Running from Bears

Surely a bear print?
see all photos »

It was with a heavy heart yesterday afternoon that I pulled on a pair of old trainers and shorts and exercised for the first time since leaving the UK. Ten days of sitting in planes, cars, tube trains, sofas and restaurants have taken their toll. It's not that we have spent a fortune on food so far. We may have comforted ourselves in the first week with large amounts of food and alcohol but since the change of scenery to Killbear, have become quite frugal. Inch-thick steaks, chickens, meatloaf and pizzas washed down with beers and wine have been replaced with sausages, salads and water. But the cost of food in Canada is cheaper than in the UK so your eyes can afford to be bigger than your bellies. I defy anyone living within 5 miles of the afore mentioned St. Lawrence market not to live exclusively on the fantastic wares they sell. Similarly, eating out, why cook when it is no dearer to eat out?

Surely could be mistaken for a bear?
see all photos »

However, I have not yet found Canadians to resemble the great waddling buckets of dripping I remember their US neighbours to be. I have pondered on this and it is either an intrinsic willpower gained from a life braving the elements and living on ice skates, or it's that alcohol is so hard to get around here! You can't just pop out to the corner shop/supermarket/petrol station etc to stock up - they just don't sell it. No, you have to know where the seemingly tiny number of government-run LCBO off-licenses are, and believe me they are a sod to find. Hardly advertised, they are almost camouflaged by their modest exteriors, and, if you are lucky enough to stumble upon one they are not cheap and their ranges quite small. They also seem to be populated by exhausted and foot-weary Englishmen, looking at prices, and tutting.

Anyway, my run took me through 3 miles of forest along a very rocky and root-strewn path. To avoid tripping therefore I had to 'pick my knees up' to such an extent that I resembled a man running on hot coals, the red face and grunting only adding to the effect. Normally 3 miles would have killed me but two things made time fly relatively easily. Firstly, the forest was full of wildlife. Through tear-stained eyes I saw chipmonks, squirrels and deer, the latter I almost ran into in a clearing, reminding me of that scene in An American Werewolf in London - other than I didn't kill and eat the deer. And I wasn't naked. Secondly, was the fear of being hunted myself. Black bears are common here (as we discovered the following night when our tent was circled for most of the night by a large heavy-breathing animal, who we could hear drooling as it rifled through our cooking equipment and was definitely not Nigella Lawson) and posted regularly are instructions on what to do should you bump into one. Rule number 1 - Don't run.......damn, I was already running! Rule number 2 - confront bear, wave arms, shout loudly...are they crazy? I was bear food.

So every chipmunk was a bear, every squirrel, a bear, every fallen tree stump, a bear. The forest was teeming with them and so I arrived back at camp, unable to talk with fear, waving my family away and pointing to mide side indicating my silence was due to a rather nasty stitch.