A Reflection on Running in Oakland

Today me and 3,000 of my closest neighbours decided to get out of bed and go for a jog. We were all running in Oakland's first ever half-marathon (the full marathon was taking place simultaneously). We see each other all the time on the streets of Oakland and Berkeley; we run in opposite directions and awkwardly nod. Sometimes we pass each other only to meet up again at the next light. We know that there are many of us out there, but for some reason it still comes as a surprise to see 3,000 people congregate for reasons that have nothing to do with observing a sporting event, a music concert, or opposing health care. Instead, like a group of masochists not ashamed to openly flaunt our passion for pain, we met at the corners of 11th and Broadway to run a 21k loop through the streets of Oakland.

Oakland is a city for which I've long felt a strong kinship. When I was a kid I tried to differ from my Toronto Blue-Jay supporting friends by rooting for the Oakland A's and their young skinny slugger, Mark Mcgwire. Only when the Blue Jays started putting together World Series teams did I finally submit and give my allegiance to one of our two national teams. Second, to anyone who knows my hometown of Saint John, New Brunswick, you'll see the immediate parallels. Like Saint John, Oakland is a port city steeped in British Neoclassical architecture. Unlike its ostentatious neighbour San Francisco across the bay, Oakland's horizon is not peppered with skyscrapers, which gives the city a more modest and humble feel. Some parts of Oakland are covered in brick, whereas many residential areas have a distinct 1970s feel, as if the crack boom of the 70s and 80s also brought with it a moratorium on construction. This is also where Saint John and Oakland differ: while Saint John's South and North ends have their share of notorious streets, nothing in the Maritimes compares to crime ridden East Oakland, birthplace of the Hells Angels and home to one of the highest murder rates in the United States. Whereas Saint John's urban poverty is not magnified by the wealth of the highest earners, Oakland's is. From just about anywhere in the city you can look East and see the coveted Oakland Hills where a half-million dollars is likely to only get you a one bedroom condo. For us Canadians this contrast is uniquely American (unless your familiar with Vancouver's lower East Side), and for the well traveled Oakland's disparity reminds one of any major city anywhere in the so-called developing world.

You need not go far to see both sides of Oakland's success and demise: on most weekends I start my run in Berkeley and head down College avenue before connecting with Broadway, which takes you straight down Oakland's gentrified city center. When I'm feeling strong I'll run all the way to 7th street, the city's port, and then turn around and head back to Berkeley on San Pablo. On Boardway you find high-end car dealerships. On San Pablo you see windows boarded up, garbage scattered, and surprisingly at 8am on a Saturday, a lone crack dealer covering what must be for a him a graveyard shift. Young latinos wait anxiously on street corners hoping that a contractor will need paperless hands for a job. Sometimes when I run in the afternoon I find they've been waiting all day. After about 5k (3 miles) I'm back in Berkeley and San Pablo takes on a more bohemian feel with its endless coffee shops, gourmet breakfast restaurants, and antique dealers. I keep going another 8k (5 miles) until I reach El Cerrito, where San Pablo becomes sketchy again. At this point I start heading East on my final lap before reaching home.

Although I was aware Oakland was planning on hosting a marathon, I completely forgot until the week before the race when I saw it featured on the cover of a community magazine. I ran (fittingly) home and registered online, thinking that this race, with one week to prepare, was the perfect catalyst to get me back on track. You see, back in October I ran my first full marathon in my home town of Saint John, New Brunswick. While being cheered on by my parents, wife, and Aunt Susan, I ran alongside familiar faces through streets I had once known well but whose names have started to slip from my memory as I come closer to my tenth anniversary away from the city of my birth. Growing up in a small town means that, once you get your license at sixteen, the most common form of amusement is driving the city and its outskirts, moving from fast food place to coffee shops to empty parking lots and occasionally slipping into house parties or bonfires along the way. Having never run 42k before, I wasn't really sure what to expect from either my mind or my body, which more often than not tend to disagree and not speak to each other when forced to work together to achieve something out of the ordinary. I set the external goal of completing the race in less than four hours and the internal goal of finishing in less than 3:30 minutes. If Google has taught me anything, it is that you should always aim low and shoot high for external-facing goals, and aim high and do your best for personal goals. About halfway through the race I found two kind individuals who kept a decent pace and I ran with them for the majority of the track. Two of the three of us started to pull away during the last 10k when a combination of an uphill climb, gusting winds and ever tiring bodies forced our conversation further and further to the backs of our minds. Somewhere around the Saint John Regional Hospital someone shouted, "you're in the top 10 ten!" which took me completely by surprise and breathed new life into my legs. I picked up my pace and headed for the finish line, coming in at 3:26. Although I didn't immediately see my family Michelle appeared from nowhere followed by my parents and my Aunt Susan. We'd been laughing and joking throughout the race when they'd meet me every 10k or so to cheer me on and I'd try to repay them with a handstand or by running off the course to sneak a kiss from Michelle before carrying on. When we met at the finish line, however, we all burst into tears: the day started normally enough, but the accomplishment became something more serious when it was over.

Finishing a marathon is never as commendable an accomplishment as the training that makes it possible. I started running regularly at Oxford with my good friend and uber-athlete Carlos Dominguez, a published fiction author, a PhD in Development Studies, and an ambitious cyclist who is never more at peace with himself than when he's in some backwater territory forcing his bike up an incline he would otherwise have no business ever coming across. Then, when Michelle and I moved to Ecuador, I would regularly run around the Parque Carolina in Quito until I finally decided to participate in a half marathon from the city's bullfighting plaza to the official marker of the middle of the earth. I was inspired by Libo, a 50 something guard at the private school where I taught who began running in his mid forties and never looked back. Despite his humble means Libo had inspired the school and enough former students to find the support to be able to run marathons in Argentina and the United States. He encouraged me to try the 'middle of the earth half marathon,' which I did and I finished in about two hours and twenty minutes, compared to his less than 90 minute finish. When Michelle and I again moved, this time to to the United States, I set the goal for running a complete marathon, and I could think of no better place to do so than my home town. Now getting back to my original point: preparing for a marathon requires months and months of running 5-6 days a week without exception. I think one of the reasons running attracted me so much was because it forced me to be disciplined. The greatest critique I have of myself is the gap I sometimes have between my ambitions and my willingness to fulfill those ambitions. I have a lot of things I do 'well enough' only because I had the will to learn but never the will to follow through and master them. Running, however, allowed me to push myself to the limits of my own discipline.

Discipline allowed me to finish the marathon in Saint John, but it completely deserted me after that and only recently started poking its head around my place in the past two months. After Saint John I experienced something I later learned to be Runner's lethargy. I told myself I'd take a week off to recover, and then that week became a month, then two months, then I'd think about starting again after our Christmas vacation, and then... Throughout the past four months I'd occasionally go out for a run around the neighbourhood on a Saturday but I'd always end up feeling a strain due to my pride taking precedence over my pain, which in turn caused me to over-exert myself. Then in February I went to see my Doctor after a routine checkup and he had some bad news: my bad cholesterol was abnormally high for someone my age, and my heartbeat was much faster than it should be. 'You've got a genetic pre-disposition towards an unhealthy heart,' he told me. 'If you do anything, keep running, as it's the only thing keeping your heart from beating dangerously fast.'

There is nothing like a scare from your doctor to knock the lazy out of you, and that's exactly what his message did. I started running two nights a week when Michelle would have class, and then again at least once on the weekend. Recently a friend and I started driving to work at 6am which allowed me to run every morning before my workday started. Slowly I became myself again: I felt strong throughout the entire day, I didn't feel sleepy until after 10pm at night, I had more patience, my moods were regulated, and I began paying attention to the food I ate. I was up to running 15k on my long runs, which was still a far cry from the 32k I was reaching in training for my marathon, but I knew I was on the way. When I saw the Oakland marathon on that community paper, I figured this would be an excellent occasion to push myself to the next level. Marathons have a tendency to bring the best out in runners: the competition, the supporters, the entire city coming to a stop so that you can own the streets, all of these things are enough to push someone beyond what they're usually comfortable with.

The day before race day I spent much of my time hiding from the sun, attempting to conserve energy, carb-loading and hydrating. When I woke up on race day I took Fiona for a quick walk and then jumped in my car to catch the rapid-transit train to Oakland for the race. As soon as I got there my internal goal of just completing the half marathon found its own competition from another goal I'd set for myself. After completing the full marathon in less than 3:30, I told myself that someday I'd beat three hours. While standing at the starting line I began to calculate what speed I'd need to maintain to complete a full marathon in three hours and I realized that I'd have to keep a 7 minute mile, which is a about an extra minute more than what I am used to. I found a group of people standing around a sign that said 'seven minute mile,' and before I could contemplate whether or not this was a good idea the race began and we were on our way.

The secret to completing any race is listening to your body and knowing how hard you can push yourself. I once learned the hard way that not listening to your body can have consequences: one afternoon it was about 90 degrees outside and I was desperate to get my miles in for the day. I headed outside determined to man-out the heat, and when I reached the Oakland Children's Hospital I began to feel as if darkness was slowly overtaking my vision and the outer world looked more and more like a keyhole I was struggling to look through. I immediately stopped, remarked to myself on the good fortune of passing out in front of a hospital, and took a few minutes to breathe. I walked the next half mile to the nearest gas station, guzzled down a Gatorade, and continued on my way. Brushing aside these memories I decided to keep pace with the people I'd seen standing near me, even though I'd lost most of them during the race's initial shuffle.

After two miles I settled into a steady stride close to individuals who appeared to be keeping a pretty good pace. A gentleman with the body of an avatar was in front of me, which I felt appropriate, and behind me were two fifty something women with a combined total body-fat of about less than one one-hundredth of a percent. The two women were chatting to each other as if they just happened to be out for a walk, decided to keep pace with those around them, and had yet to come to the realization that they were running a half marathon (one of the rules of long distance running is that a comfortable pace is one you should be able to chat at. I knew that but I'd never tried it before, and was surprised to see these woman handle the seven minute mile with such ease).

In most races there are two types of people: those who are out to prove something, and those who will be happy just to finish. When you run with the later they're generally happy to have company to keep pace. When you run with the former they tend to be suspicious of anyone running at the same speed. For some the raw nature of the competition means that they're only comfortable when no-one is close to them. Others fear that if they find a comfortable pace running with someone that they may unwittingly slow themselves down and thus threaten their desired goal. Although for a few miles I was able to keep between the Avatar and the extreme sports version of The View, disaster quickly struck: the avatar stopped running and began to favour his right leg. He pulled off to stretch and I never saw him again. At the same time I could no longer hear the chatter of the ladies from The View over my music, which meant I was once again on my own.

No matter: I'd made myself a playlist of songs that would keep me energized throughout the race. I had to stop myself from singing and wasting air from time to time. Normally when I run I listen to audiobooks or podcasts, but today I figured I'd need the extra boost. The only time this strategy posed a problem was when I was running alongside a group of animated Greco-roman sculptures and Cake's "Shut the F%#k up!" shuffled its way onto my playlist. If you know the song, you know exactly way I'd want to hear it when pushing myself to run long distance (incidentally, "the distance," is another Cake song on my playlist). Lost in the moment, I started singing outloud, "Shut the F%#k up, heyyyyyyyy hooooooo, learn to buck up!" For those running along side me they wouldn't likely have been surprised to find crazy people swearing at no-one on the streets of Oakland. What may have surprised them was the fact that a crazy person singing and swearing at no-one was running along side them, intent on keeping pace. Ohh well: I guess that's what happens when you hold a marathon in Oakland.

The slightly confused shirtless runners moved ahead and I decided to slip into pilot mode: runners, like pilots, have to constantly check their instruments to make sure everything is keeping steady. I have a checklist that runs from my feet to my head: first, am I jumping or am I pushing? Running, as someone once pointed out to me, isn't about pushing with your legs, it's about springing from stride to stride. As such, I try to ensure that I'm picking my feet up behind me to propel myself forward. I push from my hips and lean into the ground so as to let gravity pull me forward rather than require me to push my weight through space. Next, are my calves tight? They shouldn't be. Can I hoist a grape between my but cheeks? No? good. You need to make sure you but isn't wasting energy by tightening up as if you were streaking through a maximum security prison. Next, am I leaning forward? Are my arms moving? Is my next straight? Is my head up? When I run I go through this check every mile or so. Forcing my legs to kick back rather than push forward is probably the toughest, as it requires a lot of concentration and regulation. I hope to someday get to a point where I just do this naturally and I don't have to think about it.

By mile 4 (marathons, for my Canadian friends, are 26.2 miles (meaning half marathons are 13.1 miles) I started to feel the effects of the sun bearing down on me. The marathon started at 7 but the half-marathon only started at nine, which meant that we would probably get exposed to early morning sun beams I'd rather avoid. I can take the rain, and the fog, and the cold, but I absolutely hate the sun when I am running. I look to my right and realize that there is an escape: there is shade on the side of the road, but the side of the road is slightly slanted downwards for drainage. If I run there too long I could risk hurting my knee (people think it's romantic to run on a beech barefoot, but if there is one sure-fire way to pick up a running injury it's by running on un-even surfaces). I decide to hold out against the sun and motor on. I'd also make sure to hydrate whenever possible: unlike races past where I've sometimes ran by re-fueling stations for fear of slowing down, I promised myself this time that I would accept anything and everything that was offered to me (in non-pipe form, of course), in order to ensure maximum hydration and conserve my energy for the finish line.

By mile 6 my body and mind began to enter into conflict: my mind was telling me to keep moving forward, whereas my body was saying "hold on a minute, you're not used to this pace. You risk not finishing if you don't listen to me. Look, you're mind doesn't know what the F#&K it's talking about. You really need to listen to me and settle into a more natural pace." As often happens in these situations, my mind, fueled by my pride, won the argument, and a few miles later my body seemed to pick up some extra steam and pushed me forward before another problem set in: I had to pee. This happens to me every time I run a race, although never when I train for a race. Although I used a porta-potty just before the race began I now had another instrument to check. I might find a bathroom along the way, but that might also put my goal into jeopardy.

In my experiences all races are relative: the last mile of a race, be it a 15k, half-marathon, or full marathon, is the worst mile of your life. So to is crossing the half-way point at which time you tell yourself, "you only need to do exactly what you've done so far and you should be fine." I checked my watch and saw that I was on the 45 minute mark exactly, which meant that I had to hold this pace and not let off if I wanted to achieve my goal. Again my body was suggesting that this wasn't possible, so I decided to use a trick I call the Happy Phil, named after it's founder, my good friend Phil Ouellette. Phil, if you ever met him, has an incredible ability to charm anyone. He somehow makes any and everybody feel immediately at ease. As a director in the New Brunswick Provincial government, he's told me stories of giving high fives to deputy ministers in meetings. If I tried to give a high five to anyone in a formal setting only awkwardness would follow. But when Phil does it, for some reason, even the most stone-faced individuals can't help but come out of their shells and chuckle at the novelty of it all. As such, the way I would give myself the psychological and physical boost I would need would be to give high fives to strangers standing along the route and cheering us on. My first victim was an Oakland police officer who was simultaneously directing traffic and cheering the racers on, thus sending mixed signals to both which, as far as I know, did not result in tragedy. As I approached him we made eye contact and my left hand immediately went in the air. "High Five!" I shouted with my best Kazak accent. "Woo Yeah!" he shouted back as the spectators giggled.

The Happy Phil worked: as soon as our high five was complete I had an immediate boost of energy and my pace picked up substantially. My next target was an elderly Chinese lady who was clapping to a beat no-one but she could hear. She gave me a slow, deliberate high five as if she had to consider the mechanics of moving her arm in such a motion before again standing to cheer me on even more. I gave two more high fives in a row before I realized that I was giving myself too much energy and needed to slow down and breathe. I came around a corner and saw a group of Oakland Raiders fans in full get-up and face paint yelling slogans to the runners as if we were 4 and 1 on the goal line. I got a fist bump from one and a 'yeah baby!' from another, before a group of non-costumed fans standing farther down the road all stuck out their hands wanting a piece of the happy Phil. I continued this way until the final three miles: every time I felt myself slowing down I would lock eyes with an unsuspecting spectator (can you be both?), go high and then re-fuel. Although I didn't see any other runners follow suit, many did find the strength to let out a "Woo!" and a "let's go!". At some point it occurred to me, if rock stars use the energy of the crowd to heighten their performance, why shouldn't runners?

At mile ten my pilot's warnings told me that systems were starting to malfunction. I felt like a Cessna enthusiast behind the controls of a Boeing 747 and I needed to land the plane to save everyone's life: this shouldn't be an issue, a few months ago I ran at least a half-marathon EVERY WEEKEND in preparation for Marathon by the Sea in Saint John. Aside from the need to pee, the larger problem here was our old enemy doubt: if the devil makes people do things, doubt makes people not do things, and it does so by whispering sour nothings into our ears that remind us of all the reasons why we should just give up and call it a a day. "Matthew, for the love of Monkey, this is nothing! This is a half-marathon! What the hell are you whining about? Get on with it!". That's what I tried to tell myself, but my body wouldn't listen. I then caught sight of the greco-roman sculptures who are easily offended by cussing: they'd slowed down, and now was my time to pick it up. I may have the beginnings of a pot belly, and my nipples may point more outward than inward when I take off my shirt (too much description?) but I am sure as hell fast enough to run three miles (5k) at a decent pace. I ran past a bathroom and decided that if any of my systems have to fail I can afford to pee myself without it causing long term damage to my body (although the emotional scar would take a long time in healing).

I picked it up a notch for mile eleven and twelve and then planned my sprint through mile thirteen. I could visualize it: I would get to mile thirteen, see the finish line, and then start pumping like an Alaskan farmboy caught in the shed with one of Sarah Palin's daughters. I got close to mile thirteen, shouted some words of encouragement to the other runners (some of whom were completing the full marathon, as the two races combined for the last few miles), and skipped third and went right into fifth. I kept that pace for about a minute or so, and then I slid back to forth, and then into fifth, and then struggled to keep it above sentence. The guys who I had been encouraging on were now passing me with ease. I allowed myself to put my head down as they trotted by.

Finally, with about half a mile to go, the finish line finally came into sight and I began to sprint. Both sides of the finish line were crowded with people: If I stopped to give high fives I'd probably lose 15 minutes and never meet my mark. I pushed harder and harder, much to the joy of the onlookers and the chagrin of other runners who probably felt like I was just being a jackass for the sake of it. I was sprinting though because I became aware of another reality: when the clock came into view it said 1:29, and I had to put everything into it if I was going to meet my goal. When I finally crossed the finish line the clock stood at 1:31, one measly minute off of my goal.

Before I'd come to a complete stop someone handed me a medal, someone else took a picture, and someone else handed me what appeared to be a large sheet of tin wrap. I asked what it was for and the kid looked at me as if to say, "you really don't know?". "It's to keep you warm" he said, before turning his attention to the smarter runners who were apparently right behind me. I immediately found a bathroom and then got in the line for a massage. An ironically named woman called "Stormy" was assigned the task of bringing tranquility to my over-exerted legs. When we were finished I felt slightly worse than when we started, although my comfort throughout the rest of the day was a testament to Stromy's skilled hands.

Because Michelle was in El Salvador I was resigned to celebrating my victory alone, but to a certain extent that's the way it should be: 59 people crossed the finish line before me, and the winner beat me by twenty minutes. At the same time others were completing the full marathon, and somewhere out there people are training for 50 mile and 100 mile ultra marathons through crazy terrains and unforgiving topography. I held a pace for 90 minutes that others can hold for 12 hours. Many of the people who finished before me were older, some even twice my age. Whenever you participate in a sport as vast and widely practiced as running your accomplishments are only significant when you look at them subjectively.If a statistician were to look at running accomplishments she'd see something far removed from a normal distribution: on the one hand you have the vast majority of people who prefer to avoid running farther than the living room the bathroom. On the other side of the spectrum you have individuals who have pushed the human body to its limits, surprising themselves and the scientists/doctors who make understanding the human body their primary focus. For those of us in the middle we take pride in doing something we've never done before, and that's exactly why I do it. In the lead up to the Marathon by the Sea I would run a distance longer than anything I had ever run before in my life, and usually I managed to do so before 9am. Humans love to surprise and be surprised by going beyond normal expectations. Many look to travel or extreme sports to get that sensation, yet others work towards it day in and day out on the sometimes decrepit, sometimes affluent streets of Oakland, the rose Gardens of Oxford, at 10,000 feet in the middle of the earth, and on the foggy streets of Saint John, New Brunswick. Of course the physical and mental health benefits are obvious, but for me what is less obvious is that running allows me to close the gap between being a person of words and being a person of action; in other words, I blur the distinction between the person I want to be and the person I am. When we live in a capitalist society where our value is measured by how much money we can make for other people, I think it's important that we find ways to challenge ourselves to go beyond our comfort zones.

To conclude, the Olympian Runner PattiSue Plumer said it best when she said,
"Racing [running] teaches us to challenge ourselves. It teaches us to push beyond where we thought we could go. It helps us to find out what we are made of. This is what we do. This is what it's all about."


You can find my results here:
http://results.active.com/pages/searchform.jsp?posted_p=t&sort=p_place_division&rsID=90450&firstName=Matthew&lastName=Carpenter-Arevalo&queryType=arbitrary&page=1&numPerPage=25#hot_links

You can find pictures from the race here:
http://www.marathonfoto.com/index.cfm?RaceOID=23942010W1&LastName=CARPENTER-AREVALO&BibNumber=4403&Mailing=24162
For a really good book on running, try reading: Born to Run: by Christopher McDougall.

Updates!

Dear All, sorry about the lack of updates. I was spending a lot of time in Switzerland and then had to rush to finish my thesis. I promise a fresh update tomorrow. In the meantime, please keep your thoughts and prayers with the Wilband family.

Take care,

MCa

Oh Gordon, please don't.

Summary: Asking tough questions about Afghanistan does not mean being “against the troops.”

Let me qualify this post by first of all stating that I don’t go out of my way to make comparisons between the Harper administration and the Bush administration. Harper is much smarter than Bush, a lot less sinister, and would never receive a mandate from the electorate to remake Canada in America’s image.

Nevertheless, the current Defence Minister and former lobbyist for the whose-who of the military contractors, Gordon O’Conner, called the NDP “anti-military” when Jack Layton asked a fair enough question, “What are the goals and objectives of the mission and how do they meet our foreign-policy objectives? What is the mandate, what is the defined concept of operations, what is the effective command and control structure, what are the rules of engagement?”

How the hell does the Defence Minister qualify that question as being anti-military? Has the minister of defence been taking cues from White House briefings? I can think of nothing that sounds more Bushesque, and if the Conservatives want to avoid the Bush comparison, they’ll hold back on the ‘you’re with us or against us’ attitude. With comments like this, there is no wonder that Harper doesn't want his ministers to speak without checking with him first.

First of all, let’s be honest for a minute about why we are in Afghanistan in the first place: Canada didn’t want to appear ‘soft’ on the ‘war on terror,’ and so we volunteered to place our soldiers in harms way in order to allow America to free up some soldiers to continue on with its voyages in Iraq. (on a side note, I am hoping that I’ll be deployed to some place warm in the Caribbean as part of Canada’s contribution to the ‘war on drugs’, where I can patrol the beaches and inspect the piña colada vendors.)

Second, if we are going to stay in Afghanistan, we have to know what we are there to do and if we have the resources to do it. The said objective is nation-building, which became a goal after the United States invaded Afghanistan and setup a ‘democratic’ government that is trying to find its legs. In order for the Karzai government to gain legitimacy, it must establish “a monopoly on the use of force,” and so Canada is providing security and attempting to weed out the remainder of the Taliban.

The goal is noble in itself, but if we are going to place our soldiers in harms way we have to know whether or not those ordering the mission are actually dedicated to seeing it through. Has America forgot about Afghanistan after becoming distracted by Iraq? Does the coalition of nations fighting in Afghanistan have the time and money to actually turn that country into a prosperous democracy?

If America and its allies, including Canada, are not committed to seeing the mission through than there is no purpose in Canada putting soldiers in harms way, as we are simply wasting time and lives before Afghanistan is allowed to return to a narco-state and terrorist hideout. Making such a statement does not qualify as being anti-military; instead, caring for the well-being of soldiers should be our top priority, and sometimes this requires asking questions concerning the mandate the government has established for the mission. If all the parties in parliament agree with and are dedicated to the mission and the mandate, there will be no need for future debate in parliament. Until the government explains its position and brings about consensus, it should expect to have to answer to both the opposition, the media, and the Canadian people.

Asking questions of the government is not anti-military; however, refusing to answer them is anti-democratic.

What a Liberal Wants

Liberals have to ask themselves what they want before deciding on any candidate.

The race to lead the Liberal Party is starting to heat up, and as the Globe and Mail reported this mourning, a number of tiers are starting to take form. That is not to say the race is a foregone conclusion: there is still time for someone to come out of the woodwork, or for an also-ran to impress the Liberal masses and make him/herself a serious contender.

Before people start lining up behind candidates, it is probably time for the Liberal party members to ask themselves an important question: what kind of mandate does the next leader of the Liberal party have? Are the Liberals planning on unseating the Tories in the next election, or are they looking torwards building for the future? Once that question is decided it will become a lot easier to qualify what qualities the Liberals need in a future leader.

In an ideal world, the Liberals would fine an experienced, bilingual, female, Albertan to lead them into an election. Many liberals realize that in order to stay on top they have to make their party appear less Toronto-centric, or at least Central-Canada centric. Since said candidate doesn’t appear to be on the horizon, who is the next best thing?

The problem with the two obvious front-runners, Michael Ignatieff and Bob Rae, is that no Air Canada jetliner exists with a cargo-hold big enough to carry all of their baggage. Rae will not be able to escape the fact that he was the worst premier of Ontario in recent memory. Granted, not all of that was his fault, but it’s a quick and easy thing to say, stick on a bumper sticker, or throw into a commercial.

Ignatieff suffers from being unknown outside of universities and not very well liked withn them. Ignatieff by all means should be the candidate of young liberals, as young people will naturally gravitate towards people who they are familiar with their environment. The problem is that few trust him because of his support for the Iraq war and dodgy comments on the use of torture. Ignatieff may try to state that he bore less responsibility than a head of state in backing the Bush administration, but as a public intellectual he has to be held accountable for creating an ideological launching pad for a reckless administration. Ignatieff could have easily said, “I would support a removal of Saddam Hussein, but not one that is illegal.” The problem is though, he didn’t. He lined up behind the Bush administration, and few are going to easily forget or forgive. Furthermore, let’s not forget that the man spent the past 30 years living abroad, only to come home to run for office. As Jeffery Simpson pointed out on Saturday, would any other country permit a man to pull off such an act? Could you envision an American living in the U.K. for 30 years, only to return for the democratic primaries? I doubt it!

The one candidate who I am starting to like more and more is former Ontario Education minister Gerard Kennedy. At first I thought it was rather presumptuous for a minister in a provincial government to think he could run and win the Federal Liberal Leadership, but the more I read about him the more I think he could in fact be the man for the job.

There are many reasons why I think he could be the candidate to watch. First of all, although he’s currently a resident of Ontario, his roots are in the west. Second, his background includes a lot of social work, which is always a plus for politicians who want to portray themselves as connected to the average Canadian. Thirdly, he’s bilingual. Finally, if he as popular in Ontario as everyone says he is, he could very well reverse the trend in that province towards Stephen Harper. By keeping Ontario from turning Tory blue, the Liberals could at least manage to hold the Conservatives to a minority government for quite some time. Finally, he is young enough that even if the Liberals loose the next election, come the next one he still wont be receiving CPP. The more time Canadians have to get to know him the better.

Lastly, I want to say that I think Belinda Stronach made the right decision in staying out of the race. Unlike others who will run just so that the rest of us don’t forget who they are, Belinda does not have that need. She can take the next 8-10 years to develop into a solid, bilingual candidate with extensive parliamentary experience. In the meantime, I applaud her efforts to change the way Liberals elect their leaders. I wish her the best of luck.

The Belinda Factor

The Belinda Factor:

Summary: Does Belinda really have what it takes to be the leader of the Liberal party?

Belinda Stronach, to no-one’s surprise, is thinking about making a run for the Liberal leadership. Unless Michael Ignatieff is struck with a horrifying bout of diphtheria, Bob Rae vanishes in a mysterious skydiving accident, and Scott Brison is consumed by a pack of fierce wolves, she most certainly will not win. In my mind, the Liberal party would have to get pretty desperate for a leader, or very pessimistic about its future chances, to choose Belinda to lead it into the next election.

Don’t get me wrong, I believe it is high time Canada proved itself a civilized, progressive nation by ELECTING a woman as Prime Minister (Kim Campbell’s summer job as PM hardly counts). But is Belinda really the best we can do?

First of all, Belinda speaks French like an 8th grade late immersion student (late immersion often begins at grade 6 or 7), and I think we all agree that, this day in age, bilingualism is a necessary part of the job description. Recently a reporter asked her in French if she was going to run for the leadership. Belinda asked for the question to be repeated. Do you get my drift?

Secondly, Belinda has hardly proven herself in political life. In fact, she’s brought nothing but bad luck for the Liberal party. Her first act was to bring about the gay marriage between the Canadian Alliance and the Progressive Conservatives. The child of that gay marriage was a united opposition determined to end Liberal hegemony. Belinda then switched to the Liberal Party, became a cabinet minister, and the party lost for the first time in 13 years.

Even as a parliamentarian and a cabinet minister, Belinda has impressed few. She’s spent less time speaking in the house of commons than most back benchers, and she’s yet to convince anyone that she has a firm grasp of the many different issues facing the future of our country. During her failed attempt to lead the united Conservatives, Belinda spoke often about “new ideas” and “fresh leadership,” but she never really got around to discussing what either of those would entail.

Finally, the other reason why I feel she needs to prove herself as a parliamentarian has to do with the fact that many doubt her career in the private sector has come about due to her natural talent. Sure, Magda Autoparts is very successful, but so long as people remember it was her father’s company to begin with, few are willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. Therefore, if Belinda wants to be taken seriously she’ll have to prove that she is good at SOMETHING that the rest of us can observe and say, “you know, she’s right, she is good at that!” Maybe she’s a good Soccer player; maybe she’s a world renowned Urdu poet; or maybe she makes a mean lasagna, for the love of all that is true and sacred tell me you’re accomplished at SOMETHING and make me believe it!

Maybe I’m cynical, but I can’t help but think that Belinda’s failure to buy success in Canadian politics proves that in our democracy substance still prevails over style. With her millions of dollars and important connections, Belinda has been able to hire well informed advisors and coaches, all with the goal of turning her into a sincere and plausible leader. So far their efforts have yet to produce results, and unless Belinda manages to turn things around quickly, I hardly think she’ll succeed as the leader of any party.

The Liberals are in Trouble.

The Liberals are in Trouble.

Summary: In minority governments, campaigns for the next election begins the day after the original election is finished. The Liberals need to rebuild their party but they seem incapable of thinking outside the Toronto Box. The Conservatives, on the other hand, are doing their best to make headway with voters in the rest of the country.


The Liberals are in trouble, but none of them seems to notice. This is because after the most recent election the Liberals retreated to the trenches of Toronto and dug in. Unfortunately they’ve dug in so far they can’t see over the top, let alone set out charging. Not only that, from the looks of things, once they realized they’d be there for a while, one person did a Tims run while someone else brought over a DVD player. From the looks of things, they’re starting to get a bit too comfortable.

Ahh Toronto! Where the sun always shines and things couldn’t look better. That is, of course, if you’re a Liberal. Even though the NDP may have taken two seats, most Liberals see Jack and Olivia’s victories as isolated incidents rather than a serious threat to their hegemonic dominance of the T-Dot. Toronto remains a safe place where Liberals can walk around with their heads held high, confident that the current Conservative victory is a minor setback.

This weekend Liberals got together in Toronto to celebrate Sheila Copps. The event was marked as a moment of reconciliation meant to bring together the former feuding factions of Chretienites and the Martonians. Former MP Dennis Mills and my MP, Paul Zed, came up with the brilliant idea of commemorating one of the most polarizing figures in Grit history, Sheila Copps, a former Chrétien foot-soldier and a woman hated by the supporters of Martin. The same people who stood by silently as Sheila fell victim to Paul Martin’s political genocide of Chrétien supporters now, two years after her embarrassing defeat, decided it was time to place her on a pedestal. Aline Chrétien was there, and so was John Turner, but noticeably absent was Paul Martin and everyone from his inner circle. This event may have worked to heal the rifts between the Chrétienites and the Turnerites, but I hardly think anyone really believes the big red tent is all of a sudden a comfortable place for all Liberal members.

And so while the grits sipped champagne and gossiped over who would lead them into the next election, Stephen Harper was in my part of the country throwing small money around and putting to rest some significant local issues. For starters, Harper offered to pay 1/3rd of the cost of Saint John’s harbour cleanup. For years we Saint Johners have been embarrassed by the sight and smell of raw sewage being dumped into our harbour. The Federal Government seems to have kick started the cleanup and voters in my area are unlikely to forget that come the next election. Harper was then off to Moncton to offer 6 million for a new stadium. He also announced 400 million to help improve New Brunswick highways(spending which was incidentally approved but not announced by the previous Liberal government. Smooth move). All of this comes as good news to New Brunswick, which the conservatives rightly see as fertile ground.

In Saint John, you have to remember, we were one of only two ridings to elect a Conservative during Chrétien’s massive victory over Kim Campbell’s Tories. We stuck with Elsie Wayne throughout the Chrétien years, and only when she retired did we elect a Liberal, former MP Paul Zed. People initially voted for Zed because there was a general feeling that we were isolating ourselves in Saint John by being consistently on the wrong side of the governing benches. Zed won again in the most recent election because people believed him to be a capable MP who was effective at bringing in money for local projects. It also helps to remember that many in Atlantic Canada continue to be suspicious of Harper and resent comments he has made about the region in the past.

By making these small announcements here and there, Harper is hoping to put to rest concerns that he is a bogeyman determined to sever Atlantic Canada from the rest of the country. In a place where people tend to vote more on local issues than national ones, he just might be successful. If we have another close election, minor gains in Atlantic Canada may be what push the Conservatives into majority territory.

You don’t have to go to Toronto to understand the extent to which the fog rolling in off of Lake Ontario blinds Liberals to the state of their party in the rest of the country. The fact is that almost everyone considered a contender for the Liberal leadership comes from there, with the exception of the also-rans Scott Brison, Dennis Coderre, and Stephane Dion. As for the rest of the slate of candidates, most wouldn’t appear to know the difference between Cape Breton from Great Britain. If things continue like this, the Liberals will have no reason to campaign outside of the 416.

We in the rest of Canada are very suspicious of the “Toronto knows what’s best” attitude, and we wont be willing to hand the keys over to a Liberal just because he or she isn’t Stephen Harper. Whoever becomes the next leader will have to out bid the Prime Minister in the Saint Johns and Darmouths of the country.

Right now the Liberals are loosing that race, not only because they’re not in power, but also because they’re so bunkered down in Toronto. After their surprising success in Quebec Conservatives will be looking to make even larger gains there. If Bloc support holds firm, Liberals could be relegated to the third party in Quebec. I suspect now that the Conservatives have held power, more credible candidates will step out of the woods in places like Ontario and British Colombia, and this can only help the Conservative cause.

The simply reality of the situation is this: unless the Conservatives manage to mess up royally, any election held in the next two years will probably produce another Conservative government. All of the Liberal front-runners right now are either unknown in most of the country or have heavy baggage they’ll have to offload (ie. Haven’t lived in the country for 30 years, bad record as Premier, etc). The sooner Liberals realize this the better for them, as they’ll have to once again venture outside of Toronto’s Green belt and build a real alternative the Conservatives. Stephen Harper is already out there, and if they want to avoid making the same mistake twice, they’d do well not to under-estimate him again.

A Defence of the Seal Hunt

Life in Geneva as a stay-at-home husband is hard. I wake up late. I read books I’ve always wanted to read. I enter essay writing contests and write long emails about the seal hunt. I iron clothes I ironed the day before, and I discuss with my hostess, Madame Bloch, the merits of the British Monarchy. Sometimes I stroll the streets and strike up long conversations with the American Mormons It has now gotten to the point that, when they see me coming, they start to run the other way.

Part of my daily routine involves watching the news from Canada via the internet. So you can imagine my surprise when one day I see one of my musical heroes, Paul McCartney, visiting my neck of the woods! Once I found out why he was there though, I couldn’t help but mutter to myself and shake my fist at the screen. No, Paul wasn’t there to promote his music. Nor was he visiting an Indian healer looking for inspiration for his new album. Instead, he was spooning a baby seal for a photo-op and calling on the Canadian government to halt the seal hunt.

At first I couldn’t decide whether or not the ex-Beatle was being intentionally disingenuous or simply ignorant. Surely whoever put Paul McCartney up to this selfless media stunt must have informed him that the killing of baby seals (the ones with white fur) was banned many moons ago. I then realize Paul McCartney, the man who brought us classics like ‘Yesterday,’ ‘Live and let die,’ and my favourite, the acid-inspired White Album, doesn’t have a clue. The same man who co-wrote the song ‘revolution’ to denounce those who wanted to exploit his celebrity status to promote socialism had been tricked into lending his name to a cause he knows very little about.

Just how detached Mr. McCartney was became clear in a debate on CNN. In an interview with Larry King, Danny Williams, a former Rhodes Scholar and the premier of Newfoundland and Labrador, invites Paul McCartney to come to Newfoundland(or, “New Finland,” according to Larry King).

“But I’m already in Newfoundland!!” Mr. McCartney yells with moral indignation, his wife nodding with approval.

Apparently someone forgot to put the sign on the back of his guitar; he was in Prince Edward Island. That is, err, a different province. But I mean really, what’s the difference, right? Both are Islands lost in the Atlantic where people talk funny and eat cheap lobster that should be reserved for rich people. Surely he can be forgiven. I mean really, is there anyone amongst us who knows the real difference between Liverpool, London or Luton? Be honest.

Let us go back to the photo-op. Of course, a photo with a full grown seal would not go over so well. Full grown seals, if you’ve never seen one, are ugly. They are huge beasts whose upper and lower jaws are connected by permanent strings of saliva. Their cries resemble what you would imagine it must have sounded like when Odysseus blinded the Cyclops. You wouldn’t curl up to one for a picture, not only because if it rolled on top of you it’d crush your bones and you’d die instantly, but also because their breath smells like their diet: raw fish intestines. Imagine Brian Wilson at the peak of his obesity without having shaved or stepped out of bed for a number of years, and then you’ve got yourself a full-grown seal.

The camera then switches to the Canadian Embassy in Washington where a couple of dozen full-time executives, part-time protestors, take their lunch hour to cry shame on the Canadian government. The smell of triple-latte capo-macho-chinos and the buzzing of cell phones and blackberries set the stage for the SUV-driving John Kerry-supporting movement of popular resistance. Apparently the insurgency must have marched past the Zimbabwean Embassy, the North Korean Embassy, the Embassy of Uzbekistan, Belarus, etc, deciding not to stop, only to disembark in front of the house representing those drunk and harmless northerners who end every sentence with “eh!”.

“What do you think about people who hunt seals?” a brave reporter asks.

“They’re ignorant!”

“They’re backwards!”

“They have no compassion!”

Have you ever heard the saying that the things you don’t like about other people are really the things you don’t like about yourself?

Atlantic Canada is a humble place which, like the rest of the world, is trying to carve its own modernizing path through the vast tornado we call globalization. Flying over Newfoundland you get the impression from above that, if we ever decide to colonize mars, it’ll probably look something like this. The interior of the Island looks like a deserted crater, and it is only really the edges where you find small enclaves of the greatest people on earth, that for some reason only tend to live on Islands. These are towns where everyone still knows the names of all their neighbours. In these parts strangers wave at strangers, just in case they might meet them later. These are the kinds of people who don’t lock their doors, and if you asked them why, they’d say, “but what would happen if someone came by and I wasn’t home to receive them? How would they get in?”

And like many rural places around the world, these people deal everyday with a harsh economic reality. Tens of thousands of Newfoundlanders have left for the oil patches of Alberta. Others have gone on to study at University and then moved to Toronto to take up jobs as computer technicians and engineers. Unlike migrants from some places though, few Newfounlanders, and Atlantic Canadians in general, don’t dream of someday making it back to the places where people treat each other right.

And then there are those who stay. Many are fisherman. Newfoundland used to boom thanks to the generous access to the ocean. Then, after many years of over fishing by both domestic and foreign trolleys, fishing all but died out. Many people in these communities survive through the harsh winter on the checks they get from the government for being seasonal workers. They are in a catch-22. The country wants them to do the seasonal jobs because we enjoy the products they produce, especially seafood. Yet we call them lazy and stubborn for not finding work in the off season. The problem is that, even if they have a trade, few businesses hire people for only a few months at a time. In fact, most of the time seasonal workers aren’t working are down periods for every other industry.

One of the ways some people get by is through the seal hunt. Many of the seal hunters eat only what they kill with their bare hands, and in the summer they grow as much as they can to be subsistent. They’re lifestyles are far less of a threat to the environment than the protestors who call them ignorant and backwards. Contrary to the common belief that these people are bloodthirsty killers, they actually live in a weird communion with the animals they hunt. It is something that is hard to explain, and definitely isn’t evident when you observe the hunt in action. For example, one seal hunter interviewed acts as a tour guide, bringing the animal-rights tourists to see the seals he himself will kill once their fur changes colour. As the reporter correctly points out, people like the McCartney’s will spend more on a single trip to the ice-floats than most seal-hunters will make in a season. The same seal hunter starts to tear up when the reporter asks him about his job. As a tough skinned man who normally speaks his few words into his chest, you know he’s not the kind of guy who sheds a tear for the sake of the camera.

Back in Washington one of the protestors screams into the camera, as if reciting from a pamphlet:

“BUT THE MONEY THEY MAKE IS ONLY A SMALL PORTION OF THEIR INCOME!”

This is true. However, when they make so little anyways, what is small change in the till at Starbucks is a lot to a seal hunter. It might allow him to send his kid to college. It might mean saving for retirement. Either way, it is an income he wouldn’t otherwise have. I might also add that I can say from experience that seal meat is definitely an acquired taste. If you ever tried it and then thought that it could be a part of your regular diet, you’d realize just how hard up some of these people are.


That same seal hunter is also doing himself and the fishing industry a favour. The seal population in the Atlantic is around 5,000,000. A population that large eats a huge amount of fish. If the seals aren’t hunted the species of fish we are trying to revive might fall into extinction. The seal quota, set by the federal government, is about 325,000, which isn’t very much when you consider the overall population. All of those vegetarians who like to chow done on Atlantic Salmon might wish to send a thank you card to the guys doing the ugly job of helping sustain the fishery.

The killing of animals, whether for food or for fashion, or sport, is never a pretty business. The benefit that large-scale meat production has is that it takes place behind closed doors instead of on an open ice-float. When you unwrap your processed McBurger, you don’t hear the screams of whatever animal you happen to be eating, nor do you see the blood splattered on the floor. You can safely avoid the smell of the severed hooves, still smouldering from the process that detached them.

Nor do we see the likes of McCartney snuggling up to alligators or the other not-so-cute animals that make up a part of our wardrobe on a daily basis. Why pay thousands to go to a cold ice-float in the middle of the Atlantic when you can instead take a nice trip to Geneva, light on fire the thousands upon thousands of Genevois Grandmothers who proudly wear fur, as if their dead husbands killed the animal with his bare hands, and then at least you can go skiing on the weekend.

As one park-ranger pointed, not everyone caught up in the rush of globalization wants to be a management consultant. Some people will continue to decide to live off the land and make money the only way they know how, and they deserve that right. There is no reason why we should all abandon the places we call home because free-market ideology says that we should sacrifice our lifestyles on the alter of cheap imports. If everyone decided not to stick out the winter, there would never be a Canada, or a Finland, Norway, Sweden, or some of the other countries who continually lay claim to the highest standard of living in the world.

It’s time we be honest with ourselves about the entire production of our excessive western lifestyles, from the exploited farmers who harvests our coffee beans, to the sweat-shop teenage girls who make our wardrobes, to the not-so-cute animals whose meat, parts, and fur also make their way into the clothes we wear and the food we eat. Being selectively indignant may make us feel better now, but its not going to help us on the magical mystery tour down the long and winding road towards environmentally sustainable and balanced lifestyles.

Yours truly,

MCA