The jog

I threatened to start jogging last week but have been putting it off.

So, here we go ...

Into the closet.

I don't go for the typical, effete jogging attire. No shiny vinyl short shorts with piping.

No headbands.

I would never wear a headband, even if it was all I had to stanch the bleeding from a massive head wound.

I like to keep it simple. Nothing fancy.

Not like those running club nuts. Since when did jogging become so complicated?

Some nights more than 10 of these people will run up and down my hilly street.

They wear what look like neoprene suits with reflectors everywhere, bouncing lights off the dazed eyes of drivers trying to to get home from work and park their cars.

I used to walk out on my front porch to enjoy a cigarette and quietly chuckle at these uncoordinated folks shuffling along in frighteningly skin-tight clothes, going up and down the street (for some reason they religiously avoid the sidewalk), trying to eke out words of encouragement to each other but choking on their own phlegm. You'd think they were climbing Everest or running the Boston Marathon.

What happened to solitary and simple? What happened to grey sweats?

Okay, so I've found some old jogging pants from my university days.

They seem to have shrunk a little after hundreds of washes, but they should do. Though I am a little worried the legs will ride up above my ankles.

I've also found a simple grey sweatshirt. Though the elasticity in the cuffs has gone. I hate it when I push up my sleeves and they just roll back down.

And, finally, I found some running shoes in basement storage. A pair of New Balance trainers. Thing is, I never wore them that much. So I can tell they're going to rub my big toes raw.

I can do this.

I get changed, make sure my iPod is fully charged.

But I notice that all I have is the standard-issue iPod earphones, the white ones attached by a loose wire. I find those don't stay in place like the earphones with the rigid over-the-head structure.

Nevertheless, onward.

I take a deep breath and open the front door.

But there's a fine dusting of snow on the sidewalk.

Probably safest if I wait until tomorrow.

Both hands on the wheel

Driving while smoking was both diversionary and meditative. A time to enjoy CDs I never had time to listen to otherwise. Or a time to tackle problems at work, to break down writing blocks.

I've done some good thinking while driving and smoking.

I have done some good driving, too.

Because I am good at it. A bit holier-than-thou, I acknowledge. Not afraid to punish a traffic transgressor with some tailgating and a flick of the highbeams. Meanwhile, puffing away on a smoke, maybe a coffee in the other hand, steering with my left knee - quite an unnerving sight for the hunted driver ahead of me when they catch a glimpse in the rear-view mirror.

Now, without cigarettes, driving is just another chore.

With hands at 10 and 2 o'clock, I drive around like everyone else, just trying to get to Point B as fast as I can.

There's no reason to linger on the road if I can't smoke while doing it.

In other news ...

I was starting to feel insecure when I saw blog reader Jake's recent comment:

"It only takes a week to quit smoking, and then, if you're committed, it's over. ... No need to write any more. Thanks."

Ouch.

I would be morose about my apparent irrelevancy if not for the fact that I am ahead of a growing trend. Quitting the blog now would be irresponsible.

At another newspaper in Ontario, a writer has started a quit smoking blog. Only a couple days after I wrote about a vivid post-quit dream, this blogger wrote about dreams, too.

So Jake, you see, I can't stop now. I must continue to come up with new ways to write about quitting smoking. Not only do my readers in Toronto depend on it but other bloggers' readers may depend on it, too.

Rough night's sleep

I smoked.

In a dream.

Or maybe it was a nightmare.

I can't tell which.

In it, me and a friend - for years we have enabled each other's bad habits - were at a bar, on a rooftop patio.

We were having fun. And looking good, too.

There was no tension-building crescendo of music warning of the inhale. There was no deliberation.

I was leaning over the patio railing, all of a sudden smoking and smiling, my pal beside me, waiting his turn to take his haul.

It seemed to have happened so easily. As if I had not just been through two weeks of hell trying to quit. As if it was that easy and harmless to embrace the dark mistress again.

But then, a few minutes later, as we're leaving the bar, the implications hit me. I started fretting about whether the cigarette wiped out all my hard work and suffering, whether the next morning would bring anew the cravings and anxiety that seemed so insurmountable on Day One.

Then, I woke up.

And I smiled.