Some exercise

Chris has back ache, not the best thing for New Year's Day. It seems to have been caused by brushing snow off the steps, not very violent exercise, but the twisting motion gave him a twinge that worsened. He's finding it hard to use his computer sitting down, but he has a convertible desk that rises gently so that he can stand at it. (We purchased this when he had a problem with his arm, last year, and Benoit, wearing a mask, kindly helped him construct it.) 

This afternoon we went for a walk with Carol, Laurie and Elva across the MacDonald-Cartier bridge onto Avenue Laurier in Gatineau, coming back into Ottawa over the Alexandra Bridge. Those three always count the steps they take each day by means of Fitbits or similar "activity trackers"; so do my daughter and my sister, and I know someone else who's aiming to cover enough distance to have walked right round the earth. But I refrain from counting my steps. I don't need a machine to tell me when I've had enough exercise. My legs get tired. This evening I also had a go on the stationary bike that Chris has discarded, that sits in the basement next to his treadmill. He was using that for a 15 minute run at the same time. The run doesn't seem to have done his back any harm; that's good. He keeps a record of the statistics of his runs. I hadn't been on the bike for years, so am noticing the after effects. I have no desire to beat previous records of any description.

Last year, at the Librairie du Soleil, I came across a book I liked, in French, very recently published: Le Lièvre d'Amérique, which means The Snow Hare. I don't believe there's an English translation. Set partly on the Isle aux Grues, a small island in the St. Lawrence river northeast of Quebec, that Chris and I have more than once visited, so that I recognise the places very well from their description, this is the first novel written by Mirielle Gagné, a poet, who was born there. It is the story of Diane, a solitary, tense woman, likewise born on that island but living and working in downtown Montreal, who has an (unspecified) operation on her head and a nervous breakdown that seems to force her, eventually, to come to terms with the memory of a tragic experience in her youth. Merging with the narrative is a series of seven descriptions of the snow hares that live on the Isle, how they behave, how they survive, even the Indigenous people's legends about them, and quite soon, while reading, you realise that the woman of the story ressembles a snow hare in multiple ways. It's a cleverly constructed, experimental book, full of poetic atmosphere and wordplay, moving, too; the author must have been thrilled to write it. 

Ce roman, une fable animalière néolibérale, s’adresse à celles et ceux qui se sont égarés.

Chris bought me a second copy of this book for Christmas, since I'd given away the first copy and was missing it, so I'm now reading it for the third time. I was reminded to start doing so today after my ride on the stationary bike, because in one chapter Diane falls asleep while exercising on hers and wakes up hours later to find herself still pedalling.

On dirait qu'elle a pédalé toute la nuit. A-t-elle véritablement dormi? [...] Elle roule sans notion du temps, décalée de la réalité.

Somehow I doubt if I'll reach that point on the stationary bike in our basement.