The day before any marathon should be completely relaxing. The key, if possible, is to continue to prepare for the race, yet not think about it too much. At this stage of the game, the only real preparations focus around rest and nutrition.
The day before the Victoria marathon, I got up and ran for 20 minutes around Beacon Hill Park with Jon Brown. After breakfast, I grabbed a coffee and sat in the harbour reading a book. I was quickly distracted, and for the next hour and a half made notes about the scene that was unfolding in front of me. It kept me busy and, fortunately, had nothing to do with running:
A man wheels a fully-laden parcel trolley and stops in front of me. The man is in his sixties, with a full head of thick red hair and a face weathered in equal parts by sea air and cigarettes. He stacks twelve identical briefcases on a stone ledge before unfolding and erecting a table. The briefcases are uniformly and deliberately arranged on the table as the man whispers “that one goes there, and this one goes here, and you, you go there.” Each briefcase has one side replaced with glass. The man pulls out a spray container of Windex and some newspaper. He gently cleans the glass surface of each case. The briefcases are opened and large sponge rectangles are removed. The rectangles which protected his wares are now stacked in a pile which become the man’s seat on the stone ledge.
The man props each briefcase slightly ajar by wedging the clasp in the bracket where it would normally seal. It creates an angle to the now transparent glass windows. He erects a large magnifying glass, carefully lays out some tools – a few small saws and files – and plugs a drill into a generator. As he sits back on his sponge chair, the man lights a cigarette, crosses his right leg over his left and sips coffee from a squat thermal cup with no handle. The man waits.
People wander by his table. Some just glance and keep moving, more pause momentarily, occasionally long enough to ask the question “so what are these that you are selling?” The man sells Canadian coins – of every denomination and from every year – each one meticulously polished and fashioned into something ornamental: a tree, a maple leaf, an inuksuk, a peace sign. All retain the year in which they were franked. Many date back as far as the 1940’s. You can buy a coin from the year you were born, the year you were married, the year you visited Canada. The coins “start at $10 and vary in price up to $20, depending on how much work I’ve put in. I mean a tree like this I can do in an hour. But the inuksuks take me twice as long. So I charge a little more for those.” It’s well-rehearsed statement that I hear repeated at least ten times in half an hour.
The coins generate a moderate amount of interest, but no sales. An Asian couple release an audible gasp when told the coin they are interested in costs $20. Their two children laugh, as though the idea is preposterous. A young, overweight and precocious kid challenges the man “is what you’re doing legal? I mean, that’s government property that you’re defacing.” The man smiles politely. After an hour the only thing he has sold are twenty freshly minted nickels – he sells them to a young boy for a twoonie.
Another man approaches from the right. He’s no ordinary guy. With the exception of a purple tie, gloves and sunglasses, he is dressed entirely in yellow. His entire face is sprayed to match. Purple and yellow is all you see. He carries a yellow wooden circle on which are written the words “Gus Saffron.”
“That guy is all yellow. Look, there’s the yellow man. Hey, yellow man. Shit – they think I’ve never heard any of it before.” The man with the coins laughs and they exchange greetings. “Probably be the last weekend out here for me.” They nod in agreement. “Well, I suppose I’d better get on before the other guy shows up – I figure that I’ve got a good hour at least.”
Gus moves about twenty feet away, lays down his wooden circle and places a yellow box in front. He shakes his arms and legs, and then stands on the circle. With his right hand out-stretched, his left hand at his hip, he adopts a slightly forward lean before freezing into a human statue. A crowd gathers immediately. It’s mostly children that are interested. A coin in the box is rewarded by movement from Gus – a hug, and a photograph if you want it. The coins flow. Some children are anxious and afraid to approach. A woman walks up and gives him a sharp prod and is genuinely aghast when she discovers that he is real.
The man trying to sell his coins watches with a broad smile on his face. Gus is immediately popular and rather successful, but there doesn’t seem to be any envy. After an hour and a half, I am about to leave. A heavy, thickset man approaches the table. He stretches out an over-sized hand and buys a 1951 nickel for $10. A hole is drilled through the coin and a piece of string threaded through. The man leaves wearing it around his neck.
As I climb the stairs out of the harbour, a person dressed as Darth Vader is playing a few bars of the Star Wars theme tune on a violin. He repeats them over and over again. Another man, dressed in a waistcoat and frilly shirt approaches me and, in a mock British accent, says “well hello there fine chap. I say, could you spare a little change?”
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