works of wanderlust

Tag: pandemic fallout

  • Holy Molar! (Part Two)

    Life happens.

    It being Sunday, I went for a run this morning. A Sunday run is not that unusual, you say … well, except for the fact that I’ve been barely conscious for the better part of a week and a half.

    The nine klick run through the near-freezing suburban trail system was a mix of joyous relief and pounding pain.

    Relief, because after ten days in a perscription-induced fog of pain and sleep and blurry half-aware hum, it was wonderful to be back out on the streets feeling the air and the asphalt and the buzz of adrenaline.

    Pain, because my tooth felt every jolting footstep like an earthquake aftershock, and oh right we had one of those a few days ago, too. The teeth are unforgiving bellwethers of health and prosperity, it seems.

    I try to keep things light and upbeat on this blog as much as I can, but given that a tooth infection that left me all but bedridden for more than a week also found me AWOL from writing the same, I figure I owe a small explanation.

    I recall, but you may not that about six months ago I lost a filling.

    I had it repaired, took some antibiotics, and went along my merry way.

    Or so I thought.

    The thing about lost fillings, tho, the thing that doesn’t get mentioned (or if it did didn’t get heard or understood because there was a lot of background noise, everyone was wearing pandemic masks, and my face had just undergone two hours of emergency dental work back in March) is that infections are a real possibility and a big ol’problem.

    They creep up on you.

    You are busy minding your own business, planning your running training schedule, looking forward to some new snow, and pushing through work hectics. Then the pain starts, at first as a mild headache, then later as a throbbing migraine-like mist over your brain, and then ultimately as electric shocks running up the side of your face that hurt like so much angry bacteria ravenously feeding on the nerves of your molar … until your wife needs to drive you to an emergency dental appointment in the middle of the morning where they do x-rays and give you stack of prescriptions an inch thick and send you along your way with a fresh appointment for an upcoming root canal.

    I’ve been popping a cocktail of drugs to kill the infection, sooth the pain, and reduce the swelling, and it has left me tired and numb and so much disinterested in finding interesting things to write about here. So I didn’t. Sorry.

    Did I mention that life happens?

    Well, life happens.

    And yet somehow I woke up this morning feeling almost … almost … back to normal, a few days prior to that root canal appointment later this week, and decided I could probably handle some time on the trails.

    It turns out I was right.

    I just wish sometimes these lessons came a little less painfully.

  • Boston Pi (Virtual)

    Most everyone I know in the running community knows that in addition to Canadian thanksgiving, this weekend is also the Virtual Boston Marathon.

    At least five people I know signed up for the race, which thanks to the pandemic was a once in a lifetime opportunity to run through your own streets, track it on the Boston Marathon app, and call it an official run.

    I did not sign up.

    … but I did go out on the dawn trails with a trio of friends who had signed up to run the pandemic version of the famous race.

    When three of us tag-alongs met up with them early on Saturday morning near a local park, the sun was just peaking over the horizon and they had been at it for almost ten kilometers already.

    We trotted into step with their route, followed it as it wend its way along the river, up in the neighbourhood, down into a local recreation area, and around the back side of a golf course. After about eight kilometers of support running, we turned back to where we’d left our cars … and ultimately logged just over thirteen klicks total even as we zoomed past a half dozen other virtual Boston’ers with their race bibs or support cyclists or multi-coloured tutus plodding along with fierce determination through the morning trails.

    Our thirteen was not quite a marathon. Obviously. Not even quite a half marathon. I later calculated that my logged distance of 13.43 km as per my GPS watch, worked out to almost exactly one pi of a marathon. Weird. After all, forty two point two kilometers divided by thirteen point four-three kilometers equals three point one-four, or pretty much as close to one pi of a marathon as my technology can measure.

    Mathematics and adventure collide on a Saturday morning in a curious way, it seems.

    And then the event ended, and we cheered in the actual racers across the finish line via text message, as they completed their virtual distance … and won their real medals.

  • Meta Monday: Undaily(ish.)

    While I hope no one missed my ramblings for a short week, it felt quite a lot longer.

    I gave myself permission to pause my writing here for the last few days.

    (And a couple other things.)

    Life has a way of steamrolling you from a blind spot now and then, and on the (purely hypothetical) Maslow’s Hierarchy of Creative Needs producing content for a blog is not quite at the peak of the priority pyramid, but it certainly isn’t foundational either. It is simply something that gets deprioritized when there are other more important things to take care of.

    That said.

    Everything is fine.

    Tho.

    I needed a few days to wander through the autumn foliage, play some mindless video games, nap in the afternoon, and hunker down on the couch with the dog.

    Busy work days. Upsetting decisions by friends and family. Aches and pains from that recent trail race. The news. Local politics. The end of summer. Oh yeah, and a booster shot (for future travelling plans) that floored my immune system for a solid thirty-six hours.

    Pause.

    Rest.

    Reset.

    I hope to be back to regularly scheduled posting now.

  • Back in the Blogging Habit

    Nearly a week into September, and coming off a summer blogging break, I’ve had to get myself back in the mindset of writing daily again.

    Producing a personal blog with daily content is a lot of work after all.

    Not that I’m alone in this kind of effort.

    A summer break, as much as it was an interruption in my daily routine, was also a good chance to spend some of my screen time consuming the work of others for a while rather than putting my head down and creating my own.

    After all, almost eighteen months into this pandemic, all those other folks who eked out from a world-changing, soul-crushing medical lockdown an opportunity to pursue their passion project — like writing a blog, recording a podcast, or even producing a Youtube channel — many of those folks are now also (as much as) eighteen months into that passion project and seemingly in the mood to share some thoughts on their success.

    Like, just this morning I watched a video by an online creator who spent fifteen minutes meandering through the story of her decision to start vlogging about her hobby in March 2020 and the many ways it has changed her life since.

    It’s that same old story.

    Or at least it’s the same old-but-new story.

    In the wake of this terrible moment in history, someone with a curious hobby takes to the internet to fill the digital spaces with their words, photos, art, thoughts, ideas, and opinions.

    Time passes.

    Lives change.

    Positive vibes spread.

    My own story fits into that same narrative family, though my success is still something that is (a) much more modest than some of the people I follow back, and (b) largely accidental as I stick to my core philosophy of just writing what I like and not caring much if it ever becomes more than that.

    A summer break cemented that resolve to keep building on that story and continuing to see where it takes me.

    Letting time pass.

    Maybe changing a few lives.

    Spreading positive vibes all over the world.

    But I do need to work myself back into that daily blogging habit again. And it’s a lot more work than you might think.

  • Bread, Un-Servable

    We had a small get-together in our backyard over the weekend.

    Because as the number of new infections drops and more people get vaccinated locally, the restrictions have been eased and we figured a few people over for drinks and food was now not only possible, it was lawful.

    Of course, I baked a loaf of sourdough as part of my contribution to the potluck.

    I mixed up a nice blend of that local rye flour and some white, rested it in the fridge for an extra-long, extra-souring first proof, overnighted it on the counter so I could bake it the morning of the party as to ensure maximum freshness and…

    How am I going to serve this thing? I thought.

    My guests and I had been particularly careful in organizing everything to make sure all the local health guidelines were, if not followed to the letter, nodded to in respect.

    We had carefully sanitized and bundled out bunches of wrapped utensils.

    There were single-serve plastic gloves so everyone could dish up.

    The main dishes were brought by the guests and picked to be you-touch-it-you-eat-it type foods like fried chicken, pizza, and samosas.

    The beverages were all canned, and single serving.

    And even the birthday cake (it was a birthday party) was individual cupcakes where we sat in a big circle and sang to the birthday gal and she blew out the single candle on her chosen treat.

    But then I had this loaf of sourdough I had proudly baked. I suddenly didn’t feel comfortable serving it. I’ve been baking loaves of my sourdough for so long, and yet just for us to eat, that I didn’t even consider the high-touch, social nature of this bread.

    Usually at a party I set out a loaf of bread on a cutting board with a bread knife. Guests can cut their own slice… but that created a situation where lots of people were interacting with the whole loaf and the knife.

    Occasionally, I cube the bread into generous chunks for dipping either in something like a spinach dip or oil and vinegar, but a dip seemed like the kind of communal eating situation we were deliberating steering clear of.

    Sometimes I’ll slice it just before I serve it, which would have probably been the best option, but even then I’m the one who is touching every slice and exposing the bread to the air and our house and…

    I was being overly cautious, I know, but we’re right now in this moment of time when people are just starting to trust shared spaces again. The metaphor is something like slowly slipping into a icy mountain lake a little bit at a time, or clearing out the clutter of a big mess one piece-by-piece. The road back to normal is slow and careful. And that’s where I am: not quite ready to serve a loaf of bread because I didn’t think anyone would feel safe about eating it.

    So I didn’t feel right about serving it. Friendships are built on trust and respect, and when people come to your space put their trust in you to serve them food, to me respect is putting aside your ego – even the pride of a perfectly delicious loaf of freshly baked bread – and sticking with the agreed upon party plan.

    On the up side, I do have a lot of leftover bread.