After weeks of cold, rainy weather, Ottawa delivered a hot, humid day under a vampire-like sun for the Marathon this Sunday – every runner’s worst nightmare.

The Marathon is, in my opinion, absolutely the best spectator sport. I don’t watch it to see the “winners” – I watch it so I can get to see up-close the depth of the human spirit, the capacity of mere mortals to endure prolonged agony so they can achieve their personal goals. These are not short-term gratification types: these are true athletes.

I watched from the 37km mark – just 4km from the finish line. Just about everybody is suffering by that point.

I stood on the side of the road snapping pictures of the runners and smiling at them. The Marathon can be a deeply moving experience. I felt like a big marshmallow out there, cheering and smiling and at times choking up, fighting back the tears. Last year I saw a blind runner running with a guide who gave him verbal cues, such as “the bend in the road is starting now,” and “there’s someone 7 feet in front of you to the left.” I was not only impressed with the blind runner, but also with the guide, who not only was running a marathon but doing it while concentrating for somebody else. I saw a man running in his socks and carrying his shoes because his feet were so blistered. I saw runners interrupt their own run to help strangers in trouble.

This year I saw men with bleeding nipples (you’re supposed to tape them before the race so the friction doesn’t rub them raw) and a couple of people overcome with heat exhaustion, staggering and collapsing on the side of the road, where they lay there shaking and vomiting and unable to communicate. I saw paramedics hooking an unconscious girl up to intravenous.

Most of the runners at the 37km mark are completely focused on their own personal struggle to reach the finish line, their own pain, their own breathing. A few, though, looked at me and smiled or spoke to me on their way by. One man just said, quite simply, “Ow.” A middle-aged woman said “This is crazy.” Another woman smiled back at me and said “Thank you – that was just what I needed.” I think she was thanking me just for smiling at her.

I wished I could have stayed longer, because I would have loved to have been there for the determined souls who can’t do it fast but are still determined to do it – the ones who finish after all the spectators have gone home, the ones who miss out on all the cheers and encouragement along their lonely route. But I had somewhere else I had to be, so I left around 12:30 – 4 and a half hours after the Marathon started, and 2 hours after the Half-Marathon started. All the runners I saw still had another half hour to run under that blistering sun.

I was thinking about Terry Fox too: he ran a marathon a day – on one leg and a stump – for 145 consecutive days. There isn’t a runner alive who would advocate doing anything so crazy and painful and so bad for you. But sheer determination trumps everything else.

Here are a few of the 168 photos I took. The ones with the orange bibs are Marathoners, and the ones with the blue bibs are Half-Marathoners. I am in awe of every last one of them.

This is my friend Bev, who muttered “I’m dying” as she sailed past me:

This girl’s pretty cheerful despite the ice pack on her bum:

Everything’s in kilter:

She’s gotta be hot:

A happy pace bunny:

Running through blood:

As if running a marathon weren’t enough of a challenge:

Here comes a front-running Half-Marathoner through the Marathoners:

Another elite Half-Marathoner:

Fast Women:

I have many more photos, and if any of the runners happen across this page and would like me to check to see if I happened to get a photo of them, please let me know.

The other day I wrote about reluctantly going house hunting. At this very moment, my agent is drawing up an offer on a condo. I think I’m going to throw up. I think I’m supposed to be happy, but I’m not. Should I put the brakes on before I end up buying a condo?

This is crazy, I know this is crazy: I think I’m making the offer because I don’t want to take up too much of the real estate agent’s valuable time. I don’t want to make him suffer because of my typical Libran indecision. This is crazy. I like the place, I do. But it’s not perfect. I can’t afford perfect. I’m not sure I want to buy it. How sure should you be before you make an offer? Is it normal to feel panicky?

If you want to look at the place I’m probably going to buy for all the wrong reasons, it’s 632406 on www.mls.ca.

I’ve lived here for 8 years, and I’ve never seen more than an occasional seagull. A few nights ago I took Sam to the park and it was covered in seagulls. Dozens of them, all walking around in the park, plus more in the air. Ever since then, the neighbourhood has been crazy with seagulls. They’re flying all over, the sky is full of ’em, and I’ve seen whole flocks walking down the street. What’s up with the seagulls?

I have a theory: it has been raining so much that their normal stomping grounds down by the river are saturated and they’ve been forced to move to higher ground. Don’t know if it’s true, but it makes sense, doesn’t it?

The photos really don’t do the scenario justice, but honestly, it’s just like The Birds over here, only with seagulls instead of crows.

UPDATE: I googled “seagulls” and “influx” and guess what? Primrose Park isn’t alone. Dubuque, Iowa is having a seagull influx too, and I was amused to see that they too were reminded of The Birds.

I went to see the Cirque du Soleil last night. Quidam! There aren’t enough adjectives to describe this show. It’s a 10-course smorgasborg for the senses, one brilliant, dazzling act after another! It’s a kaleidoscope of magic, music, athletic mastery, eye-popping visual goodies and humour. My favourite acts included the Diablos – four children playing with ancient toys while performing gymnastic feats – and Statue – a couple moving in slow motion while they perform mind-boggling balancing acts together.

But honestly, I was enchanted by just about every act. The German Wheel, the Skipping Ropes, the Aerial Hoops, the Contortion!

My favourite character was Target, a flexible wee imp who remained cheerful despite being a perpetual target.

I can’t imagine anyone being disappointed by Quidam. This is the third time I’ve seen the Cirque du Soleil. The first was about 20 years ago when they performed in a small tent at the site of what is now the Ottawa Courthouse. The second was maybe 8 years ago in a big tent at Lebreton Flats. They were fantastic then, but now they’re flat-out spectacular.

My only complaint? Being forced to leave at the end of the show through the merchandise tent. Obviously they want you to buy their over-priced shirts, umbrellas, masks, hats, CDs, DVDs, ornaments, toys and dresses – but it seems tacky to me to funnel everybody through a bottlenecked store at the end of the evening. (Oh, and my other complaint is my usual complaint. My seat was in the second row, and of COURSE somebody with a gigantic head and shoulders sat in front of me and partially obscured my view. The seats were so close together that if I tried to see around the big head I was invading the space of the person next to me.) Minor complaints, major accolades for the Quidam.