard work for you. They run the entire race at the pace required to finish at a particular time. And, Shannon, my impromptu running buddy, and I spotted a very sporty 3:15 bunny. All I needed to do was follow the ears, and I would finish my race in 3 hours and 15 minutes. Perfect!

The race began. All was going well. It was a bright and sunny day; I was feeling good, and I managed to keep my favourite rabbit in my line of sight. Now, Hamilton is a steel town, so I’m sure it is not known for its air purity or sweet smells, but something didn’t compute. I looked around for the farmer’s field that we must be passing. Nothing. Just homes and road. Another waft. No, I’m wasn’t imagining it. Then I spotted it—or maybe it spotted me, I’m not sure. Either way, it was horrifying!

When you run, there is a lot of jostling going on and toxins tend to “escape.” And, when it comes to wind, I can out-perform some of the very best (ask my family). Even our dog, Hank, will leave the room in disgust, and he’s been caught with his head in the cat’s litter box...willingly.

Running can produce hazardous emissions and leakage, but when the whole exhaust system falls out, Houston, we have a problem. And, I was running directly down wind of a problem who was also keeping pace with the 3:15 bunny.

Now this is not an uncommon situation. I’ve had some near misses myself, and at first, I was full of pity. That poor lady, I thought. It was obvious, though, that she was completely aware of her misfortune, as there is a Kleenex clinging to the offending portion of her running tights. I discreetly moved to the left of the pack to avoid her tail wind (no pun intended).

Things were going relatively well for the next few minutes until I was again hit with the slap of pungency. I looked up and saw that she had migrated to my side of the pack. Even the tissue couldn’t take it anymore. It was now missing, and the offensive stain was increasing in size, taking on a life form of its own. I dodged to the right.

Ugh! There it was again. Breathe through your mouth, breathe through your mouth, I told myself. My empathy was waning. Compared to her, a dirty baby diaper smelled like Chanel No 5.

I was getting a little bit resentful. She was laughing and chatting with runners around her as though nothing was at all unusual. I could understand if she was in the front, running for prize money or qualifying for Boston. This was obviously not the case, because she was going my pace, exactly my pace, only a few feet in front of me! I think I would have been happier if she had publicly defecated in the ditch. At least then the malodour would be stationary and I could go past it, although I wouldn’t be surprised if it grew legs and chased me all the way to the finish line.

The other option was to pass her. However, I didn’t have the gas…at least not as much as she did.

So, for almost 20 km, I became a lane changing, swerving freak, trying to avoid the nauseous smell that was taunting my stomach to empty its contents.

If I put myself in her shoes (or pants), I couldn’t do it. I was constantly asking Shannon if I had any remnants of gel stuck in my teeth, which didn’t even register on the embarrassment meter compared to this. If this happened to me, I would be wrapped up in a fetal position in a porta potty somewhere crying like a baby or dragging my hind end on the grass like a dog with tape worms. I would have to leave the race, hide in the bushes, then walk back to the start line (at least I would be facing the runners) and wash my pants out in a local coffee shop toilet if need be.

In another Hamilton—Hamilton, Bermuda, there is a beautiful subterranean cavern called the Crystal Cave. I was fortunate enough to visit once and was awed by the spectacular stalactites and stalagmites, icicle-shaped rock formations hanging from the walls.

Back in Hamilton, Ontario, some stalactites and stalagmites of a totally different nature were forming in one cavern that I would not buy a ticket to see. Enough was enough. It was just too much to endure. I fell back and watched the 3:15 bunny ears hop away from me. Suddenly the air quality improved and I felt at peace. I passed a graveyard: RIP. I think, Run in Peace.

The race ends in a stadium. And, although my chip time is 3:18, I was happy to sprint the last few meters. And, let me tell you, success never smelled so sweet!

Up until this point, I had never run this far before in my life, so the next day I proudly wore my race shirt. I went to the grocery store, and when I turned around to put my groceries in the cart, the lady behind me smiled and said, “Well, you certainly look good for your age.”

“Thank you.” How did she know my age anyway? I must have been emitting a healthy glow from yesterday’s run.

Off to the Mazda dealer to get my car serviced. After paying for the oil change, I turned and the man behind me looked at me quizzically. “Really?” he asked. I guess he was impressed that I ran 30 km!

Into the bank. Leaving the teller, a teenager stared at me and muttered, “It’s possible.”

I was confused by all the attention I was getting. I went home and looked in the mirror, the race crest on the front of my shirt. I took off the shirt to place it in the laundry basket when my eye caught the back. It simply read, “Older than Boston.”

I need to have a word with the designer. ..