I ended the summer of 2014 with two thrills: riding the vintage rickety wooden roller coaster at the PNE and running 30 kilometres.
One took 90 seconds. The other, somewhat longer. One was an impulse decision. The other, carefully considered. With one, I travelled up to 80 kmh. The other - up to eight minutes per kilometre. Both were approached with trepidation. Both held the goosebump threat of serious injury.
Built in 1958 of Douglas fir, the roller coaster is an international favourite with roller coaster enthusiasts.
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I can't remember if I'd ever ridden the 56-year-old amusement park ride, and if I had, it was so long ago as to have lost any accompanying memory of delight or terror.
And I most certainly had never run 30 kilometres.
I have found over the years that some intense situations are best experienced alone where the isolation of contact or familiarity sear the episode into one's very fabric.
Others need the oxygen of being shared to burst into hotter flames.
I suppose that's why when the digital read-out on my Garmin watch displayed 30.2 kilometres, I stopped the Canada Post delivery man on the sidewalk of an otherwise empty Vancouver street.
"I've just run 30 kilometres," I said excitedly, seeking a high-five from him in my addled, endorphin-fuelled state.
"How'd you do that?" the good-natured fellow asked. "Walk breaks" I blurted out.
After a brief chat and his handshake of congratulations, I continued on my way to my friends' house.
Out and back route from friends' house near Fraser and 23rd to Brockton Point, a bit more than 15 K each way to allow for walking cooldown at end.
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It was an emotionally charged moment. I admitted to myself, for the first time since I registered my middle-aged, injury-prone body earlier this spring for the New York marathon, that I might actually be heading to the fabled race.
Eight months ago, I had to stop running altogether due to persistent injuries. Now, being able to complete 30K with no major pain is a pivotal point. I might even have to cut back on my wine drinking and start taking this seriously.
The NYC marathon is one of the most popular marathons in the world. The average finishing time in 2013 for women aged 50 to 55 was 4:57 hours.
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The thrill of completing that distance was visceral, an in-the-gut experience that even if I never run one kilometre further, will stand out in my memory.
I've previously written about my running with its pleasures and physical setbacks being like a roller coaster ride.
But that coaster in Vancouver, built of Douglas fir by 300 laborers including refugee workers from Norway, exceeded any analogy about hills of anticipation, a moment of suspended reality at the summit and plunging descents.
I’ve been to Disneyland with its shiny, slick corkscrews but there is something about the Vancouver coaster with its minimal seat restraint and noisy, clicking ascent as the 16-person car is pulled to the top of the first hill by a chain that makes one feel vulnerable even before the downward plunge lifts you from your seat and unsettles your logic and taunts the voice inside your head that insists it is totally safe and no one’s died on this ride. Yet.
Coaxed into the ride by a friend, I screamed my way through every over-priced foot of that ride, delighting in the shared faux-terror. Riding with friends made it for me. Wouldn’t have done it, or enjoyed it as much, otherwise.
Both the long run and roller coaster ride were out of my comfort zone. Both delivered a thrill that defies description. Both were meant to be shared. Next stop –34 kilometres and the Zipper.
Turn-around point in my end of summer long run at Brockton Point lighthouse.
