Carlos here—The Running Jackal—doing something a little different today. I'm not on foot. I'm on my little bike. After just missing the light at Mackenzie Avenue, I paused my recording. Then off I went—rolling past the noisy bustle, aiming toward Hamilton Hops & Grapes to pick up some brewing supplies. You see, Save-On-Foods was out of DME (that’s Dry Malt Extract for the uninitiated). And yes, I'm still brewing—weekly batches now—finely tuned to the right bottle count and desired strength. As I rolled down Quadra Street, “Nothing But the Blues” played from my phone tucked in my pocket, while my trusty Sony voice recorder nestled deep in the pouch. I hoped the wind wouldn't muffle too much. The pouch’s opening is quite large, but the recorder's weight helps—it settles deep. Hopefully no wind tunnel effects today. I cruised over the Swan Lake Trestle Bridge, past the spot where the Lochside and Galloping Goose trails converge. This stretch is familiar—I often see my birding friend here in the mornings. They say this spot is known as the Saanich Spur, where old rail lines once split toward Sydney and Courtenay. Now, it’s a trail for thinkers, runners, and riders like me. As I zipped past cyclists (117 and counting), I chuckled to myself. Some say you can ride 30km/h. Me? I’m happy with 15. It’s not just about the bike—though mine is humble—it’s also about youth, strength, and that extra bit of juice I don't always have these days. Still, I got up a good head of speed—probably hit 35km/h—coming down the hill near Douglas Street on the Switch Bridge. Back in the day, that was a railway crossing. Now, it’s a pedestrian bridge that gives you a nice acoustic thrill when you shoot through the tunnel. I may have done it twice... just for the sound. At home, life at the lair ticks along. I’ve made a deal with my neighbor, John, for some firewood. His dead Garry Oak needs to come down, but there's a delay—we’re waiting on the city permit. Funny that you don’t need a permit to prune a tree, but you do to take it down, even if it’s clearly dead. Bureaucracy at its finest. John's letting me take the larger prunings—the stuff too big for the shredder. Once the permit's in, and the tree crew returns, I’ll roll over my wheelbarrow and haul those logs home. Two trips, maybe. Enough for the winter, I reckon. They won’t split the rounds, but I’ve asked for a burnable length. We’ll see. Anyway, I arrived at Hamilton’s a little early. No lights on yet. It's 9:22 and they don’t open till 10. Sometimes the woman who helps with the business gets in early and opens the doors once the alarm is off and the lights are on. Fingers crossed. I brought my lock just in case. So, I did what I always seem to do lately—wait for the shop to open. Eight kilometers from my fridge, parked out back, I went for a little scenic walk. And just like that, my day came full circle—camera in hand, trail beneath my feet, back where I started this story: waiting, walking, and wondering. No Sunday show this week, but expect a fresh running podcast on Wednesday. Until then, this has been The Running Jackal, spinning down the trails and through life—on bike, on foot, and always on the move. Bye-bye everyone.
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