Cannonball Read #18: Robopocalypse by Daniel H. Wilson

I had such high hopes for Robopocalypse. The story sounded pretty good: Robots get smart. They try to take over the world by annihilating humans. Humans resist. If it sounds familiar it's because it's been done before. Unfortunately, it's been done much, much better.

What a silly book this was. Right from the first pages of the book I understood that this was going to be the literary equivalent of a Michael Bay movie. Action, explosions, soldiers, tough talk. Characters who are shallower and more wooden than their robot enemies. While that might work on the big screen (at least if you're looking for some mindless entertainment), 350 pages of it get boring real fast.

The book is divided into chapters, each of which retells events as witnessed by one of the many characters. These accounts are based on CCTV footage, webcams and the like. The central character provides an introduction to each story, as well as a final note at the end of the chapter. This was a major fault of the book for me. It took me out of the story (not that I was lost in it, but still). He also kept hinting at the importance of these events for the future, which didn't leave any room for suspense or surprise.

I'm only giving this book two stars instead of one because Daniel H. Wilson obviously knows his subject matter: robot technology. Too bad he couldn't work in some more humanity.

I hear this is currently being made into a movie by Steven Spielberg. Will this be one of the few times the movie is better than the book?

Cannonball read #17: When the devil holds the candle by Karin Fossum

This is the epitome of summer reading. A quick, light, unpretentious read that's easy to digest and just as easy to forget.

Andreas is an 18-year old that doesn't know what to do with his life. He spends all his time when he's not working with his best friend Zipp, hanging around town, managing to stay out of trouble despite their risky (and often outright criminal) behaviour. Then, one day, Andreas disappears. No one knows where he is. Or at least that's what the police believe until they talk to Zipp and they realise he is hiding something.

It is not a ground-breaking idea, but we know almost from the start who's responsible for Andreas' disappearance. The question is not so much who did it but why. Through the pages of the book, a portrait of a very disturbed person is slowly revealed.

Don't expect a deep psychological thriller or a complex mystery here. The portrayal of the disturbed person feels incomplete. Andreas' own implied psychological problems are only hinted at. It was like waiting for a punchline that never came.

This is not a fancy 7-course meal at a fancy restaurant. This is a light snack before going to bed. It might keep your stomach busy for a while, but by midnight you're hungry again.

Mineralleden, the Mineral trail

(Long story. Again. Grab a piece of pie to go with that coffee)

 

I had a plan. I was going to follow Mineralleden (the Mineral trail) to Varuträsk and then run back the same way. All in all, about 36 km. It all started so well. It was a beautiful day and the trail head, which I thought I'd have trouble finding, couldn't have been more visible if it had a blinking neon sign hanging over it. 

Off I went into the woods, with my Camelbak in my backpack and some flapjacks in the outside pockets. It didn't take long before I took a wrong turn. Although I didn't know it at the time and put the blame on lousy marking, I had run past the trail. I stood at a crossroads scratching my head. I knew that, further up the road, I would come across the trail again, so I took my chances and ran in that direction. 

The woods were peaceful, casting a much-needed shadow on this hot day. Stones and roots littered the path and kept me focused. It was a gorgeous single-track I was running on, the vegetation whipping my legs. I hoped there were no ticks hiding in the bushes, throwing themselves at me as I ran past.

After a while, I had to leave the woods and run on asphalt. The trail follows some less-trafficked roads, and cuts through a posh area with well-maintained red houses and tidy gardens. Not many people have gone on leave yet, so I didn't meet anyone except a woman tending to her flower beds and a boy playing on the grass. The little blue-and-white signs glued onto trees by the road told me I was still following the trail. And then my mind drifted off and I lost my concentration and suddenly there were no signs to be seen. I couldn't decide what to do. Keep running and hope that the trail was up ahead? Turn back and look for it? Ask someone? But there was no one around. I kept running, believing that the part of the trail that followed the road was pretty long.

I ran for about one kilometre without seeing any signs. I was almost convinced that I had missed a turn somewhere, so I made my way back towards town again, looking around carefully. And there it was. Hidden in the trees. Well, hidden - if you're blind. Not only was there a blue-and-white sign on a tree, there were orange markings showing the way on several other trees! I couldn't understand how I could have missed it. I almost threw myself at the trail, happy to finally leave the hard asphalt, and was met with mud. Lots of it.

That was just a taste of the things to come. Because later, after another short patch of asphalt, I ran through areas that were so wet, my feet almost sunk in to the ankle.

And speaking of ankle. A few months ago, I managed to do something with my right one while doing yoga. I suppose I overstretched it? And now, I landed on my foot in such an angle that it shot a flash of pain up the front of my calf. 

If a runner swears in the woods and no one is around to hear her, does she make a sound?

I started running again. The flat parts were fine. Problem was, there were almost no flat parts. The trail is like a roller-coaster, and did I mention the stones? And the roots? Second time I twisted my ankle followed, and then third not long after. It hurt like a son of a b-- female dog. Running two extra kilometres because I took a wrong turn hadn't crushed my spirit, but getting injured in the middle of the forest came dangerously close. Something big bulldozed its way through the bushes. I caught a glimpse of a moose calf just in time, and right after another brown shadow further ahead that might have been its mother. Crap. Moose can get aggressive if they have young. Good thing they seemed to be more afraid of me than I was of them. My incospicuous bright fuchsia T-shirt camouflage didn't seem to be doing its job. Looking out for the moose through the trees, I slowly walked away.

"What was it we said?" found on a tree in the middle of nowhere. I don't know what it was they said. I don't know who "they" are. But I'm very curious.

The trail got more and more treacherous, with overgrown grass and bushes making it hard for me to see where to put down my feet. I walked the most difficult parts. Then I was out of the woods once again, and I took a break to eat. This was the forest road I ran on with AIK last autumn, only now it was greener.

Right before I reached Vildmarksgruvan (”Wilderness mine”, and the end of the trail), I had to follow the trail into the forest. A strange group appeared before my eyes. Three men of, how shall I put it, very different shapes and sizes (think fellowship of the ring here), were standing in the middle of the path, with a folder in their hands, seemingly looking at nothing more spectacular than the stones on the ground. I was startled, finding other humans on the trail, but I think I managed to hide my surprise with a wave and a happy ”Hello!”. As if it was completely normal.

The mosquitoes attacked me as soon as I stopped at Vildmarksgruvan. I was parched. My throat was thick with what felt like wool. The wool was absorbing every drop of moisture from my mouth. A couple stood on a little mound, also staring at the ground. The woman was holding a rock in her hand, observing it.

- Do you know if I can get water anywhere around here? I asked. The excavation site was only a museum nowadays and was currently closed.

- The village is about one kilometre down the road, the man mumbled. Do you have your car nearby?

- No, I ran here, I replied.

- If you run to the village, there might be someone who could give you some water, the man said, completely disinterested in me, and kept looking at the ground.

- There might be a hose around here somewhere, said the woman in broken Swedish.

I'd had already had a look. There was no hose around, and the extra kilometre to the village, on asphalt, in desert-like conditions was the last place I wanted to be. I gave my situation some thought. Which way would I run back, the trail or the forest road? I still had some water left, but it was getting so warm I'd soon be able to boil an egg in it. Black backpacks, who thought they were a good idea? On the trail, the shadow cast by the trees combined with the breeze would keep me cool enough, but I really didn't like the idea of twisting my foot once again. I left the couple to their rock observations and aimed for the forest road.

This absurd day was about to get weirder. Finding my stride, I made good progress back towards town, trying to run in the shadow of the trees on either side of the road but the midday sun shrank the shadows to nothing. The heat-scorched dirt road smelled of pine needles and I was starting to foam at the mouth with thirst. I licked my lips, washed my mouth with a gulp of water before swallowing – it only gave temporary relief. Then a beat-up, dusty red car pulled up beside me. A family of four sat inside.

- Do you know the way to the bog? the bespectacled, kind-looking man asked in English.
- The what? I asked.
- Do you know where there is a bog around here? he repeated.
- A bog???

 I didn't get it. My tired mind was mixing up English and Swedish and the word he said sounded like something completely different in Swedish, something very inappropriate for him to ask for in front of his wife and children.

- Yes, a bog!
- Aha, do you mean a swamp? gratefully the penny finally dropped.
- Yes, a swamp! Do you know where a big swamp is?

I didn't. Baffled by this strange question, thinking it was all a dehydration-induced hallucination, I fished out my phone and started looking at the pictures of maps I had taken. None showed any bog. Or swamp.

- Where do you guys come from? I asked as I looked through the pictures.
- Germany, he said. They said in town that the swamp was Northwest of Skellefteå.

I explained that I wasn't from these parts. I asked if they knew what the swamp was called. They didn't. They said they'd ask someone else and drove off. 

My thirst becoming more and more like a stubborn child tugging at your sleeve for attention, I wished I'd asked the Germans for water. I kept wondering if I should ask one of the few people I saw gardening if I could bother them for some. I was prepared to beg, bribe or steal, but my shyness got the better of me and I made do with the little water I had left. I stopped at Klintforsån to rest and eat the last of my flapjacks, and rinsed my feet in the cool water of the brook. I wished I could swim in it. I wished I could drink all of it up. If I had slipped and fallen in, I would have drowned with a smile on my lips. I put my cap in the water and then put it back on, and I could almost hear the water evaporating with a hiss as my hot forehead turned it to steam. 

The rest of the run was uneventful. Well, almost. I did manage to twist my ankle one last time when I got back to Vitberget.

Did you know: I can swear in three languages! Four, if you count Finnish. Perkele!

Tick-free, I arrived back at the car with 32 km under my belt. It felt good to be able to run longer distances again and not be completely shattered or injured afterwards. The foot doesn't hurt, nor is it swollen, but I'm giving myself a couple of days' rest. Just in case.

Cannonball Read #16: No name by Wilkie Collins

This book was given to me as a gift by a friend. It is not the kind of book I would normally give a second look at a bookstore, let alone buy: I prefer modern literature, because I've always believed that finding common ground with the characters in books that are over a hundred years old would be hard for me. I was wrong.

Set in the 1860s, No name is the story of Magdalen, the youngest of two sisters, who become very poor indeed when their parents die without having taken the necessary steps to make sure the two young women inherit their fortune. The women deal with the loss of their parents, their name and this fortune in very different ways, and Magdalen's way is that of revenge against those she perceives as responsible for the injustice.

My fear that I would have trouble identifying with the characters was unfounded. Apart from the occasional fainting spell suffered by one woman or another, which seems so overly dramatic in this day and age, I could easily understand the emotions, motives and actions of the protagonists, despite the 150-year old gap between their experience and mine.

Although the language was more formal than I am used to, I didn't feel it was a problem while I was reading the book. Still, it took me two months to get through it, so I suppose that it does take longer to read if you're not used to this kind of language. It was a complex novel in a way, with many major (and minor) characters, and several parts to the story. Yet, it kept me interested throughout. I can't say I found Magdalen likeable – her actions make her seem like a derailed train, a catastrophe waiting to happen; but her struggle to do what she thought was right while simultaneously doing things that are so obviously wrong made for compelling reading.

Hemavan for Midsummer's Eve

(Grab a cup of coffee before you start reading. It's a long read)

A backpack that weighs 10 kg might seem quite light when you're testing the straps at home, but after hiking up and down the hills of Hemavan for 10 km don't be surprised if you get horns bumps on your shoulders of such horrible appearance people might think you're the spawn of Satan. At least if you have as crappy a backpack as the one I have. The hordes of mosquitoes occupying the woods around the lower areas are the least of your problems in that case. We were going camping and hiking in Hemavan. 4 days, 3 nights. 

Day 1

After driving for 4 hours (not including the stopover for pizza in Storuman), we parked right where Kungsleden begins. Kungsleden is pretty much just uphill the first few kilometers, and carrying as much weight as we did (J double as much as I did) we got breathless after a few hundred meters. We took small steps up the hills, our faces protected by the mosquito nets hanging from our hats. It was the day before Midsummer's Eve, and we didn't meet a single soul before we got to Viterskalsstugan, the first shelter on Kungsleden. 

Once we got there, the shelter host came out to greet us. He had just gotten there himself – the shelter wouldn't open until Midsummer's Day, and he invited us to come over and celebrate Midsummer's Eve with him, as he would most likely be spending it alone. After he gave us some tips on where we could put up the tent, we walked on until we found the perfect spot. Syterskalet opened up in front of us, a magnificent view to wake up to.

Not a bad place to put up a tent

We cooked some dehydrated food and rested our legs. One thing we learned was that, right after you put down your heavy backpack after a long walk, you will not be able to walk straight. Also, people might think you're drunk. Good thing there was no one around to think that. We have a reputation to uphold.

The weather was good, so we decided to try and climb up mountain Norra Sytertoppen. We crossed the wide stream running by our tent with our hiking boots hanging around our necks, the ice cold water making our naked feet ache. The hike after that was easy, climbing gently up the hill. It was all going very well, until we came up to a sort of chute consisting of loose earth and scree. It got steep pretty fast at this point, and it took a lot of courage from both J and me to climb up. Our courage did not pay off. A bit higher up, our way was blocked by a patch of snow that was too slippery and at an angle for us to try and walk over. Neither of us fancied falling to our deaths, so we turned back. We climbed down the chute sitting on our butts and appreciated life a little more than we did before. Especially each other's.

The view was worth the climb

We got back at one in the morning, almost too tired to sleep. Almost.

Day 2

Defeated by Norra Sytertoppen, we decided to try our luck in the opposite direction. The mountain top we aimed for was an easier one, one that J had climbed before. A corridor of grass would help us reach higher ground avoiding scree as much as possible. The hike was easy from a technical point of view, but steep enough to send our pulse racing with effort. As we got higher, the wind got stronger. It didn't take long before it was so strong that J, nearly two meters tall, had trouble staying upright. At that point, climbing even higher, where the wind was sure to be even stronger, didn't seem like a good idea. We turned back, once again defeated. 

Hard to believe that anything would grow in such harsh climate, but there were many sorts of flowers around.

Home-made flapjacks tasted great on the way down.

When we reached the shelter, the host came out again to greet us and offered us some coffee. We accepted gratefully and spent an hour or two in the shelter, chatting about mountain-related activities. I took this opportunity to ask him about running in the area, and got some great tips about possible excursions for our running trip in July.

After cooking and eating our dinner by the stream in the company of mosquitoes, the evening was still young. The weather seemed good enough for a hike to one of the glaciers in the area, right at the far end of Viterskalet. We started off around 18.30. The initial climb was gentle and it was followed by a patch of marshland. Already the view was spectacular. Brutally steep mountain walls surrounded the valley, dwarfing the clear blue snow-water lake at the bottom. The landscape was lunar, barren but for some short grass and alpine flowers, littered with rocks, some of which were enormous – a remnant of a much colder era, when the glacier we were hoping to visit reached all the way to Syterskalet.

We made good progress into the valley, crossing rivulets and snow fields. We kept thinking that the glacier was right around the corner, but it was much further than we thought. Then we came to a snow field that we couldn't cross. It covered a stream and we didn't know how deep the snow was, or if it would hold our weight. For the third time, we had to turn back. 

Just around that corner. Or so we thought.

Once again, the wind had picked up, so strong that we thought it would throw us off our feet. We sought shelter in as low ground as possible, making our way carefully over ridges and using our hiking staffs as support against the gusts. We wondered if our tent would still be there when we got back, or if it would have flown off to the land of Oz. It was great to see that it was, indeed, still standing when we got there. I rinsed my legs in cold stream water. Both J and I were getting very sore muscles at this point, having logged many kilometres within a short period of time, and the icy water brought much needed relief.

Day 3

We got very little sleep that last night. The wind was mercilessly whipping our tent with rain, threatening to rip it apart. I kept worrying in my half-asleep state about what we would do if that happened. Pack our things in the middle of the storm, head to the shelter and knock on the door? Being outside the tent was a daunting prospect. After a while I stopped worrying. There was nothing I could do. I couldn't control the weather or what it did to the tent. I fell into a restless sleep, twisting and turning, trying to find the position that hurt my muscles the least.

Morning brought anything but sunshine and blue skies. The wind had hardly eased down and some black clouds hung over all of Syterskalet. We called it quits. We would cut our trip a day short and head back. After a hearty breakfast and a hot cup of coffee, we packed our things (our tent, surprisingly, none the worse for wear except for a crooked pole) and left. 

Oatmeal, chocolate chips, coconut flakes and dried cranberries

J was plagued by some sort of inflammation in his ear and walking back with 20 kg on his back was taking a heavy toll on him. My backpack straps continued to rub against my shoulders. We took small breaks to catch our breath. We could see herds of reindeer on the hills across from us. Did I think to take out my camera then? No. Of course not. I thought it would burden my shoulders even more. And, as always, when you don't have the camera readily available, that's when amazing things happen. We surprised a small group of reindeer that were grazing leisurely not 30 meters from us. They looked at us, momentarily frozen in place as if we had caught them doing something bad. Then they trotted away with a ”harrumph”, their crowned heads in the air as if to say they had no time for the likes of us.

We came across even more reindeer after that, and this time the camera was hanging around my neck. But now they were (of course!) too far away to photograph.

The best I could do with my camera. Yep, those white dots are reindeer.

We started our drive home some time after 4 in the afternoon, many experiences richer and glad to get a load off our backs.

Never a dull moment

Life has been doing a Usain Bolt the last few weeks and sprinting by at world record speed. And by weeks, I mean months. When I'm not working, I'm training. When I'm not training, I'm probably doing something that can't be classified as wasting time or being lazy, like cleaning after the cats, or gardening, or going on weekend courses about running (ok, that last one was really enjoyable). Last weekend I spent a few hours volunteering as a photographer for Lidingöloppet on tour Skellefteå race. It was a fun, well-organised event. And a very different race experience when you're not actually running.

So there haven't really been any moments when I've had nothing to do. And there is absolutely nothing wrong with that. Boredom is not a feeling I hold in high esteem or long for. But despite the fact that all these activities are voluntary and have been enormous fun (well, except the cleaning after the cats one), they have also entailed a certain rigidity in my schedule. So when I go on holiday on Wednesday, it will be nice to have nothing planned for a while. It will do me good to balance on the verge of boredom, and be able to spontaneously decide what I am going to do to land on the right side of the fence.

Yesterday, 7 runners from AIK and I drove to lake Göksjön, which lies about 50 km from Skellefteå, to participate in Allétrampet. Questions are placed around the 22 km that surround the lake, and prizes are given to those who somehow know the answer to which year the local school closed down and how a word in the local dialect translates to Swedish. Most people drive or cycle around the lake and stop at the aid stations where ice cream, sausage, Swiss rolls and waffles are served. But AIK consists of runners, and run we did.

The whole thing was like something out of Midsomer Murders, except, thankfully, in this episode no one died. The cute houses. The endless green fields. The friendly locals. The history. We logged kilometre after kilometre, hardly noticing thanks to the frequent stops and good conversation. The temperature was just right for a cone of strawberry-flavoured ice cream and the rain that was promised around 2 o'clock held off until we were sitting in the car on our way back. 

Prudently, I had taken a sandwich with me.

Highland cattle

You don't usually see such big butterflies around. And when you do, they don't usually sit and wait patiently for you to take their picture.

When we got back, I decided I'd run the remaining 3 km home too. I need to start logging some longer runs on the weekends again. My legs were tired but not overwhelmingly so, and I rolled down the hill comfortably. All in all, I ran 25 very kind kilometres yesterday. Today, we have to start packing for our Midsummer trip to Hemavan on Thursday. 3 nights camping in the valley among giants.

Geocaching + trailrunning = BFF

Have you tried geocaching? If not, you should. There is no better way to stumble across new, beautiful places than that. And, if you're like me and you like trail running, you can find some caches while out and about. I mean, what else would you do on Sweden's national day?

The mosquitoes were somewhat of a downer, though.

Ups and downs

Wednesdays in the AIK world mean a 17 km run on the hills surrounding the north part of Skellefteå. It's a tough session, with many uneven upward slopes that make it hard to find a good rhythm. Add to that the fact that it was really warm during last Wednesday's session and you'll understand why it felt more like a crawl than a run.

The first time I joined AIK for this particular round, I had to stop and walk up a hill a mere kilometre after the start. Granted, it was at the end of a long slope; but it didn't bode well for the rest of the session. As the weeks passed, these stop-and-walks came later and later, until I could run all the hills up to the very last one: the mother of all steep, long upward slopes. This slope is vertical, I kid you not. Not only do you need crampons to climb it, it is endless. Both times I attempted to run up this hill, I made the mistake of looking up from my feet. That's what our coach has told us to do, in order to promote a good running posture. But he didn't mention the psychological disadvantage it would entail to look up and see just how many more kilometres there are left to this particular hill. You might as well be climbing up to the moon. Each time I've made this mistake, on the verge of collapsing from a mixture of mental exhaustion and lactic acid poisoning in my thighs, I've gotten so disheartened that I have immediately given up and started walking. What is even more disheartening is that everyone else seems to be able to climb that hill without crampons and/or permanent psychological trauma.

As hard as the first 9 km or so may be, it is all worth it once that diabolical hill is behind you. Because what lies ahead are glorious kilometres of pure, wonderful single-track through the woods. Stones, roots, mud, the works. If you can forget about the task at hand for a second (and, really, you shouldn't, because it's easy to stumble and fall if you lose your concentration), then you might notice the bird song and pine scent around you. I didn't want the run to end. 

Yet, end it did, and I made my way home happy as a clam. I made myself a smoothie and munched on some cashews. Ten seconds later I started feeling funny in my tummy. I felt sick. I tried to ignore it, but it was impossible. I had to go and lie down. A couple of hours later – BARF. Yep. The dreaded stomach flu, the bane of everyone's existence, the intrusive parasite that turns grown-ups into little babies, had arrived for its annual visit. I moved from the bed to the sofa so that I wouldn't disturb J in his sleep, and suffered an uneasy night tossing and turning, drifting in and out of sleep, thirsty beyond belief, yet unwilling to get up and get some water in case it made me toss up my cookies again.

With parched lips and haunted eyes I lay silently staring at the living room ceiling and wishing that morning would arrive, so that J would wake up and fetch me some water.

I spent the whole day yesterday sleeping, waking up from time to time only to look at the clock and fall asleep again. I managed to eat some watermelon last night, which was the only solid food I had eaten in 24 hours. Despite having slept all through the day, when the night finally came, I slept again, this time a deep, dreamless sleep. I woke up exhausted, with a severe headache and some heaviness in my stomach but no tendency to throw up. Meanwhile, my body had obviously resorted to cannibalising itself when it didn't get any food from me, and I had lost over a kilo. Either that, or one of the things I threw up was actually my stomach.

Today I'm planning on doing as little as possible and getting rid of any residual alien forms in my body. I need to be in good shape tomorrow, as I am going on a weekend running course. Some of the topics included in the course are running technique, planning your training and, of course, diet. I'm really looking forward to it, so don't get in my way, stomach.

Luleå stadsmara - a half marathon to remember

I wanted to rip my clothes off. I wanted to scream at the people lounging in their garden chairs to stop staring and do something about it, couldn't they see I was in agony? That garden hose is not going to turn itself on, you know.

But more about that later.

True to character, I didn't enter Luleå Stadsmara until the last minute. Or a day in advance, anyway. J had offered to drive up with me and have a look around town while I ran, but it felt wrong to drag him all the way up there so I could run a race. Still, we packed up our things and headed North. Four young reindeer who seemed to be far away from home were munching on some leaves by the E4. They were still there when we drove back later that night.

Being the time pessimist that I am, I was quite stressed when we finally arrived with only 5 minutes to spare to pick up my bib. The atmosphere around the race was festive, the volunteers were cheerful and the day was so incredibly beautiful that my stress lasted no more than 2 seconds. I walked away with my bib and the race's functional T-shirt in my hand, and met up with J and some guys from the club.

After a quick warm-up, I went to the start. Third row from the start, to be exact. Because, for the first time in my life, I belonged to a club and thus had the right to compete. For real. With only a couple of minutes left, I looked at all the sinewy, strong runners around me and wondered what the hell I was doing there. Shouldn't I be standing right at the back of the crowd? But a boxing match was taking place inside my brain, and the competitive side had just knocked out common sense and humility. ”Screw this”, I thought, ”so what if these are real professional super-elite runners and I'm not? I'll give them a run for their money. At least for the first 10 meters, right before I collapse from heat exhaustion and die”.

Before I had time to think more such petulant thoughts, the starting gun went off and I remember marvelling at how it suddenly had a different meaning now that I was competing. The chip runners usually get at such races allows them to get an official time from the moment they pass the starting line and not from when the gun goes off. For competitive runners, that is not the case. Their official time starts counting as soon as the gun goes off, so every second counts. For me, it wasn't as important, because I doubted that mere seconds would make a difference in the results. I'm nowhere fast enough to compete on such a level.

Photo by Norrbottenskuriren

I was a balloon that had been expanding with each passing minute, a balloon filled with anticipation and nerves, and when the gun finally went off the balloon exploded. All the pent-up energy found its way into my legs and, almost against my will, they moved forward much faster than I had planned on. The plan was to keep an even 5:15 pace, which would allow me to break 1.50 for the first time, but now I was doing 4:20 and it felt good. Until it didn't, that is to say, which was just a few hundred meters later. My speed dropped to just below 5:00, but I was nowhere near enough psychologically to calming down and following my plan.

It was a really hot day. Well, by Swedish standards, anyway. There were almost no clouds in the sky, and no trees to cast a shadow during the first kilometres that went through an industrial area. The wind that should have served as a cooling factor was just in the way. I felt my head turning red. I had my water belt on me, and it kept jumping up and down with each step. I must have wasted an entire pizza's worth of energy on moving it back into place. After only a couple of kilometres, I was ready to throw in the towel. What the hell was I doing here? I thought for the second time. Why do I put myself in situations I know I can't handle mentally? I can't enter a race and run conservatively. This has been proved many times in the last couple of months, when I said I would take it easy during a race, yet I still ended up running so fast I had a near-death experience. Granted, it also resulted in me breaking every personal record in the distances between 5K and the half marathon, but was it worth it?

I tried to relax. Thought about my shoulders. My facial muscles. My feet. Was I tense? Was I wasting energy somewhere in my body? The greatest energy waster was my brain, that was so incredibly focused on how damn miserable I was feeling that it almost failed to noticed what a beautiful town Luleå is. People were sitting on benches with ice-cream in their hands, enjoying the same heat that was now torturing me, feeling the same sea breeze on their faces that acted as a wall against me. Others were standing by cheering us on, and I tried to smile, or raise my hand in thanks, or -if I was running downhill- even make an effort to actually say ”thank you”. The public was truly amazing. A sign that said ”stop jogging, start drinking beer” was a bit more dubious in its ability to cheer, but it did put a smile on my face, and the long-haired, bare-breasted guy sitting beside it getting a tan got the thumbs up from me.

The first 10K went really fast, and I broke my personal record by a few seconds. That in itself should have served as a warning that the second half was going to be even more of a nightmare. I have been injured and/or ill throughout spring, which meant that I haven't had the chance to run as many long runs as I usually do. There was no way I could keep running at the same pace, no way I would have the endurance for it. All I could hope for was to finish the race. Alive.

My legs were starting to consider jumping ship. My brain, the captain, had abandoned the ship before the women and children ages ago, but my heart was still there, dreaming about the possibility that I might break yet another personal record. The heat was draining every last drop of fluid from my body. My lips were dry, my mouth was dry, and the water stations seemed to be moving further and further away from me. Meanwhile, J had been walking around the course and I was so grateful to see him after 12 km that I almost threw my water belt at him. I hadn't used it at all and it was only weighing me down. The water I got at the stations was used 10% for drinking and 90% for showering myself with, offering some much needed, if a bit short-lived, relief from the heat.

I wanted to rip my clothes off. I wanted to scream at the people sitting in their gardens to turn their hoses on and spray me already. I'd even consider accepting an ice-cold beer by the long-haired guy at this point. To shower with.

I tried to do some quick calculations in my head. The first half of the race had given me a good margin to break my record, which I now needed as I was losing speed fast. But my brain was non-responsive and my ability to do maths (limited as it already was) was next to none. Once again, I focused on the tense areas in my body, relaxing where I felt it was needed. My thoughts drifted to other times, happier times, when I ran at an easier pace. Times when I ran longer distances, but when I could take a break, drink some water, maybe buy something to eat, run on. When I ran all day just to explore. I longed for those times. The battle between the competitive side and the life enjoying side was raging on, but the latter was now winning. I eased my pace even more, but it did nothing. It was already too late, and my energy was already depleted.

I ignored the signals my body was sending that all it wanted was to jump in a nearby fountain and then lay down on the grass and just look at the gathering clouds for hours. I put one foot in front of the other, despite its protests. The finish line was within sight and I made a final effort to pick up some speed. I crossed the line with the feeling that my stomach was crawling out of my mouth, the fact that I had broken yet another personal record registered somewhere in my brain but stored for later use. Right now the focus was on recovering my senses, finding J so that I could just lean against him and not have to spend any more energy keeping my body upright. And I was so thirsty. So thirsty.

Despite the fact that the life-enjoying side had won over the competitive side in the end, a little bit of coal was still burning in my heart. I went to look at the results on the big screen. Sure enough, I hadn't struggled for nothing. I had managed to grab second place in my age division, despite my relatively modest time. After getting something to eat, we waited for the awards ceremony. When it was my turn, I went up on the podium feeling slightly self-conscious. What the hell was I doing here? I thought for the third and final time.

One of the churches in Luleå. Photo by J

With the prizes I had won in hand, we walked back to our car. We drove into town for a quick bite and to walk around a bit, and promised ourselves we would come back. Next time there will not be a race. I have had enough of racing. At least until next time the competitive side takes over.

Cannonball read #14 and #15

Um. So. Yeah. I have kind of gone underground the last few weeks. Training is going well, I guess, though in smaller quantities than usual. Life is also going well: I am healthy, I am lucky enough to have people around me whom I love and who love me, I have a job and summer is around the corner with lots of fun plans to look forward to. I've been on holiday and recharged my batteries. I've run races and done well, much better than I thought I would. But you wouldn't know it by reading this blog. Mainly because, well, there's nothing happening in it nowadays. I mean, look at that banner. March 2013? Today is the first of May and I still haven't updated that banner. At least the year is still right.

There is no real explanation as to why I haven't felt motivated to update the blog. Just lack of inspiration, I suppose. I am not going to go so far as to say that I will shut it down, but if I do update it, it will be even less often than it has been so far. Unless, of course, my muse decides to pay me a visit and stay a while.

But there is one thing I still have to do. I am still doing the Cannonball Read, and I still have to write reviews for the books I read. So here come two of them:

Cannonball Read #14: And another thing...by Eoin Colfer

I read ”The hitch-hiker's guide to the galaxy” a zillion years ago. I don't remember much about it, except its nuttiness. Yes, yes. I remember the towel. And 42. And the characters' strange names, like Zaphod Beeblebrox. But the details escape me. So I wondered how it would be reading part 6 of the trilogy, a part that wasn't even written by the original author of the series, Douglas Adams (who is, unfortunately, dead). It was written by Eoin Colfer, the author of Artemis Fowl, an author whose work was new to me.

I needn't have worried. Judging by the response the book got it was just as well. Some readers thought that Colfer tried to copy Adams' style of writing but the book didn't live up to Adams' standard. Others complained that it was nothing like Adams had ever written. Either way, the readers compared the book to Adams'. So, lacking that point of reference, I was going to read the book for what it was, on its own merits, and not through comparisons to the original books.

And this is where you expect me to write a summary. The problem is that for the first half of the book or so I wasn't really sure what was happening – but that could have been my own fault for not concentrating hard enough. Earth is to be demolished by some alien bureaucrats, to make way for a hyperspace bypass. Does that sound familiar? That's because this is how the first book started. Arthur and his friends escape unscathed (again), but the aliens are determined to not let them slip this time. Cue the shenanigans.

Once I focused long enough to understand what was going on, I could relax and enjoy the humour. Because it is an entertaining book, even if it isn't roll on the floor laughing your arse off-funny. There are no likeable characters to speak of (one of them is outright slappable – I'm looking at you, Random Frequent Flyer Dent), nor character development; what you get instead is a story that is crammed with odd personalities that fight for your attention. Perhaps the book would have benefited from a little more focus on the main characters, but then we might have missed the craziness of the secondary characters. Come to think of it, I don't really know who the main characters were, and which characters were secondary.

It is not for lack of trying that ”And another thing...” doesn't top the list of my favourite books. All the ingredients for a good fun book are there; I would even go so far as to say that it was a book written with love for Douglas Adams, not an attempt to make money off the success of ”The hitch-hiker's guide”. But it is not a great book. Maybe it relies on the originals too much. Maybe it counts on nostalgic readers who try to quench their thirst, loyal Adams fans who were deprived of their favourite author way, way too soon.

Cannonball Read #15: Ender's game by Orson Scott Card

Ender is a 6 year old boy that gets chosen to join Battle School, an elite programme that is meant to produce extraordinary generals. These generals will later fight the war against aliens. Through intensive training, facing new dangers every day, Ender will have to stand his ground and prove his worth.

Ender's game was one of those books that confuse you. On one hand, action! Spaceships! Aliens! Drama! On the other hand, the cognitive dissonance of having a 6-year old behaving and thinking like an adult. Despite Orson Scott Card telling me that this is no ordinary 6 year old, I couldn't overlook the fact that this just doesn't happen. No suspended disbelief for me. What made it worse, perhaps, was that this 6-year old was as precocious at 6 as he later was at 12; there was no progression in his maturity, no painful lessons learned. He seemed to know everything right from the beginning.

A lot of the book had to do with battle strategy that flew over my head, possibly because I don't find it interesting enough to read about. What I found most interesting was Ender's relationship with his sadistic older brother, Peter. In the beginning of the book it is implied that their story will have a dramatic ending.

SPOILERS

Yet nothing happens. Their relationship, which seemed to be a central element in the book, an important contributing factor to Ender's decisions and even his personality, just fizzles out. There is no resolution to their conflict. Peter, who is fleshed out as an important (and interesting!) character in the beginning of the book, just disappears during the second half. I realise that the most important decision Ender makes in this book is meant to show that he is a caring individual and not at all a murderer like his brother. Still, this juxtaposition comes at a time when we've lost interest in the brother, who has been shown to have redeeming qualities after all, and is not the bogeyman he was during Ender's early years.

END SPOILERS

This was an easy, entertaining read, but I failed to see why it has won prizes and a place among the classics of science fiction.

Cannonball Read #13: The unlikely pilgrimage of Harold Fry by Rachel Joyce

In her debut novel, The unlikely pilgrimage of Harold Fry, Rachel Joyce tells a story of regret, redemption and forgiveness. Harold Fry is a pensioner, living in Southern England. He spends his days quietly and without fuss, barely exchanging any words with his wife, Maureen. One day, Harold receives a letter from Queenie, an old colleague and friend, with whom he hasn't spoken in many years. Queenie is in a hospice in Northern England, dying of cancer, and she is just writing to say goodbye. Harold writes a quick reply and he's on his way to the post office to send it, when he suddenly gets the urge to keep walking. He needs to keep walking, believing that he can keep Queenie alive as long as he continues his walk towards her. This is the story of his journey.

I am a long distance runner. The thing that I find most exciting about running far is that I get to see new places. That is why I was immediately fascinated by the premise of this book. Harold's journey, especially in the first 50 or so pages of the book, capture the powerful wanderlust which I feel when I travel on foot. I could just picture myself running along those same roads, surrounded by flowers and lush green fields, as Harold walked. I could easily identify with his desire to keep going.

But this book is ultimately not about wanderlust. It's about life, and death, and how sometimes you're alive even though you don't actually live your life. It is about overcoming personal obstacles and fears. It is a simple book, on the surface. Joyce's writing is easy to read and keeps the reader turning the pages. Still, once the book is finished, the emotional impact can be very deep indeed, the simplicity of the book an illusion. Because underneath his polite exterior and his quaint ”Englishness” lie Harold's repressed feelings.

This bitter-sweet tale sags a bit in the middle and almost runs out of steam, but perhaps it is meant to feel that way. After all, it is a huge undertaking of a journey, and Harold is bound to get tired at some point. But, if you stick with it to the end, it will not disappoint you. The unlikely pilgrimage of Harold Fry is the kind of book that grows on you the more you think about it, and you are likely to think about it a lot.

Cannonball read #12: The Martian Chronicles by Ray Bradbury

What a strange book this was. What a difficult task to review it. Its structure resembles more a collection of short stories rather than a novel, which makes it way too easy to get stuck on the parts and miss the whole, but there is a red thread through it, thin as it may be.

The Martian Chronicles was written in 1945, around the time World War II was coming to an explosive end in Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The year is 1999. As more and more people flee our planet to start a new life on Mars, to escape such things as slavery and bureaucracy, Mars puts up resistance. Strange things start happening. But that doesn't stop mankind from colonising the red planet.

The red thread that I mentioned above, the common denominator of all the episodes described in this book, is the uneasy feeling that nothing is how it is supposed to be. My first encounter with Bradbury was the excellent, superbly creepy Something wicked this way comes. I read it as a teenager, and, even though I no longer remember the details of the book, I remember very well how unnerving it was, how deeply disturbing. While The Martian Chronicles isn't quite the waking nightmare that book was, it has a dark, foreboding character that never lets you forget who wrote it.

I found it hard to get past the episodic nature of the book. All characters were bound by the same history, were facing the same threat, were heading towards the same future and inhabited the same planet. Yet, with only a handful of pages dedicated to each of them, there was no room for character development. I felt detached, almost indifferent to the fate of these pioneers.

Yet, the poetry. The poetry! Bradbury writes beautifully, his descriptions casting spells on the reader. His storytelling is as vivid as his imagination, his world -although at first dated when seen through our modern eyes- believable. His message is as important and relevant today as it was in 1945. All in all, The Martian Chronicles is not one of my favourite books but it did make me want to read more Bradbury.

Love affair

I have been fighting a cold the last few days. I haven't been able to train at all. In fact, even walking to work has felt like a struggle on a couple of occasions. As my mood deteriorated in step with every sunny day wasted lying on the sofa building a tissue pyramid on the coffee table that would turn Egyptians green with envy, I started feeling resentment towards running. Why does it treat me this way, causing me several injuries per year, when I love it so much? I am sick of its antics, its blatant disregard for my well-being! Surely, if I had any self respect I'd kick it out the door and change the locks.

Then, this morning, I spent my break at work reading an article in the latest ”Turist” magazine about running in the mountains. I remembered the sense of wonder and awe I felt while running in Hemavan, rolling down the Kungsleden trail, surrounded by nothing but majestic snow-clad mountain tops and the absence of time. I thought about my running friend N, with whom I've been planning a running holiday in the mountains this summer. My heart started waking up from the deep slumber it's been in the last few weeks and wrote running a love poem.

When I got home, I put on my VFF for the first time in 2-3 months. I ran with the wind on my back, under a spring sun, aiming to get as much mud on my shoes as possible. Just before I got home after this short run, a cloud directly over my head started dusting minuscule snowflakes all around me, at the same time as the sun warmed my face. 

Running, I know we've had some hard times. Things haven't always been easy between us. But I still love you.

Cannonball Read #11: The God Delusion by Richard Dawkins

Does God exist? This is the question that is central in Richard Dawkins' ”The God delusion”. Dawkins is an atheist and he thinks that you should be, too. That is why he provides arguments in favour of a scientific explanation for our existence and deconstructs the arguments against it and in favour of a creationist theory.

My parents are not religious, but my grandmother is a devout Christian. We have always been close, and some of her beliefs rubbed off on me when I was growing up. She took me to church a few times, told me stories out of the Bible, spoke of the importance of prayer. Religion had such an impact on me during my early formative years that I became superstitious about it. Was the headache I was experiencing a punishment from God, because I had forgotten to pray? But then, when I turned 13, I started questioning things. Why didn't God listen to my prayers? Why was there so much suffering in the world, if God was benevolent? All the answers religion provided seemed very unsatisfactory to my curious mind.

Since then, I have been calling myself an agnostic. There are things in the world that I don't understand, that no one understands, that have stopped me from becoming a full-blown atheist. Dawkins book gave me a firm nudge in that direction. Just because we can't understand these things now, with the amount of knowledge that we have today, doesn't mean that we will never understand them, and it certainly doesn't prove that God exists. This is just one of various ”myths” about religion that Dawkins debunks.

The God delusion is an intellectual and philosophical exercise on the existence of God. Being prone to philosophical musings myself from time to time, I found it immensely enjoyable. It touches on many religion-related subjects, psychological and evolutionary explanations why it exists, the reason why it is so wide-spread, etc. It was informational, both about the history of religion but even about the influence it currently has in other countries (mainly in the USA, but Dawkins doesn't discriminate against any religion. He thinks they're all unnecessary, and in many cases even dangerous). It was thought-provoking, even thought-altering.

If there is anything that I disliked about the book, it was his badly disguised contempt for religious people. This is particularly evident in the first half of the book. He makes snide remarks against believers, and that, coupled with the fact that he delves into scientific facts without adequately explaining what some of the terms mean (”memes”, for example, or even natural selection for that matter), make it seem like the whole enterprise is nothing more than Dawkins winking at the educated ones among us (who are, of course, also atheists. Dawkins seems to imply that you can't be highly educated without being an atheist).

If Dawkins is out to convert (sorry about the choice of word) believers to atheism, he's certainly not going to succeed by presenting them as small-minded fools. He states right from the beginning of the book that he doesn't think that religion should be dealt with with kid gloves (and I agree) but we should make the distinction between religion and its followers. You don't want to respect religion? Go ahead, disrespect it! But you shouldn't disrespect people just because they are religious.

I would recommend this book to everyone, religious people and atheists alike. The latter will enjoy adding arrows to their conversational quiver, the former might enjoy the challenge of thinking outside the box. But, at the end of the day, the only people Dawkins will probably manage to convince will be people like myself: agnostics.

It's science

Hypothesis: The ”Fight fire with fire” method works on my troubled leg.

Previous empirical evidence: My leg felt fine the day after I put it through a torturous 23 km long run. I ran the first 30 km of an ultra with an injured, really painful knee, whereupon the injury promptly disappeared out of my life.

Experiment: The goal with today's experiment was to see how far I could run before my leg started complaining. Also, to see how it felt afterwards.

Results: As long as I stayed on flat ground and avoided hills, the leg was happy. It's a bit stiff now afterwards but it's an ache that resembles sore muscles more than it does injury.

Hypothesis: More is better. More would not make my runner's knee worse (Many runners' famous last words before he or she gets injured: ”21,5 km is good but 22 is even better”).

Previous empirical evidence: All previous evidence suggested that more is not, in fact, better when it comes to runner's knee. Even if the knee doesn't get worse following the run, the sensation during the run gets gradually worse.

Experiment: Push myself a few kilometres further even though my knee started bothering me after only 17 km.

Results: Stiff knee.

Hypothesis: The marathon I have my eye on at the end of April is a flat one, therefore I could run it if I take proper care of my runner's knee from now until then.

Previous empirical evidence: Neither bargaining or praying has helped an injury heal faster before.

Experiment: Stretching, rehab exercises, and alternative training as much as possible in the 3 weeks leading up to the marathon. Short runs in VFF. Then enter the marathon a day or two before the race if all feels fine.

Results: Stay tuned.

Green plastic grass

The piste machines got replaced by great yellow tractors carrying big chunks of frozen snow and laying them in a heap, revealing a green plastic football field. The year's Nordic skiing competitions that kept us company every weekend came to an end last Sunday, and with them the skiing season drew its last breath, inhaling skiers and exhaling joggers. A passionate spring sun, eager to wake nature up with a warm kiss and turn barren ground into fertile flowers and naked branches into haute couture, melts the snow. But, when night comes and the cold returns, the water turns into ice, and winter makes a last effort to resist the onslaught of bird song and sunburned cheeks.

And me. I am lost, standing on my one good leg, balancing precariously on the ledge between white and green. My heart is indifferent to the change of season this year. It loves spring, but it loves the white winter of the North, too. But my body wishes that the winter would stick around a couple of weeks longer. My feet want to find their way back to the soft trails of last autumn, but my knee cannot follow. So it tries to ski instead. Skiing is not as demanding for it. Skiing works. Please, let it be winter until the injury heals.

I tried to run with AIK last Saturday, a 23 km run. I couldn't decide until the last minute if I was going to attempt a run or not. What finally made up my mind for me was the wonderful weather. I had to get out, I had to try. It went well for the first 6 kilometres. Then, it went worse. I describe it as a knee problem, but both the backside of my thigh and my calf are involved. They weren't happy with all the uphill running. Downhill, it felt better, and I thought I would make it the rest of the way home without any more pain, but then my runner's knee decided to join us. Despite having the opportunity to stop running and get a lift home a couple of times, I marched on, pig-headedly. In the end, I told the others to go on without me and stopped to stretch. It helped; I could continue running after a while and made it home.

The aftermath was not as great as I had feared. Whatever leg muscle is injured felt inflamed the rest of the day, and I had some difficulty bending it, but the next day it was as pain-free as it had been the day before the run. I went skiing, breaking my distance record and making some progress technique-wise, which gave me hope that I would be able to maintain my level of fitness until my leg got better.

Now, snow is turning into ice. Ice is not as soft as snow. I went skiing yesterday, wisely avoiding the hilly terrain in the forest and sticking to the flat surfaces around the camping area. I had thought I'd practice switching from one track to the other, a balance exercise that, if done right, could do wonders for my confidence and skill level. Then, failing spectacularly at doing the exercise right and while I was trying to place my skis into the tracks, I fell. My knee hit the hard ice. I took a minute to rest right there on the ground, wincing and swearing.

It is probably nothing serious, just a bruised knee. But it is a reminder that spring is coming, and I am not ready for it.