Trains and summer runs

I'm not sure why, but I can never do homework on the train. Not a lot anyways. I don't get severely carsick or anything; only a slight queasy feeling if I stare at a screen too long or try to read. Perhaps it's only an excuse because I really want to sleep and not think about things that are to come or things that have passed.

Every train ride feels different. Or maybe my memory only allows for so much. This time, I don't think I'm as sad as I am stressed. I only wish I was able to spend more time at home creating moments that I would remember with family I hardly see.

Another note is that this is the first time didn't print out my train ticket. The printer at home wasn't working and my brother was on the computer connected to the printer all the time anyways. So, I took the risk and found the ticket on my phone, hoping that it will work.

And it didn't. Shoot. This would happen to me.

The ViaRail employee asks me to make the screen brighter.

He turns back around and it works. I'm extremely relieved.

And with terrible transitioning, here is another piece of writing. I assure you, everything I right is only half true, because the best stories are 50% real, 50% dramaticized.

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It was summer and each day, the sun shone and warmed the air like the inside of an oven. That morning, I woke up at the crack of dawn; the sky was still an undecided grey and the air was not yet humid. I jumped up out of bed and began to make my way towards the bathroom. Still drowsy, I brushed my teeth, brushed my hair and washed my face. As the water splashed my eyelids, I felt more and more awake. Pulling my hair back into a ponytail, this all began to feel familiar.

Going downstairs, I found a cup and filled it with water. I took a few sips before leaving, but no breakfast. Almost having forgotten, I quickly scribbled “I’ll be back around 7:30” on a green, star-shaped Post-it note and stuck it on my brother’s door.

The first five minutes were easy, loping, relaxing; getting my confidence back. Towards the end of the next five, it became harder. I fought gravity as I ran uphill and kept pushing on. The air was refreshing and the breeze was reassuring. I could do this.

The fifth five minutes were the hardest. My breath was becoming laboured, the air had begun to feel humid and I wanted to slow down, to walk, but I didn’t. I kept going. During the eighth and ninth five minutes, the taste in my mouth was metallic. I continued pumping my arms, but with less vigour. Across the street, and elderly man was running. He ran in the same direction as I did, catching up from behind and passing me. My competitive instincts kicked in. I knew the fact that he was faster than me didn’t matter, but that’s what kept me going for the last three five minutes.

The satisfaction I felt when I finished was incomparable. It was like flying. I felt good. Stepping back inside, I went to take the Post-it note off my brother’s door and headed to the scale. It read 103 lbs. A hundred and three pounds. I could do this; just three more and everything would be good. I knew it didn’t matter, but at the same time, it felt like the most important thing in the world.