For the past month or so, I’ve been having some problems when running – stiff hips, niggling knee problems, and tight calves.
I couldn’t understand what the heck was going on with me, as I have never, ever had any issues with my body – no matter how hard I’ve been training.
You name it – I can withstand it. I have been competing at a high performance level (whether it be dance, track, badminton, or volleyball) since I was seven years old and I have never once suffered a major injury.
Tough Mudder may have cut and bruised the ever-loving crap out of my arms and legs, but other than a day or two of (very natural) muscle stiffness and soreness, I emerged both times completely unscathed.
So when these aches and pains began to creep up on me, it really gave me pause.
At first I just chalked it up to an over-zealous pre-race weekend (40+ kilometers over three days) coupled by an ill-advised high-heel dance party at the Jungle concert the next day.
But even after my win at Boundary Bay, these zings and pings have not given way.
So I spent some time today thinking about what, if anything, has changed in my life over the past month or two to cause such a substantial shift in the way my body reacts to something that I have been doing for years and years.
And that’s when it hit me: for the first time in my entire life, I have been wearing high heels almost every day.
To work and for play.
And this gave me pause.
Is it really possible that changing my footwear for such a short period of time could be wrecking so much havoc with my hips and legs?
And the answer, I am truly apt to believe, is a resounding YES.
Which is actually crazy!
But listen to this:
On Friday I wore flats to work because I knew that I would be heading over to Marc’s high school to lead the improv club, and I tell you, spending just twenty-four hours with my feet firmly planted on the ground made a substantial difference in my run this morning.
My had absolutely no problems with my knees and only my right hip felt a little tight (and again, only at the tail end of a very fast eight kilometer run.)
I am curious to see what tomorrow will bring, as today I again shunned my heels, and opted instead to don a pair of flat boots instead.
Stay tuned!
But in the interim, I have to wax further on just how upset I am by this revelation.
Because I LOVE my heels!
I am enamoured by how pretty they all are, and how unbelievably tall I am in each pair, and how unstoppable and badass each pair makes me feel – like I could literally step over every obstacle that might have the audacity to get in my way.
I like how they make my legs look (about fifty miles long), and how weirdly proud I am of how well I can walk in each pair, no matter how high, or how skinny a heel.
I love my chunky black boots that I bought for forty dollars at Target, and wore so often the first week post-purchase that I had to re-glue the soles after only seven days.
I love my five dollar wedges, and my beautiful burgundy suede stilettos, and my cute plaid kitten heels.
I like how my husband doesn’t care that I am taller than him when I wear heels.
(I like how the only thing that concerns him about these shoes is how they may be impacting my health.)
I really do like (nay love!) everything about them.
But I am also so very wary about what exactly they may be doing long-term to my body, and when it comes down to it, I cherish my ability to run like the wind much, MUCH more than I do a sweet pair of shoes.
No matter how good my legs might look.
Because if I can’t run, they’re not going to look that good anyway.
I had originally signed-up for the marathon, but I quickly realized that giving myself two and a half months to train for 42.2 kilometers just wasn’t nearly enough time. I knew that if I was to attempt the full race, I would probably end up in a wheelchair for (at the very least) the first week post-event, what with my inability to not give it my all once the gun goes off.
So I emailed the race organizers and asked them if it was okay if I could switch.
And lucky for me, it was!
There’s something to be said for knowing your limits.
I had my last training run on Friday morning – just a simple, quick five kilometer pre-work zip about New Westminster’s boardwalk.
I have been having some difficulty with my right knee and left hip – gifts left over from a completely overzealous Thanksgiving weekend, where I ran forty kilometers over three days because everything in my brain was screaming at me that I was unstoppable – and this was giving me some trepidation.
Not to mention, that following this insane running weekend, I went to a concert where I danced my heart out in giant four inch heels.
While unbeknownst to me at the time, this one hundred per cent ensured that my legs were very, very overdone.
Luckily, I have a pretty good physiotherapist who, on Friday, stretched me out, and taped up my knee, so – whether psychosomatic or not – I didn’t have any problems on that front this morning.
On the hip front however – phew. That was a different story.
Everything was feeling so good, until approximately kilometer fifteen, and then I really started to feel the tightness.
But I am getting ahead of myself. Let’s rewind to the beginning, and I will fill you in on all things hip-wise once we get to that point of the story.
Last night I had the best pre-race sleep of my life. I had a pretty full day, driving out to Tsawassen to pick up my race package, buying birthday gifts, and being bowled over with surprise presents from my ridiculous, handsome, brilliant and too-generous husband, so I was knackered by the time nine thirty rolled around.
After setting the coffee, and laying out my race gear, I crawled into bed and was asleep by ten.
I woke to my alarm at six, and did all my superstitious morning-of puttering.
Washing my face.
Putting in my earrings.
Drinking my coffee.
Eating my banana.
It was all comforting and good.
I even had a chance to burn a CD for Marc and I to listen to as we drove out to Boundary Bay.
My weather app had told me that the morning would be overcast and rainy, but the droplets were not to be found as we pulled into the provincial park’s parking lot.
The wind on the other hand – there was A LOT of that to be found.
I would soon learn, that the howling winds of the start line concourse were but a fraction of what we would encounter on the course.
While waiting in line at the port-o-potties, Marc ran into a work colleague, and we chatted a bit about racing and the day.
Then it was time to snap a few silly photos (including one with the Hamburglar and Grimace!) and take part in the group warm up. This is when all of the runners gather about and participate in aerobic exercises lead by exquisitely enthusiastic and warm volunteers.
Before I knew it, I was taking one last photo with Marc’s dad and then lining up with all the other racers.
When the gun went off, I kept repeating to myself, “take it easy.”
I have a tendency to go out too fast, and I really didn’t want to burn myself out in the first ten kilometers.
Boundary Bay is a hauntingly beautiful stretch of beach and marshland. It is also an internationally recognized “Important Bird Area” as it is a critical rest stop for thousands of birds – including the Red Throated Loon and the Sooty Shearwater – using the Pacific Flyway migration route.
I saw three or four hard-core birders out today along the route, not to mention many, many groups of migrating birds and water fowl.
For the first ten kilometers I ran in the shadow of two older men, and one woman – all three of whom were running the full-marathon.
My legs were feeling so strong, that at kilometer nine I slowly started to make my move to overtake them.
When I got to the turn-around (all courses today were out and back) I was buoyed by all of the volunteers cheering me on, and shouting things like, “Yeah! First woman!”
I could immediately feel my strides lengthening and quickening.
Although I (mistakenly) thought this momentum would carry-on until the end of the race, it did last for at least the next six kilometers, seeing as though I ran past so many other runners who took a moment to cheer me on.
I even ran by my brilliant friend Katie who shouted, “VANESSA!?” which just left me with the biggest smile on my face.
The only thing tempering my joy was the brutal head winds we had to face all the way back to the finish line.
Being smack dab on the edge of the ocean leaves one incredibly vulnerable to the elements, and there were times that I felt as though I was running against a brick wall – especially as we climbed into the higher kilometers.
By eighteen clicks, I was feeling pretty tired and both of my hips were tight and sore.
All I kept telling myself was, “you love to do this. You love to do this.”
Because I do! I really, really love running. And as I repeated this mantra, my muscles would slightly unclench, and my legs would loosen.
As I rounded the last corner, with approximately five hundred meters left, I encountered my amazing parent’s in-law (my consummate cheerleaders!)
Eric eagerly let me know that I was the first woman, and Cheryl was just cheering her heart out.
As much as I wanted to show them how much their presence meant to me, I had no energy left to do anything but propel myself to the finish line.
I’m not going to lie, I was a little disappointed that I didn’t break 1:30 but for a tremendously windy and cold course, I’ll take it. I mean, the first man finished in 1:18, which really speaks to the ferocity of the elements.
Plus I came first.
First!
How crazy is that?
For my efforts, I received a gold medal, a hug from Grimace, and a free pair of Sketchers.
I am beginning to think that we will henceforth refer to time as “BTR” and “ATR” (Before the Rain/After the Rain), what with how hard it has been storming for the past few days.
There really is something to be said for a warm, dry autumn season.
I am looking at retiring to Portugal ASAP.
In the interim, here is a story:
There once was a girl who absolutely adored her to-do lists.
She made them each and every day.
At her job and at her home; for her work and for her play.
There wasn’t anything that she did – be it cleaning, writing, running, or shopping – that she didn’t enjoy ten-times more when it was written down in pen, and then crossed out with that same pen after it was complete.
Sometimes on a Friday night, her and her Swiss-Indian life-mate would sit down and think of all the magical and mayhem-inspired things they wanted to achieve over the next few days.
Their excited and over-confident scribbling often took the shape of something like this:
Nothing was ever left off of the list. Even if they thought the task too daunting – it was added along with the rest of the items, and treated with the same respect as any old regular, mundane activity.
One weekend, it just so happened to be that both the girl and her Swiss-Indian life-mate managed to accomplish the majority of things on their to-do list, despite the fact that it was very long, and very involved.
They did crazy things like jack up the floor joists under the extension of their one hundred and seven year old house, and bake two dozen pumpkin chocolate chip muffins and four dozen Halloween sugar cookies.
(The girl did concede, however, that she desperately needed to purchase some new cookie cutters, as dogs and hands – HANDS! – don’t make for the best scary pastry cut-outs.)
She ran 14 kilometers on Saturday and 7.5 kilometers on Sunday, and he mowed the lawn (front and back!) and together they cleaned out their fridge and tidied the house (which included four loads of laundry, folded and put away.)
It was an incredibly productive time – and one that also included an inordinate amount of laughter and friendly ribbing.
Because according to both of these characters, there really is nothing like spending a couple of hours scuttling about the underside of a house to bring a couple together.
The girl felt so happy to have been able to spend this time with her Swiss-Indian life-mate.
Especially on a late-afternoon Sunday walk, in the beautiful soul-warming sun.
We are approximately three days away from the beginning of the Autumnal season.
I am twenty-nine years of age.
You are whatever age you currently are.
This is where I am sitting:
Everything is both beautiful and terrible. Everything is both unadulterated brilliance and unmitigated bonkerness.
Everything just is.
Sometimes, whenever I start to get really down by all of the fuckery that seems to dominate our world’s discourse (not to mention actions!), I just really try and focus on all the amazing, beautiful, and breathtaking things and events of which I am privileged enough to both behold and partake.
And sometimes, I just think about the quiet world of my early morning, pre-work runs.
When the sky is a mottled blend of purples, pinks, greens, and blues.
When the sky is the most beautiful bruise.
I run down along the boardwalk with my heart in my throat, and my tears in my eyes. My legs feel as though they are six miles long, and my arms pump, just like my blood pumps, and everything feels right and strong.
And I know that I am flying.
Sometimes I feel silly and trite writing again and again what it feels like to run. How propelling myself forward as hard and as fast as I possibly can brings on such infinite joy.
But I can’t.
Just like running itself, I cannot stop.
I cannot swallow these words.
They are a compulsion.
They are a joy
…
Work has been a little batty of late (50+ hour weeks), spent zipping about like zipping things (zippers!!).
However, seeing as though my fellow colleagues are gentlewomen and squires of the highest order, I cannot bring myself to complain.
The fact that I am passionate beyond a thought about my job and the work that I do is, of course, another boon.
However, this is not to say that we can’t have a great laugh at our own expense, especially in the lead-up to a very large event, of which we have been working on since March.
March!
Case in point:
I, like we all, have the capacity to be a grumpy cat.
Hence, I am actually grumpy cat.
…
Remember movies?
I do, but barely.
And this leaves me feeling a little melancholy.
Because movies used to mean so much. They used to mean so much to me.
I recall the first movie that I ever saw in a theatre.
Beauty and the Beast was everything a movie should be (in my very discerning six year old mind). It was funny and scary. There was a beautiful, brilliant, strong female lead who loved to read and who wouldn’t take crap from all the ridiculous idiots who populated her “provincial town.” She, rightly, loathed Gaston, and held her own when it came to The Beast’s infantile temper tantrums.
In truth, it’s probably the only Disney princess flick I’ll ever be okay showing my future kidlets (but that’s another post for another time.)
I am fairly certain it was my nanny Suzanne who took me to the movie, and it was her gift to me on my sixth birthday. We went to the old (and now sadly demolished) Capital Six, back when Granville Street was in its full grunge-tastic glory.
Memories!
The first “grown-up” movie I ever watched in theatres was when Shona Langmuir, Patricia Beckerman (aka “The Girls”), and I went and saw The First Wives Club when we were in grade five.
Note: please let me emphasize the term “theatres” in the above sentence. My family were rather lax when it came to flicks seen by us kids, and we were viewing adult movies at a very, very early age. I remember watching the Fugitive on Easter Monday in grade two.
Nothing like collecting a bunch of chocolate eggs and then sitting down as a family to watch Harrison Ford clear his name!
Good grief.
But I digress. Holy damn did I ever dig The First Wives Club. Sure I didn’t get a lot of the jokes, and the scene where Brenda eats dinner by herself absolutely destroyed me. But it didn’t matter. It was three women who loved each other, out in the world, kicking ass and taking names.
Too this day I re-watch it at least once a year.
You don’t own me!
Looking at both this film and Beauty and the Beast would you say that there seems to be a pattern emerging as to the type of movie that really resonated with my younger self?
Oh to be that wide-eyed, bushy-tailed, newly emerging feminist!
There are so many more movies that, collectively, with the thousands of books, songs, and other miscellaneous artistic detritus that I’ve encountered and loved along the way, have helped inform who I am as a young woman today.
For instance: I LOVE Forrest Gump.
Next time you see me, ask me to quote the entire movie. I will do this for you.
I also love Forgetting Sarah Marshall, and A Fish Called Wanda, and I will always adore Hugh Grant in Four Weddings and a Funeral.
I saw Amelie in grade eleven with my first boyfriend and spent the entire summer pretending to be her.
I adore Kieślowski’s Three Colours trilogy. My favourite of the three films being the darkest and most brilliant black comedy of all time, “Blanc.”
I will go to my death extolling the cinematic virtues of The Big Lebowski. For me, nothing will ever be funnier than this brilliant pieces of the Coen Brothers subconscious. I quote it all of the time and there are total parts of my and Marc’s vernacular made up solely by movie lines. I can also never look at a bowling alley the same way again.
It’s weird.
I love dramatic films as much as I do comedy, however I just am never one to really revisit these masterpieces, and as such they don’t influence my life to the degree as my favourite comedies.
And it’s not as though these two genres cannot exist simultaneously. In no uncertain terms are they are not mutually exclusive concepts.
It just takes one hell of a filmmaker to pull this off.
(Like the Coen Brothers.)
But isn’t movie watching also so much about the experience? The memory of that time spent in the theater? Where you were? Who you were with? Where you were in your life?
Probably one of my most cherished movie related memories is from the first few months of Marc’s and my courtship. Only four months into what is now an eleven year love affair, the two of us went to see Love Actually on a dark, went and very cold Vancouver November afternoon.
I had spent the night at his place and, because I was in my weird “only skirts, no pants” phase, I was wearing a pair of his cords because I didn’t have a clean pair of tights. They were absolutely huge, and I looked a bit of a sight. We had spent the morning at a community theatre on the Westside where I auditioned for a part in an upcoming play (spoiler: I didn’t get the part!), and then had bussed downtown. Arriving at the theatre (also the Capital Six!), we ran up the escalator so we wouldn’t be late for the previews.
I so wish I could properly communicate how much I felt watching that movie, sitting next to the man (the boy!) for whom I felt so, so, so strongly.
My body completely electric as I held his hand, I laughed at Bill Nighy’s amazing portrayal of Billy Mac and felt my heart break and break and break for Emma Thompson.
I just loved it.
I hate that I am even typing this, but for me, at that moment in my life, love truly was all around.
(I’m sorry!)
But it’s true.
And that’s why movies matter.
And why, despite the fact that I never go to the theatre anymore, and I only use my Netflix to watch old episodes of QI and MI5, I’ll never let them go.
It’s been almost a month since I’ve last put fingers to laptop in an earnest attempt to pen the CRAP out of a blog post.
But things be happening.
At the beginning of August I traveled to the lush and magical land of Hawaii and spent eight days hiking, running, swimming, snorkeling, attending weddings, and waking up at the crack of dawn in order to witness the most spectacular sunrises of life (again, and again, and again!)
I mean, if there is one thing I can say about crawling out of bed every day at 5:30am – on vacation at that – it’s just that there are some things in life that are hands down worth it EVERY TIME.
I mean, why wouldn’t you want to get up early everyday when you’re viewing things like THIS:
IT’S JUST TOO GOOD.
Some other snaps:
Beaching!Hiking!Wedding-ing!
Travelling home I was so incredibly knackered from all of the physical activity, coupled with the early morning beach trips, that it was all I could do to keep my eyes open as the flight attendant prepped myself and the other folks sitting in the emergency exit row. As soon as she left, I put up my hood, wrapped by arms about my body, and settled down to (what I hoped to be) a relatively uneventful five and a half hours of airplane rest.
I was just drifting off to dreamland, when another flight attendant woke me up with a look of grave concern on her face.
“Yes?” I asked.
She looked at me and loudly whispered, “I’m sorry, but I just need to confirm before we take off, as you’re sitting in the emergency exit row, that you are over sixteen years of age?”
…
Oh how I laughed (and thanked her, weirdly?)
However, I did want to clarify that she was asking due to my physical appearance and not, you know, in reaction to my general comportment.
She just looked at me weirdly and then told me that I looked young for my age.
(I probably shouldn’t have used the word “comportment.” I think it REALLY aged me.)
However, I won’t lie and say that I didn’t smile and smile as I drifted off to (my much needed,) thirty thousand foot, recycled air dreamscape.
Strangely, these early morning events never curtailed after arriving home from Oahu.
In fact, for about two months now, I’ve been getting up before work and running like a loon, mostly in preparation for my marathon on November 2nd, but also because the weather has been so darned hot I cannot fathom leaving the office in the afternoon and belting out a 10k in 25+ celcius temperatures.
Because gross.
Also. Man. November 2nd.
Let’s not beat around the bush here folks – that date is very soon. And what with how quickly days seem to be slipping between my fingers, I’ll probably take a long nap in a week or two and wake up on race day fretting about the fact that I’ve forgotten to pick up my race package in time.
Good grief.
OKAY. What else has been hammering at the proverbial workbench of life…
I have been doing quite a few speaking engagements and interviews for work, hosting the radio show, Big Sistering it up, and trying to get my head wrapped around the idea of sifting through approximately 400 blog posts in the attempt to MAYBE put together a book proposal based on all of these insane musings.
Because you know – everybody has to have a goal right?
Or else what the heck is the point of chewing through those leathers straps every morning!?
Since being gifted with free HD cable, Marc and I have been watching a crap ton of US Open tennis because everything else on the ol’ boobtube is absolute garbage, and the only thing that will ever get me to turn on the television is electric athletes and their incredible displays of strength and agility.
Anything and everything else? Just GTFO.
On September 16th my AMAZING friend Alex and I are headed to the Kaiser Chiefs concert and I have all of the excitement.
Equally because Alex is truly one of the greatest people I am lucky to count as a friend in my life, and also because the Kaiser Chiefs are such tip-top groovemeisters and I cannot wait to get my epic dance moves on to their fab tunes.
The last time this band was in town I was forced to go to the concert by myself, which in retrospect wasn’t all that horrid and turned out to be quite a blast. However, in my nervous state, I drank half a bottle of wine and ended up speaking in the absolute worst British accent of all time to the teenager who wouldn’t stop pestering me for my phone number on the skytrain home.
Because I am the worst and desperately needed him to shut up, I just threw in the towel and gave him Marc’s cell phone number.
(Which I am still laughing about to this day.)
(This may also be why I am mistaken for sixteen year-olds on airplanes.)
Finally, I have been reading some absolutely excellent texts of late, including the newest Murakami (melancholy and beautiful, as always), some old Henning Mankell (that I somehow missed? P.S. I am planning a trip to Sweden next April so STAY TUNED), some Jo Nesbo (that stuff is DARK!), some Lev Grossman (TERRIBLE STAY AWAY – dude is an amazing writer but absolutely crap at storytelling and character development), some Carl Sagan (my imaginary boyfriend), much Dostoevsky and Bradbury (my two literary husbands), and will next be venturing into a biography on the late, and utterly devastatingly brilliant Alan Turning.
Like so many things in this bonkers world of ours – I cannot wait.
And I leave you all with this little ditty:
SEPTEMBER
A sept is an English word for a division of a family, especially of a Scottish or Irish. The word may derive from the Latin saeptum, meaning “enclosure” or “fold”
Ember: a small piece of burning or glowing coal or wood in a dying fire.
Rant and Roll 