Confessions of a Ballerunner

Essays on Sports, Arts, Culture, and Life

The ordinary as extraordinary

There is something magical about running under the stars in the crispness of a dark, cold, wintry Ottawa night.  Alone, full moon peaking over top the trees lining the canal path, I run like a determined locomotive, contrails of icy breath streaming behind in my wake. Eyes fixed on my elusive, celestial target, I chase a winding, imaginary rail path between hard-packed snow shore and frozen canal ice. I pass skaters, alone, in couples, or small groups, to the left of me, the sound of freshly-sharpened blades announcing their approach as they rhythmically carve their way through a day’s worth of well-worn ice. It is late on this February eve, but there is an unmistakable air of revelry.  A small carnival by invitation only. A sequence of Henri Rousseau phantasmagoria leapt off the canvas…

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