Running – Page 16 – Rant and Roll

And I ran – I ran so far away

On Saturday Mr. M and I completed a run that has pretty much crippled me (almost three days out at that.)

In preparation for Tough Mudder – a race we’ve signed up to participate in this June, we’ve been ramping up our training sessions and pushing ourselves harder than normal when it comes to our workouts.

(We’ve also signed our lives away just in case either one (or both) of us croaks on the course. If any of you have anything to tell us between now and the 23^rd of the month, speak now, or forever hold your peace.)

He’s been focusing on running longer distances, and I’ve been working on building strength and gaining speed.

I’ve always loved to run far. I’ve just never like to sprint. What’s the point in going all out (or pushing your body to failure) when you have 10+, 15+, 20+ kilometers to cover?

The only time I could really do that was with a finish line in sight and the entire course length at my back.

But like I said, I’m moving (slowly, but surely) out of my comfort zone.

Saturday morning broke cold, but the air lacked the chill that has defined these long, past winter months. The grey sky spackled by coal coloured clouds, dripping fat drops of rain onto my ponytail, on the peaks of my cheekbones, and in between my eyelashes.

I put on, and took off my toque three times before leaving it behind.

We ran a quick 4k up the (continuous) hill to New Westminster Secondary School’s track. It’s a fabulous surface – soft, spongy, with enough bounce and give – well maintained and well visited on that murky, moody morning.

We ran three 100m all out – my lungs on fire, my legs like jelly, my arms flailing like two propellers, free falling, faltering.

Sucking in air to cool down my screaming brain.

It had been so long since I ran like that – I don’t remember the last time I gave until there was nothing left to give.

A young boy, running laps, while his older brother skulked around the soccer pitch in the middle of the stadium, stopped in amazement and yelled out “WOW!” as M and I tore down lanes six and seven.

You should see how quick M is – he is the Road Runner, or The Flash – all burned rubber and singed tail feathers.

After we finished at the track, we completed the rest of our 10k loop. Our pace was very fast – sub 4:30 per km. And believe you me, by the end, the loop had finished us.

…

My earliest running memory is from about the age of four. I am at a park with my family: my mother, father, and two sisters.

The summer breeze ripples through the weeping willows, dandelions poke their sunny faces out of the uncut grass and I am tearing around the periphery, again and again, like some pint-sized Orestes, keeping my furies at bay.

Having challenged my parents to a footrace, one, two, three, four times, they eventually, gently, encouraged me to run a lap on my own, so they could catch their wind and perhaps formulate a plan on how to deal with their budding long-legged lollopper.

One lap turned to two, two to three, and they practically had to tie me down when it was time to go home.

Speedy Gonzalez my father would always call me.

Ariba Ariba! I’d reply, before attempted to dash off, barefoot and wild-eyed to complete another tour of my make believe stadium, for make-believe admirers, and fans.

When I was eleven, my father began taking me out for runs with him, down at Jericho beach. Summer mornings spent running the gravel path between the “nice” concession stand and the start of the hill leading up to UBC, trying to match my stride to the easy flow of my father’s.

CIMG5395 — Mr. M's and my running course while we lived in England. Edgbaston reservoir.

Every day trying something new, maybe running a little farther or sprinting a little faster, trying to control the rhythm of my breathing and becoming comfortable with the beat of my heart.

We watched Chariots of Fire together. I analyzed the men as they sped around the school courtyard, racing the clock, racing each other, racing their fears, racing themselves.

As a teenager I ran before school, after school. Like Forest Gump said: I was going places.

I. WAS. RUNNING.

I read about Atalanta, the completely kick-ass (in my opinion) Greek deity who refused to marry anyone who could not beat her in a footrace. Those who tried and could not would face decapitation and many, many suitors lost their heads in their attempts to win her hand.

When I grew up, I wanted to be her.

CIMG8300 - Copy — Dancing like a dancing thing (either that or it's my Bluth chicken impression) after my first half-marathon.

My love for running has helped heal me. It pushes me; it has made me grow not only as an athlete but as a person. It has introduced me to new people and reunited me with old friends.

But more importantly, it is my form of meditation and calm; it provides an outlet for the voices in my head and a space for new ideas to percolate and brew.

It gives me an opportunity to create change and be inspired. It allows me to inspire.

Running moves me.

So tonight, despite tight hamstrings, and tender collar bones; aches in my back, and no-laugh abs, what did I do once I got off the metro, having just left work?

I went for a run.

And I’ll continue to do so. Maybe tomorrow. Definitely the day after that.

This weekend I’ll push it again, harder this time, with Mr. M, my running partner in crime.

Seriously folks – we are two tough mudders.

We are runners.

There and back again

My husband loves Mike Holmes.

whistler and downtown 039 — One of M's biggest projects was the ski jump for the 2010 Winter Olympics.

When I asked him to sum up his fascination with the man, he responded:

“BECAUSE HE MAKES IT RIGHT! COME ON!”

Erm.

Awesome.

As a journeyman carpenter, he also enjoys the practical aspect of Mr. Holmes’ show.

“I never really got to see the construction of a house from beginning to end. I like how much I learn watching him, and I like seeing how Mike has grown as a contractor, how much he’s learned over the run of his show. He’s obviously committed to helping people, but also encouraging others to perform the best possible work – not only among the people he works with, but within the industry in general. They just do really good work.

“It also gives me lots of great ideas of what I would like to do with our house.”

Um.

REALLY awesome.

I too like Mike. Not necessarily for the same reasons that M does, but I would be lying if I said it wasn’t pretty darn affecting to see how grateful people are for the help they receive from Mr. Holmes and his crew.

(I may or may not cry regularly during the last ten minutes of the show.)

For reality programming, it’s certainly not your run-of-the mill “how desperately can one person embarrass themselves over the course of fifty-two minutes?”

(Aka it’s one of those exceedingly rare “positive” breeds of reality tv.)

I mean, other than highlighting all the shoddy work being down by crap, pass-the-buck companies, episodes are enough to make the hardest heart grow three sizes (plus Mike probably has a tool for that.)

And at the very least hopefully viewers be extra careful when considering having work done on their house.

Remember: References people, REFERENCES!

…

This weekend we trekked up to the Sunshine Coast for a mini getaway.

We were gone only two days, but the weather during this time was all over the map.

(This is, depending on your taste, one of the best or worst qualities of life on the west coast of British Columbia. For my part, I like the variety.)

At the ferry terminal, I espied these two birdies, hanging out, having a chin-wag together:

These two feathered friends stirred something in me. The morning of M’s and my wedding, he sent me a beautiful bracelet to wear with my dress. This was the card that accompanied the gift:

YES.

…

Whist on the ferry we encountered some insane fog. I went out to take some photos and the gentleman standing to my right turned to face me as I snapped away.

“It’s like we’re heading into Narnia,” he said laughing.

I nodded. “Either that or the Gray Havens. Being on a ship and I all.” I answered.

“Of course the Gray Havens!” He exclaimed, almost as if he was sad that his brief lapse in nerd knowledge was intensely disappointing to him.

“We’re not exactly crossing walking into a wardrobe here,” he muttered.

Love it.

This was taken facing Horshoebay:

This was heading towards Port Melllon:

Driving past Sechelt, up towards the cabin, we encountered a lot of fog.

I'm picking up a fog bank on my radar...

The route all of a sudden became a little bit more mysterious, and a little bit more exciting. While the mist gave our travel time more character and a decidedly more somber moo (which isn’t necessarily a bad thing), needless to say that the views were not what you normally get when heading up that way.

Not that I’m complaining.

…

As soon as we arrived, I took some photos of the dock, before warming myself in front of the wood burning stove.

Winter.

Heaven.

Later that evening, I froze my feet taking photos of the how spooky the water looked, lit-up amid the night boat lights and fog.

That is some exorcist stuff, if I ever saw it. EEP.

For the rest of the weekend we ran, cooked, watched Eli Manning and his compatriots (no double entendre intended) run over New England’s defence, and played more rounds of Trivial Pursuit Genius Edition (released in 1981!) than we could count.

I was seriously on the verge of peeing my pants at some points, I was laughing so hard.

Every time one of us drew a history card, and it happened to be something like, “Who was Truman’s vice-presidential running mate?” we’d lose it, before guessing some random “American” sounding name.

“Ummm, Harold Williams?”

Classic.

Although, my favourite of the night was:

Who lived at Puddleby-on-the-Marsh, with his pet duck named Dab Dab?

Good grief, I was crying with laughter as I attempted to choke this question out for M. For serious, I now know my life will never be complete until I acquire a duck and name it Dab Dab.

Holy quack.

…

This morning the water was completely frozen over (and again I froze my little feets when I ventured out to take these photos at 7:30am. The clouds looked like milk, frothed, and spotted pink in places, making candy-coloured striations fly across the length of the sky.

IMG_0316 - Copy — Beauty, beauty, Beauty.

As I ran my favourite ten kilometre route (in the whole wide world) my breath hung close, suspended in the frigid air. Couples out walking their dogs nodded to me, and I smiled and waved back, concentrating on my breathing, and stride length.

At one end of the loop, the fog clung to the tall firs, and spindly pines, the air smelled like fresh sod and salt cod, my cheeks stung cold, and my hands burned hot.

My feet, legs, hips, arms – back and forth, one and two, sprinting to my finish line, where freshly strewn pine needles, and the contented call of water fowl mark my place in my self-timed race.

I was home.

(Just like Holmes.)

Ready to run

Today after work I went to the gym and ran sprints until I was about one stride away from ralphing all over the treadmill (and maybe the poor soul to my left.) Luckily, I was able to overcome the seemingly inevitable need to upchuck and continued on with my strictly planned (and even more strictly enforced) exercise in masochism, pun intended.

Tonight, I was in it to win it (or you know, lose control over my most simple bodily functions.)

Full disclosure: THAT DIDN’T HAPPEN.

So anyways, after running, I went and threw myself into the toughest elements of strength training I could think of (and therefore purposely avoid during my regular nights at the gym.)

These are the parts of the routine I dread with the fiercest fires of Hades – the ones I never feel like doing because they are the worst things invented in the history of invented things: lunges, squats, burpees, push-ups, pull-ups and the piece de resistance, the hardest possible ab workout I could muster without giving myself a hernia (I’m looking at you plank, you evil, torturous pose.)

So why dear readers, did I do this?

Two words: CONCACAF Soccer.

Seriously.

On Sunday night Mister M and I went to the finals of the Women’s Olympic Qualifying Soccer Tournament down at BC Place. The atmosphere in the stadium was electric – over twenty-five thousand jazzed-up Canucks (and a very healthy American contingent) dressed in their best red and white (or blue as may be for the Yanks). Everyone showed up ready to watch an hour of awesome sportsmanship and athleticism.

It was a bit of a throw-back to the Olympics really. A nice reminder of how much support there is for our athletes when we have the chance to take part in their achievements and actually watch them compete.

Do you hear this Mr. The Honourable Bal Gosal? TAKE NOTE!

It was a great night, filled with drama, suspense, and remarkable athletic feats – everything a sporting event should be.

Unfortunately, our ladies ended up losing 4-0. The gameplay was heavily dominated by the American squad, notwithstanding two brilliant efforts by the Canadians, that on any other day most likely would have been goals.

But alas, such is the way the cookie crumbles.

I really however must give credit where credit is due: what else is there to say about an American team that were truly breath-taking to behold. There was no question at all as to why the team is ranked number one in the world.

To put it simply – the ladies are hands down fricken amazing.

Now, I am in no way knocking our Canadian squad, in so far as they played a solid game, however in the end they just we no match for a team that could out-run, out-manoeuvre, and out-skill them.

As a giant aside however, I must give a healthy shout out to our Ace in the Hole, Ms. Christine Sinclair – seriously, she is a force to be reckoned with, and an all around world-class athlete.

In short, she is a complete BOSS.

So it was watching this incredible display of talent, skill, endurance, and passion that really pumped me the heck up to go out tonight and push myself to my physical limits.

Because when you boil it down to its most basic properties, I truly love sport.

I love what sport does for not only others, but what it does for me.

And going to the gym day after day in the winter, after the sun has set (at 4:30 in the afternoon), makes this a little hard to remember.

But it’s true: playing, watching, talking about, arguing over, crying after (or during), running so hard until you feel as though your lungs have caught fire and the only way to put them out is to throw the up – jumping up and down, pulling out my hair, sweating, grunting, exhilarating, liberating, stupefying, beautiful –

Sport.

I love it.

CIMG8406 - Copy — After my 2nd half - I ran for Big Sisters and raised $1,020. Seriously one of the best things I've ever done.

And watching those women last night was just the reminder I needed.

Last year I completed two half-marathons. I ran my first in 1:46 and my second in 1:38. I will begin training for my first marathon this coming May and I am completely dedicated to running it in 3:30:00.

The objective: to qualify for the Boston marathon and I know that I can do it.

I just need more nights like this to remind me – of the beauty of the game, the run, the goal, the win, the loss, the triumph – of it all.

So I will continue to run, and sweat and strain. I will grow stronger. And I will write of that which inspires.

And I welcome you all to share the things that drive, motivate, invigorate and exhilarate you.

A new order

Heading into the start of this week I’m definitely feeling a little better, a little brighter and little less like Phil from the warehouse with the pains in his head.

Don’t know Phil? Let me introduce you:

All in all, while I may not be in tip-top condition (or Phil’s for that matter), I’m not about to keel over either.

Side note: M really doesn’t know what to do with Kids in the Hall (whereas they sit firmly in my list of top comedy geniuses of all time.) He told me yesterday that he has a hard time taking anything produced in the 80’s seriously, particularly stuff made in Canada (re: by the CBC). This is both hilarious and devastating to me, especially because I’ve just discovered that old school episodes of Degrassi are now available on Netflix. For me, that stuff is 24 karat gold nostalgia – what memory lane is paved out of! (You know, that and The Goonies.)

One point of note (or perhaps, one two-pointer point of note) regarding this recent spat of illness is 1.) this is the first time, in a long time (almost two years), that I had been sick for more than two consecutive days, and 2.) despite this fact (or perhaps because of it), I have not pushed my body into working out, or going for a run whilst still in the clutches of this congestion, fever and fatigue.

This may not seem like that big of a deal, but for me, the more I think about it, the more aware I become of the positive implications I can derive from this decision.

See – I cannot even begin to count the number of times I have gone to the gym in the past, plagued by aching bones, clogged sinuses, and high temperatures just because I couldn’t handle the way my skin felt due to the length of time it had been since my last workout.

Going more than a few days, particularly while sick, without physical activity was an excruciating, live-action nightmare.

Now, I understand that I haven’t written extensively on my past struggles with food and exercise, but suffice to say that they were long-endured, damaging and incredibly complex.

And exercising (whilst ill) was just one symptom of my disease.

It is only now that I am into a period of recovery (I actually like to think of myself as living “clean”, in so far as I cannot view my eating disorders as anything other than what they were – addictions) that I actually can even step back and objectively look at my behaviour both then (disordered) and now (healthy) and feel okay about both.

Where exercise was once an agent of my disorder, it is now an antidote.

Edit: When I say that I am “okay” about my past behaviour, I am in no way condoning those choices or behaviours. What I am trying to communicate is that I am able to reflect on that destructive period my life, and not beat myself up over decisions made, or, more dangerously, fall back into old patterns.

I am okay with looking back; I am okay with moving forward.

I am okay with making, and keeping myself okay.

…

Yesterday M and I ventured outside of our little house, in an attempt to stave off cabin fever and to procure new passport photos.

Whilst at the mall I came across the following window display outside of The Gap:

2012-01-08 13.17.41 — I. don't. understand.

Erm.

What the FRESH HELL is a “sexy boyfriend” look?

What does that even mean?

YO AD EXECS! Can’t we leave gender alone for like, two minutes? It’s confusing me! And good ol’ J. Butler never accepts my collect calls anymore.

Also, something tells me that the marketing team over at Gap Inc. sure as sunshine won’t be releasing a “SEXY GIRLFRIEND” look for their men’s department any time soon.

2012-01-08 13.17.33 — Oh! You mean, the "SEXY BOYFRIEND look". I though you meant the "LOOK SEXY FOR YOUR BOYFRIEND" look. I mean, that's the only reason to wear clothes, right?

Because, jeeze, what self-respecting guy would ever want to dress like a girl?

THAT SHIT IS GAY BRO.

I mean, what about ladies that don’t have boyfriends? What about ladies that have girlfriends? What about ladies with un-sexy boyfriends?

I may be kidding here folks, but seriously NOT THAT MUCH.

Why can’t girls wear just pants and sweaters without it being about BOYS AND SEX AND FEMININITY AND MASCULINITY ALL THE GOSH DARNED TIME?

And seriously, when the frick were pants re-appropriated by the male sex? And the SEXY contingent of the male sex at that?

(I’m so sorry to inform all the fugly gentlemen out there, but it seems that you are no longer allowed pants within the confines of your wardrobe. Unless, of course, you want to be accused of co-opting the style of your sexy peers, then by all means, go for it. You’ll be in good company.)

Sometimes I feel as though I am living in a bizarro world.

At least I now understand what that lady was talking about each time she told me to “mind the gap”.

And I’m telling you, sexy boyfriend-less legs and I?

We mind.

Three things I did this Christmas

1. Cried. Quite a bit actually. This, however, is not too big of a deal. I cry quite a lot, and can be set off at a moment’s notice due to, well, pretty much anything. From the overly banal (X-Files episode), to the adorable animal (please see below video), to the familial. It probably wouldn’t be much of a Christmas without a few tears shed, for either good or bad.

Heck, it’s tradition.

2. Went for a run. This is also becoming a bit of a Christmas tradition. I like to venture out in the early morning, when the

CIMG8821 — Awesome socks is the new awesome sauce.

rest of the world is still snuggled up in their beds (dreaming of sugar plums, or little toy drums). Irrespective, M and I bundled up to face the freezing winds, and gray-tinged skies, and ran laps around Queen’s park, which was dark, and slick, and yet beautiful and magical in all of its festive splendor.

You always feel as though a special kinship ties you to all the other early morning runners, and although you may share but a simple head nod, it’s enough to make your blood run a little warmer, and strides stretch a little longer.

CIMG8822 — Ready to rock. I mean rant. I mean RUN!

M also bought me some super sweet running socks that I was eager to try out (they were tucked neatly into my stocking with some great books and chocolate). He gets exasperated (and rightly so) with my inability to keep my socks with their rightful pair, so each set he gave me was colour coded a different colour, to insure that they (as pairs) have a long shelf (erm…drawer) life together.

They were ridiculously comfortable and made for a brilliant run. To paraphrase F. Gump, they were “magic socks.”

3. Bought a real tree. As I wrote before, this was the first year that M and I celebrated Christmas in our home together, so it was very exciting that we were able to purchase a beautiful little pine that has been quite the dazzling addition to our humble abode – whether it be its excellent aromas, or how much colourful decor it adds to our living room.

It’s was also great fun to decorate it with our mishmash of different ornaments that we have collected over the years. We are sent new ones every year from the East Coast and we have also been lucky enough to have been gifted ones from M’s parents.

My mother has also begun the tradition of sending us a stocking every year in our gift package. It’s fantastic! Currently, for a household of two adults and one kitty we have five stockings.

Outrageous.

We’re hoping that as the years press on, Santa just becomes more and more confused, forcing him to fill them all lest he

leave someone out.

Just don’t tell him.

No doubt I’ve probably just bought myself a first class ticked to the naughty list. Alas, it’ll just give me another reason to cry.

Happy Holidays friends!