A girl named Jim

SO.

I haven’t quite quit the gym. But I have put my membership on notice.

Let’s call it a trial separation.

WAHOO! No more gym.

And as many of you know, I have quite a tumultuous relationship with my gym.

All gyms really.

Even if I did, once upon a time, go to the gym A LOT.

All throughout my undergrad and first year of my post grad I trekked to the gym between three to five times per week.  I didn’t know how to exercise without a membership card.  As such, I participated in fitness classes where generic but frenetic electro-pop made my heartbeat irregular. I read more back issues of Sports Illustrated, US Weekly and the Economist whilst climbing to nowhere on a Stairmaster, than a chronically bored Chapters employee.

In the two months leading up to my wedding, I frequented the hallowed sweat-box known as “Fitness World” so many times one of the front desk girls asked me if I wanted a job with the company.

But oh how things have changed.

The summer after our marriage, my husband and I moved to New Westminster (a city almost gym-free compared to Vancouver) and I started a job-school schedule that demanded between 50-60 hours of my time during the week.

I was so exhausted most of the time that the last thing I wanted to do before or after work (let alone on my days off) was head to the gym. Both my body and mind completely rejected the idea of regulated exercise.

And so other than riding my bike as my preferred mode of transit, I did nothing.

My old steed Beth.

However, after two glorious months of doing nothing, I began to miss a more dynamic lifestyle.  I did not, however, on any terms, want to return to a gym.  Slowly, I started to experiment with different sorts of outdoor activities.  What I quickly realized was that my body was capable of so much more than what it is confined to within the gym.  It was (is!) literally a vehicle – a means of getting around, of exploring places I’d never been, of spending more times with family and friends.

I ramped up my pedal schedule and started biking everywhere.

Queen’s Park became my treadmill.

I only re-joined the gym life a year later because of how horrible our weather had been, and I wasn’t about to commit to working out in the dark and rain all the live long winter.

But now I’m tired.

And I’m thinking that come the end of this trial run, I may just quit it all together.

Sometimes, you just need to reboot.

Here are my top four reasons why:

1.The gym can be very expensive. Most range between 20-50 dollars a month.  Some are even higher. If you multiply those numbers by 12, you are looking at upwards of 600 dollars a year.  Mine is pretty cheap, but I still think of the pretty shiny things I can buy with those sweet cash dollars.

2. The gym is an establishment frequented by the semi-sane that can, and will, turn you the exact same way: girls in their bathing suits talking on their cells phones; guys who are more interested in checking themselves out than actually lifting weights; people who don’t clean off machines or wear proper deodorant, who butt-in before you’re done you set or feel the need to step in and provide one-on-one support because “they took a class in college once…”  I know I look quite the sight dressed in my husband’s old t-shirts and shorts.

3.The gym is inside.  I know this is a total boon when living in a deciduous rain forest, but I truly believe there is nothing more refreshing and rewarding then exercising outside, rain or shine (give or take the ferocity of the elements.  There may be times where you have to concede to Mother Nature.)  However, you will never feel better or more alive than after completing a hard fought activity on unlevel ground, gulping down fresh air as the wind cools your flushed face.

Fun fact: every single item of clothing I am wearing in this photo belongs to M, save the shorts.

4. Finally, the number one reason to quit the gym is that you can stay in shape without it.

Just remember to:

Expect changes.  The first time around I thought I could just jump into the same level of exercise that I was accustomed to at the gym.  (This was also a very silly mistake as I had also been inactive for longer than I was used to.)  Both running and biking outside has a different affect on your body than the monotony of gym machines.

It will likely tire you out at a faster rate.

If you are capable of going to the gym every week, you are capable of going for a run/bike ride/hike/walk/ every week as well!  It is very easy to feel as though because the gym is there and you’re paying for it, you have to go.  There is no reason that you should lose the resolve just because you aren’t paying for it. 

That should be a reason to go.

And for goodness sakes, use your body.

Resistance work has got to be one of the most difficult but effective workouts I have ever done.  Plus you can do it in the comfort of your own home/dorm/common room.  Push-ups, squats, lunges, planks, burpees – these exercises require no equipment and work like nothing else.

Of course I cannot guarantee that any of these things will work for anyone, let along everyone.  I wanted to write this post because I was so shocked and so happy by something I never thought I would be able to do.

I promise you will be amazed at the things you are capable of achieving.

I know I am.

Mixed Nuts

This weekend was as jam packed as an unopened jam jar.

It was a really great mix of time spent with friends and family, excellent food, and of course beauty, brilliance and hilarity.

Here are a few highlights from the past two days:

Brilliant brunches.

Bean Sprouts.

Smoking smokers.

Post-Prometheus chai.

Dream House.

Dream lunch.

Super dog.

Secret messages.

Yesterday was Italian Days along the length of Commercial drive. Luckily the rain stayed away and we, along with M’s sister V, her partner J, and his parents E (alias Darth Gruyere) and C, walked the length of the street, taking in all the different sights, sounds, and smells the festival had to offer.

It was a really lovely way of spending an afternoon.

(Though next time we are really going to need to get our mitts on some cannolis. And by some, I mean all of them. And by mitts, I mean mouths.)

On Saturday night M and I went to the pictures and took in Ridley Scott’s latest oeuvre – Prometheus.

Going to the movies is always a bit of a trip for us because we pretty much never go anymore.

Like, ever.

This is a bit strange because at the beginning of our relationship you would be hard pressed not to find us in a movie theatre at least once a week. (M was even a projectionist at two of the local independent theatres in the city during his undergrad.)

Now, we maybe take in a film twice a year at most.

I suppose we’ve just lost that interest. That spark.

(Perhaps we’re just waiting for the mother load of a movie to blast us back to our former selves? We’re not sure.)

Either way, this trip we did not hit pay dirt.

My tweet that night summed up how I felt (in under 140 characters) about the film: I LOVE Alien/Aliens, but – there’s a reason why they’re separate movies. Trying to make both at the same time just doesn’t work. #prometheus

If you want a much longer take on how I felt about the movie, please read this absolutely brilliant and gut-busting hilarious review by  Henry Rothwell.

It’s magic.

And (in my opinion) bang on.

In terms of tough mudder: t-minus less than two weeks to lift off!

Yesterday I had one cracking run. I completed 15.4 km in 1:08 – one of my fastest runs to day. And that was after running 12 km on Saturday, combined with my circuit strength training.

I’m feeling really strong, and goodness knows the callouses on my hands are forming personalities of their own.

I can’t really tell you guys how stoked I am to drive up to Whistler and see what the course has in store for us.

I mean, don’t get me wrong – I, under no circumstances, believe that this is going to be a walk in the park. I know full well how greweling the entire experience is sure to be.

But heck if that doesn’t make me any less excited!

I am ready to get my mudder on, and get it on hard.

 Tonight Mr. M and I ate farfelle with vine ripened tomatoes, kalamata olives, fresh basil, and paremesan cheese. We watched Sunshine.

It’s still cold, but things are slowly changing.

When you’re moving this fast, they’re bound too.

It was a beautiful day, the sun beat down

So not this past weekend, but the weekend before, forty-nine robbers came knocking at my door.

Um.

No.

That didn’t happen. (But does anyone else remember that rhyme? I did some mean double-dutch to that bad boy all throughout my grade two year – you know, when I wasn’t chowing down on eggos and drinking Labatt Blue that is.)

I asked them what they wanted, and this is what they said – Spanish lady go like this! Spanish lady do the twist! Spanish lady touch the ground! Spanish lady turn around! Spanish lady jump once more! Spanish lady out the door! [at this point you had to run out of the rope circle. This was always the hardest part of double-dutch. It’s crazy difficult to run in or out of the circle with two ropes going! Also, why Spanish lady? I HAVE NO CLUE.]

But I digress.

Two weekends ago, I over did it a little bit with the training. M and I ran a long run, filled with hills and sprints, before ending up at the circuit track at Queen’s park. The monkey bars were slick with rain, and as I worked my was across I slipped halfway and twinged something in my right bicep.

Of course, because I cannot ever leave well enough alone, the next day I ran a seven kilometer “recovery” run.

By the end I was completely and utterly knackered.

This is my “I am exhausted face”. Separate incidents though.

Things hurt. Things that don’t normally ever hurt, HURT A LOT.

I was done.

So for the next five days I didn’t do anything – no running, training, weight lifting, or core work.

I even went for a 30 minute massage on Monday after work.

And it was pretty awesome. I got to come home, cook food, write, read, watch Damages (if you are not watching this show YOU MUST SERIOUSLY START NOW), and hang out with Ms. Nymeria and Mr. M.

Date night. Yowza!

In all honesty, it was actually a little shocking how much extra time I had in the evenings, not lugging myself to the gym two or three nights after work – especially on the days when I would usually be rushing to the gym, rushing back home, rushing into the shower, and then rushing out the door for my volunteer commitments.

I’m certainly not going to give up my regular scheduled program (because at the root of it, I really like it) – but it’s good to know that when push comes to shove, and my body is telling me to rest up, I can, and I will.

And I did.

After five days however, I was revved up, ready to run.

This past Saturday I was practically giddy as I got ready to get out of the door and out into the sunshine.

And let me tell you, that week of rest did my body a world of good.

I had an absolutely stellar run, and I killed it on the circuit.

The loop at Queen’s park is about 2.5 km, and very hilly. I ran it three times. In between each lap I would head to the circuit where I would do one set of monkey bars (I felt like I really was a monkey – I made it across each time no problem. I could not believe it!), twenty push-ups, and ten box jumps.

At the end of my run, I did three sets of sprints – 1 minute as fast as I could.

And as I made my way home, I felt as though I was flying.

Over the last few hundred meters back to my house, a couple of tears leaked out of the far corner of my left eye.

Not from exhaustion, but from exhilaration.

I was on fire.

(Maybe that’s why I was crying – to put out the flames.)

I do, however, have some pretty brutal blisters on my hands from those accursed monkey bars. Check it:

Oucherama.

Urg.

Just in case you needed a second look.

But even sore hands couldn’t keep me still for long.

The next day, Sunday, I set out once more, and my legs propelled me through another absolutely smashing run. The sun’s rays burned bright, but not too hot – the green of the park’s trees, so lush and ethereal, while the sky burned a white opal, sapphire blue.

It’s moments like that were I truly believe that my body is capable of anything.

As long as I listen to it, it will tell me when it’s ready.

And goodness knows, beware to anyone standing in our way.

 …

Post script – I just received one of the most hilarious and completely incoherent spam comments of all time. It reads: Good afternoon fellow , probably fire a torpedo from grace is increasingly cumbersome due to the restricted set of telephone operators.

“Firing a torpedo from grace” is now what I’m calling my tough mudder training. Boo yeah.

Psycho killer, well qu’est-ce que c’est?

So kids, it seems as though spring has finally sprung all over the West Coast. Check out these amazing planters my father in-law put together for us.

Darth Gruyere strikes again!

It’s weather like this that makes me want to pull on my shorts, lace up my Asics, and just race around New West until my legs give out, my lungs deflate, and my veins run dry.

Okay, that might seem a little ridiculous, or even borderline severe. But when the weather is so darn perfect, it’s hard not to slip into excessive use of hyperbole.

(It’s like the hardest thing in the world times one million!!!)

Erm.

Right.

So yesterday morning I went for one of the most kickass runs of my life:

I ran a 10.5 km in 44 minutes.

And it was brilliant. Smashing. Phenomenal.

Everything about the run felt natural. Felt good.

Nay, great.

It was as though everything in my body was working seamlessly. My strides were just that much longer. My breathing was just that much easier. On the killer hills, my legs felt just that much stronger, and on the way down, I recovered just that much faster.

I’m wondering if the fact that I’ve stopped listening to music has anything to do with the fact that I’ve been having such stellar runs of late.

I used to joke about how I thought a serial killer would get me as I raced around listening to my jams at full blast, but most (most) of that was said with a heavy dollop of sarcasm.

(Although there are some stretches of forest paths that I’ve run where I wouldn’t be surprised had I at some point met with my demise at the hands of an overzealous, accident-prone trail biker, somewhere in and around those pine-strewn creek beds, due to the fact that I normally ran with everything turned up to eleven.)

But I digress.

The simple matter of the manner is I’ve stopped listening to music and I’m kind of digging it.

I like the quiet.

I like to hear the sound of my breathing, the crunch of the gravel under foot; the birds chirping, an anemic lawn mower sputtering into life; the cheers and jeers of a far off baseball game.

I used to rely on songs to pump me up and keep me going on the longest stretches of my routes. For both of the half-marathons I ran last year, I had specific playlists, designed to let me know whether or not I was going to make the finishing time I had set for myself.

Top tunes included Robyn, Franz Ferdinand, Gossip, Blondie, and Lady Gaga.

Hey, don’t judge me, you Judgey McJudgerssons! Good pop is good pop. And my running legs don’t discriminate.

But it seems as though I’ve reached this point in my running career where I feel as though I don’t need music to get me through the longer distances.

Of course, we’ll have to wait and see once I start tackling the really big stuff when I begin my training for the Victoria marathon.

Heck, I may be eating crow (and these words) as I complete the race bopping about to Rihanna and Timbaland.

But at the moment, I am running clean. Musically.

(Oh yeah, I’m not doping either.)

The only one detractor from my run yesterday was the fact that I felt a little conspicuous, due to the fact that I still had copious amounts of hair dye plastered across my face.

But heck, now that I think about it, maybe that’s why I was running like the wind.

I didn’t want anyone to see me. Or at least, any more then were absolutely necessary.

Because of this insecurity, I wasn’t the normal “social” runner that I usually am – waving and nodding to my fellow long distance lovers, and thanking those cars who are nice enough to stop for me (and you know, obey the law. Seriously, you might be surprised how often stop signs are blatantly ignored.)

Hopefully the running gods will take pity on me and forgive me this one transgression.

I’m pretty sure my home girl Atalanta will turn the other cheek. She and I are tight.

What did you all get up to this weekend? And what music do you listen to while you run?

And if you don’t groove to the tunes while running, I’d love to know the reason why.

Let’s get physical, physical

I have a love-hate relationship with my gym:

Love: It’s cheap as hell. For twenty-three bucks a month I feel as though my range to complain is quite, shall we say, limited.

Hate: Because it’s cheap as hell it’s a bit of a crap box. There is zero air circulation and the exposed pipes drip like dripping things (to the point where you start to think that you’re sweating more than you actually are.) I already sweat like a glass blower’s arse and because there is zero air flow, whenever I lift weights in front of the mirror I bloody-well fog up the part of glass in front of which I’m standing.

That this makes me feel sexy as all get out is an understatement.

And is also a lie.

Love: On days where I feel like the athlete of the century it has everything I need, especially if the weather happens to be total crap (like, say, how it has been for the past seven months.) I can run, bike, lift weights, use stability balls, etc. all under one (incredibly) leaky roof.

Hate: On days where I feel like anything but the athlete of the century, my gym taunts me like a school yard foe. I have to walk by it on my way home from transit, so if I ever decide that it’s not in my best interest to workout (despite having schlepped all my gear with me to work that day) I can feel its mocking stare as I scuttle by its front doors without actually going inside.

Love: The sense of accomplishment, fatigue (but the good kind), strength, and general bad-assery I get after finishing a workout. There are not too many things that feel quite as good as a monster training session, and the gym is obviously a well equipped place to provide this feeling.

Hate: The utter dejection, fatigue (the bad kind – the kind you get after a brain melting day at work), and overwhelming urge to go home, put on your pajamas and EAT ALL THE NUTELLA you feel before you start your workout. At said gym.

Love: Days where I have the whole place to myself and no one talks to me, drops their weights, or grunts/shrieks like an obnoxious fool.

Hate: The exact opposite of everything I just said. And no Mr. Pathological Liar – I don’t give a flying flashdance about your double PhD and MMA supremacy!

So there you have it. It’s a complex relationship, but one that I am in for the long haul.

Or at least until I move to a city where the climate hangs around 22 degrees (Celsius) all year round.

Wanna come?