Last night Patrick and I were invited to a fondue party in a château on an island in the St. Lawrence. Yes. Really. Did I mention I’m staying another ten days? Anyway we went and ate fondue with fifteen lovely French Canadians and drank numerous bottles of red wine, mostly tasty French wine but to my globalizatious surprise there was also a bottle of that yellow kangaroo stuff so ubiquitous at Eugene dinner parties.

After all that wine, our ride Antoine - along with the majority of the other guests - was too drunk to drive back to the city. Consequently I slept on a sad little sheetless cot in a room full of drunk snoring party guests. The sleeping was not good. And when I woke up and Patrick asked, do you have plans today? I realized, yes. Today I have to run eleven miles.

Back in the city I fuelled up on my now regular Quebec breakfast of Russian black tea, fresh croissants, and stinky cheese (did I mention I’m staying a while longer?) and headed out. I went to the Plains of Abraham as usual, planning to run a big figure eight around the art museum. I realized, though, that eleven miles would mean looping this loop at least four times. Or more. So I spotted a tiny steeple in the distance and decided to run for it. I ran down the Grande Allée, which is French for Grand Allée, until it turned into another street. When you have run so far in Quebec that the street has become a different street, they are helpful enough to hang two signs: one indicating the new street name, and a second one indicating the previous street name with a big red line through it. I ran far enough for this to happen several times.

The run was feeling strangely good. My posture and my breathing and my legs all felt strong, and I got to the church and back while enjoying the happy little exercise chemicals washing over my brain. Once again, however, I was unpleasantly surprised when I swung by a phone box to check the time… less than half done. It’s amazing how far you can get when you’re running.

And though the run didn’t end there, the story does. This is what always seems to happen lately on my Saturday runs. I feel good, I feel done, and then I’m just not, so I run a lot more without feeling particularly happy or engaged. I’m even considering getting an ipod or some related amusement thing. But this idea bugs me because I’m kind of a Luddite. More on this later. For now: bread stuffed with chocolate. Mmmmmmmmm.