Christmastime is Here

I’m not quite sure what happened to the second half of November and the first half of December; last time I checked the calendar it was November 5th and Christmas was merely a blip on the horizon. Now, it looms less than 10 days away and I wonder, where did the last 40 days go?

I was fully prepared to be, well, fully prepared for Christmas in advance this year. I thought that in the later part of November that I would leisurely stroll about in the shops finding the perfect something for all the friends on my list this year. But in actuality, intent and reality were so far removed from each other that continents separated them.

In my defense, work managed to creep up from being 35 to 40 hours of my week to being well over 40 and bordering on 50; leaving me tired and not strong enough to face an evening spent being jostled about in a crowded shopping centre.

The other thing I blame is the weather. In the latter stages of November, Mother Nature decided to make up for her lackadaisical approach to the winter thus far and dumped a tonne of snow followed by turning down the external thermostat to well below seasonal.

To which by body responded, in the way my body will always respond to the extreme misery of winter and attempted to kick into hibernation mode. My brain saying - “wait until it warms up, no need to go out today in this miserable weather” and my body responding with - “Sure, I need the rest, why should we bother expending energy today that we can conserve for another day.”

All of which leads me to sitting here, days before Christmas with no presents bought and feeling wholly unChristmassy.

Maybe when I get home to my parent’s place and see the tree and the decorations; hear the Christmas music and taste my Mum’s Christmas Cake it will feel more like Christmas, but until then I will simultaneously marvel and lament the rapid passage of an entire month, or more, and wonder how the heck did it become Christmastime?

I hope the holidays bring you times to remember and peaceful days with friends and family; for their presence is far more important than presents.

Happy Christmas to one and all!

Not Too Cold for Crazy People

About one week ago I was assaulted on my way home from work. Though “assaulted” seems to be a bit strong a word, it is technically accurate, and since the incident I have felt a bit shaken and I thought blogging might make me feel better about it.

It was Monday afternoon, the weather was miserably cold and on any other day I would have said “No sane person would be walking outside on a day like today”. I decided I was not going to allow the extremely cold weather to stop me from walking outside to the LRT station, it was early enough for it still to be daylight out and at this time of year I need all the daylight I can get. So bundled up to the eyeballs, I walked from work to the LRT station – a short five minute walk outside.

As I was walking on the sidewalk north of the law courts there was a guy walking towards me, I made sure I was walking on the right hand side of the wide sidewalk, as I would always do, to ensure there was enough room for him to pass to the left of me.

As he got closer he stepped over to be walking directly in my path.

I stepped left to get out of his path and then he stepped right to block my path again.

Not wanting to play his game I stopped altogether, thinking he’d just walk past.

He advanced directly towards me and I put my arms up in front of me, fists formed, elbows bent as if I was trying to hide (or protect) my chest, to stop him from getting too close.

He advanced until his chest was touching my fists. He then stopped, gave me a look as if to say “figured you do that”.

Undoubtedly by then I had a “what the heck are you up to” look on my face. Neither of us spoke.

Then he stepped to the side and began to walk away.

I watched him as he walked past and as he did, he turned his head spat at my face. Lucky for me (yes, I feel soo lucky *dripping with sarcasm*) he missed my face and hit my toque.

Then he walked off and I yelled after him that I should have him arrested for assault.

It was weird, up until he spat at me I thought it was some strange University social behaviour experiment – how do strangers react to having their personal space invaded. He looked like a normal guy, university age (or mid 20s). So strange!

Originally I was annoyed and dumbfounded but now my brain has decided to spend more time processing it and has seen fit to send me “worst case scenarios” thoughts and now I’m just plain shaken.

One part of my brain keeps saying, “Wow! That could have been a lot worse. He could have hit you, or knocked you down, or worse…” While another keeps asking, “What could I have done differently? How could I have avoided the guy? Should I have kept walking? Should I have said something to him sooner? Should I have socked him one after he spit on me? Am I properly equipped to defend myself? Am I safe?”

Since the incident I have been hyper-vigilant when I walk to or from work, making sure, well in advance, that people coming towards me are not showing any signs of a “collision course” even going so far as to not walk a straight path to avoid any chance of it happening. I also have become very suspicious of all people I encounter on my way home whether walking or on the LRT. I know eventually the paranoia and hyper vigilance will subside, as the aftermath to any traumatic situation does – eventually.

But until it does, I guess I have to put up with my own heightened sensitivity and percolating paranoia and accept that I feel a bit like a victim right now. Oh, yes, and I’m looking into taking self defense courses and hoping to project the attitude - “don’t mess with me”.

I'll Bring the Matches

About two months ago I began writing a blog post that I never finished and later deleted.

I do that some times; thoughts enter my head; I hear or think of a turn of phrase I like; someone says something that inspires me; all these things trigger the birth of a blog post. Sometimes they don't go further than a couple of lines "jotted down" in draft on Blogger, sometimes (especially if it's just a phrase) it just rattles around in my brain until it manages to fall out somewhere along the path.

That aside, about two months ago I began writing a blog post about feeling like I had just brought matches to a witch hunt. The thought appealed to me, partly because there was an uncharitable part of me that wanted the witch hunt to be successful, then there was the part of me that felt guilty for feeling like I had brought the matches to a witch hunt and part of me that just liked the phrase.

You see, for several months, I have had to put up with a useless ineffectual and disinterested co-worker (who I will refer to as Mr. Bottleneck) whose shoddy work and unreliable attendance had driven me close to wanting to either smack him up side the head or quit – neither action would be very positive or productive. So I did the only thing I could do, I complained to my Project Manager. And when she went on holidays and Mr. Bottleneck’s behaviour got worse, I complained to her stand-ins.

Then one day, I got called into the office of my PMs boss and asked about Mr. Bottleneck’s behaviour and actions to which I responded honestly and bluntly – unfortunately diplomacy is not my strong suit. I was a little alarmed to discover that Mr. Bottleneck had managed to piss of my PM’s boss (who is an ex RCMP officer and a man I would hope NEVER to piss off) and when my PM’s boss talked about Mr. Bottleneck he looked as if a vein in his neck was about to burst forth and take on a life of it’s own.

I left that meeting feeling guilty that I had been so blunt, feeling like I had brought matches to a witch hunt. But truthfully, if I brought the matches, Mr. Bottleneck had brought all the kindling and bonfire material. His actions, or inactions, or combination of both had lead to a level of lack of faith in his abilities that was hard to surmount.

Fortunately, or unfortunately – I’m honestly not sure which – he wasn’t sacked in October and his contract (which was to end at the end of December but was in the process of being extended until the end of February) was allowed to play itself out – with more absences and shoddy work and a growing sense of resentment on my part.

So I was very happy to hear that Mr. Bottleneck didn’t want to extend his contract into 2010 and that he would prefer to end it as soon as possible – not soon enough in my books, Mr. B.

So, instead of singing Christmas carols I’ve been humming “Ding! Dong! The Witch is Dead!” and see his departure as an early Christmas gift.

If you’d had more scruples Mr. B, you would have left months ago, saved me a lot of aggravation, since I was doing your job and mine for so long anyway, I would have preferred it – then I wouldn’t have bothered expending any energy expecting you to do anything and expending more energy fixing what you didn’t do correctly in the first place. I don’t like the phrase “Shit or get off the pot”, it’s a bit crass, but sometimes crass works. In my opinion, Mr. B, should have either quit when he first started hating the job (back in July, he told me as much) or just accept your responsibilities, “suck it up” (another phrase I don’t like) and just do the job you were hired to do. But instead he pissed about for six months wasting time and money in the process.

having said all that I would like to say Thank-you Mr. Bottleneck. Thank you for the opportunity you unwittingly gave me to shine as a go-to-gal that gets the job done quickly and correctly. Mr. Bottleneck, you will not be missed.

Ugly Side

I have a friend who once described me as "Delightfully Moody" - which he probably doesn't remember and which I probably won’t forget.

To me, it seemed like such a wonderful thing to call me – it stuck me as a very accepting description – it was like saying to me – “Warts and all, I accept you: when you’re cross, when you’re crazy, when you’re fun, when you’re flamboyant, when you’re happy and even when you’re a hag – I still think you’re wonderful.”

I often think about how he described me that way and, in my darker times, I which he hadn’t had to. It reminds me of Blue October’s Song “Ugly Side” – the chorus of which goes “I only want you to see my favourite part of me and not my ugly side”.

I know I blog, seeming at nausea, about my grumpy nature and my oft-times moody disposition - almost monthly, it seems – but this blog isn’t about my moody blues as much as it is about my lack of acceptance of my own Ugly Side.

I woke up this morning feeling out of sorts and just wanting to have a good cry. C was over so I was trying not to be all dark and moody because, I don’t really like showing my ugly side (if I can help it) – that being the rub – I find it rather hard not to show it. So, though I tried not to – the trigger question was asked: “Are you ok?” and the water-works commenced. The really annoying thing is I don’t completely know why I’m a complete emotional basket case today.

There are a couple of things bugging me. Things I’ve failed to follow through on that make me feel like a failure today – and I guess that’s the problem, instead of forgiving myself for my shortcomings today – I label myself a failure and spend the rest of the day trying to avoid thinking about how much I’ve disappointed myself and how annoyed I am with myself for being so disappointed with me.

Ok, I’m writing this and I AM finding it hard to follow. But I think that’s the point.

If there were two people involved, it would be easier to reconcile. If a friend annoys me or disappoints me I either forgive them or I tell them how I feel and we talk it out and move on. I can’t do that with myself. I can’t talk it out with myself and I rarely forgive my own bad behaviour. I dwell on it and mentally beat myself up over it.

Why is it I am more forgiving of my friends than I am of myself? Why do I hold myself to some perceived “higher standard”? Obviously it doesn’t provide me any benefit. If I follow the motto “Do unto others…” why can’t I extend it to myself. If don’t accept other people belittling me and putting me down, why do I do it to myself?

The problem is I have certain self-rules cemented in my brain:
1. If I skip workouts for no good reason, I am a failure at fitness.
2. If I eat junk at any point in time for any reason, I am a failure at health.
3. If I have breakdowns or blowups in front of others, I am a failure at emotional heath.

Though I know these rules to be harsh and unreasonable, I still subscribe to them and may the universe have mercy when I break them, because I won’t have any. I have them because I want to be a better person; I want to be fitter, healthier and less “Delightfully Moody” and I don’t know a better way to do it than to establish rules and try not to break them.

Again, another blog I have no profound answers to.

I know the trite answer is; be more forgiving of myself, cut myself some slack. But I find trite answers are rarely helpful.

Ultimately, I know I have to rewrite my rules and find a better way to lessen my Ugly Side. Unfortunately, I’m just not sure quite how.

Thank You Idiot-Head

About five years ago I dated a guy who, once I kicked him to the curb, became un-lovingly known as Idiot-Head. The name was, in part, due to the fact that he shared the same first name as someone I rather fancied at the time but for the most part was due to the fact that, as unflattering (and possibly un-nice) as the name is, it is rather apt.

When I first met him, I thought he was interesting, amusing and different. We started dating and about a month or two into the relationship I began to see some character flaws, which I chose to overlook (as one often does during the first blush of a relationship).

He claimed to hate my mattress and the size of my bed and wouldn’t spend the night (suggested I buy a new queen-sized bed so that he could be more comfortable). He had champagne tastes and a beer budget but still bought the champagne (as it were). Once, feeling sorry for him, and overly generous (or foolish, if you will), I lent him money (half of which I gave up harassing him for about 3 years after lending it to him and well after I had kicked him to the curb).

At the time we were dating, I had recently lost about 30 pounds and was rather proud of my slimmer self and the hard work I had put into getting it. He, being a self-professed personal trainer (I say self-professed because he had no real clients and wasn’t making money being a personal trainer, so I have to call a spade a spade and classify him as a wanna-be), began taking credit for my weight loss and touting me as a triathlete (again, since I don’t make my living doing triathlons I am NOT a triathlete).

I once showed him a picture of me when I was at my heaviest and his response was “If I had known you then I never would have dated you”. Ah, yes, his true colours were starting to come to light.

He then began to make suggestions of what I could change about my life and/or my personality that would make me a better person.

He implied – well actually he out-and-out told me - that I was a flawed individual and that a long-term committed relationship with anyone wouldn’t likely be able to happen for me in my current state of being. I would likely be alone for the rest of my life unless I corrected my flaws.

I let him convince me this was true; I spent money trying to lose more weight, become a happier individual, become a better person, become the un-flawed human that someone could love and all the time being grateful for his attentions (such as they were).

At some point, I don’t know exactly when, I began to him more clearly. I began to find his constant quoting of other people’s empty platitudes tiresome and made me begin to think he had no real ideas of his own. I found it harder and harder to accept and justify his harsh judgement and contempt he had for others. He seemed to only be content when he was tearing other people down.

He would constantly talk about his “Executive Fitness Package” and how it was going to revolutionize the world of personal training and he’d make millions and then train other trainers in his technique and retire a wealthy individual; but made no real effort to make it come true (and given his price-point on his “Package” I could think of no one in their right mind who would pay for it). He was a dreamer with no drive; a delusional visionary.

He showed his true colours when I moved apartments; asking for his help and the help of two other male friends of mine. He showed up late, did as little as humanly possible and before we were finished announced that he had to go home and shower because he was too tired and dirty to do any more work. I was so embarrassed my other friends G and M had been sweating up a storm (not a pretty picture) and doing the lion’s share of the work and Idiot-Head had the audacity to claim fatigue!

The veil had lifted and I saw Idiot Head as the vapid walking facade of a human being that I had allowed to convince me that I should be thankful that he was in my life. Now I just needed the strength to rid myself of him.

After a particularly fun and productive weekend with my sister, I decided enough was enough, he wasn’t helpful, supportive, or particularly useful so I ended things with him.

Though this may seem like a rage against Idiot-Head – it’s not meant to be. I am just describing the man, as I see him. Someone has recently told me that Idiot-Head is more deserving of my pity than my contempt; and I do pity him.

I am sorry Idiot-Head that you have never been able to make a living doing what you feel your passion is. I am sorry that, as you near fifty, you are still searching for some permanency in your life. I am sorry, too, that your circle of “friends” contains nothing more than casual acquaintances and business contacts. I'm sorry that you feel the need to tear other people down, (are you so insecure in your own life that you need to find fault in others?).

Finally, I would like to thank you, Idiot-Head, for making me realize several things about my self and my life:

I have many friends of varying levels of intimacy; some of which I need to honour more than I currently do by making sure they know I value them.

I recognise the value of having BOTH Dreams AND the Aspirations to attempt to make the dreams reality.

I have flaws, as everyone does, but I am NOT unlovable and I am actively working towards being a happier & healthier me, FOR ME and not for anyone else.

Most of all, I realize that I would rather be Alone and risk the pain and fear of Absolute Loneliness than waste one minute of my life in a relationship with someone who would actively tear me down and disguise it as caring.

So, thank-you Idiot-Head, I have learned a lot and I am a stronger and better person for having met you.

I Will Remember

I will remember, in my own way
I will take some time today
I will think of those who have gone
The nameless who sacrificed so we could go on.

I will pause to give thanks in my own quite way
I will think of those now fighting so far away.
I will think of the fallen and what they have given
For the country they loved and the peace that we live in.

I have been bless with not knowing the horrors of war
I live in peace and have strangers to thank for
All they have done and continue to do
That's why I take time today to remember you.

Imbalance

There is something inherently beautiful about symmetry. Research has proven that people find symmetrical faces more attractive than non-symmetrical ones.

The beauty of symmetry is probably why I find reflections pretty; the nature of the ground and above mirrored in the water below.


Quite possibly, by extension, balance also contains an inherent beauty. Nature, for the most part, attempts to create equilibrium; balance.

Balance is something that is actively sought by people too; we want out check books to balance, we want a work-life balance, we need a balanced diet, we want gender equality, a balance between good and evil… Ultimately, we want things to be fair – balanced.

Personally, I find great comfort in balance. It sets a rhythm, sets a pace, and keeps things running smoothly; so it’s when things get out of balance that I get unhappy.

Imbalance in my life can take many forms and have many repercussions.

One of my most common imbalances is the food - exercise imbalance – too much food and not enough exercise, my weight goes up and my mood goes down. This is one imbalance I have been actively working to re-establish. For the past 3 weeks I have been doing a detox in an effort to loose some weight, regain some energy and ultimately, increase the frequency and intensity of my exercise regimen.

My weight is down a bit, clothes are fitting better and balance is slowly being restored. I am working at establishing this balance and so far, I seem to be winning the battle.

One other balance battle that I struggle with quite frequently is one that is harder to solve because I'm not sure it's all in my power to re-balance. It is the balance between my wanting to spend time with my friends and the amount of time they have available to spend with me.

Currently, I have a fair amount of free time; time that I would like to spend with my closest friends, unfortunately, they aren't as available. So I struggle with my desire and disappointment.

I honestly don't know what the solution is. Often, when I blog, I either have already worked out the answer to what ever dilemma I am blogging about or, in the act of blogging, some form of inspiration presents itself and I can build on it. But I have found no such enlightenment today.

I know a partial solution would be to become busier myself, but then I run the risk of being busy when they are free and thereby still preventing my being able to spend time with them.

Maybe I need somehow decrease my desire to spend time with my friends, lessen the longing to spend time with my favourite people. But in a way, that doesn't seem fair either.

Maybe I need a hobby I can fall back on. I can try to make plans with my friends and when they are busy and not able to accommodate me, I could turn to my hobby to help fill the void.

Maybe I need to ask more often - "Can we hang out?"

I don't know what the answer is, but I guess I will keep searching for the balance I really need to find.

"Life is like riding a bicycle. To keep your balance you must keep moving." Albert Einstein

Labyrinthine Lessons

I’m having a problem shaking the memory of a scene from a movie that I watched several months ago now.

It’s not that is was a vivid scene, and it certainly isn’t a profound movie – quite honestly, I’m embarrassed to admit I watched it at all – but since the scene keeps bugging me, I thought I ought to blog about it in an attempt to rid myself of it’s reoccurrence in my memory.

I know the replaying of the scene is triggered by a variety of things; seeing a homeless person pushing a full-to-overflowing shopping cart (all their worldly possessions, no doubt) or seeing my backpack clad self reflected in an office window as I walked home from work one day; even the act of writing up my very first, Last Will recently; but whatever the reason I’ve been thinking a lot about the amount of stuff I have amassed during my ‘X’ number of years on the planet.

I have a lot of stuff. Too much stuff really. Every so often I think I ought to divest myself of some of my less-significant possessions. A thought that is often followed by a large sense of dread and feeling overwhelmed. An unpleasant undertaking that; if I can quote my friend C’s reaction when faced with unpleasant tasks he needs to tackle: “... is akin to being flayed alive as far as I'm concerned. gAck!, I'd rather smell my own intestines burning before having to do that... but I expound in possibly a little too much detail” Graphic but fitting, C.

Ironically, it was in one of these desperate and somewhat futile attempts to divest myself of some clutter that I re-watched “Labyrinth” for the first time in probably 15 years. About six months ago I decided it was time to divest myself of my VCR tapes but before jettisoning them, I decided to go through them and digitize what I’d like to keep. The majority of the tapes were what could be referred to as mixed tapes, random collections of shows and music videos and various other videographic-flotsam. But in amongst the myriad of mixed tapes were a few movies that I liked when I was younger, one of which was “Labyrinth”.

“Labyrinth”, for those of you not familiar with it, is a coming of age movie in which a teenage girl named Sarah has to come to terms with the passing of her childhood and divest herself of some of childhood ways.

The scariest part (other than seeing David Bowie in cotton leggings) was the part of the movie with the Junk Lady. After being drugged, Sarah falls into what appears to be her room at home, at which point she starts re-connecting with her toys and stuffed animals, gathering them up in her arms at which point the helpful Junk Lady (a rather old woman hunched over and laden with all matter of junk piled on her back) comes a long and starts piling all Sarah’s old toys onto her back, telling her how wonderful all her things are and how much she needs them; weighing her down with all her childhood clutter. Until Sarah realizes she doesn’t need all this junk and sheds herself of the burden.

Now, I’m not holding on to my childhood – my arms far too short to reach back that far – but I do tend to keep things for “sentimental reasons” and because “someday they might come in handy” or better yet “someday they might be a collectors item.” I can’t tell you how many things I have kept around my small apartment that fall into this last category.

The problem is, my place is cluttered and it’s beginning to weigh me down. It’s becoming mentally overwhelming. I need to divest myself of some of these things, to rid myself of the “under-useful” and jettison the “potential collectibles” that I just no longer want.

I need to realise how much of this is just junk; just stuff that I have kept over the years that no longer hold any real significance; just dust collectors that need to be purged from the premises.

So this weekend I plan on starting the purge – it will be a long and painful process, I know, but one that needs to be undertaken and one that is a long time overdue.

I will have to be strong and ruthless and see these things for what they really are – just junk, weighing me down, burdening me – slowly turning me into a Junk Lady.

Cartwheels in the Grass

Every so often I have an almost uncontrollable urge to do cartwheels in a grassy field.

Odd, really, I know.

It is just that sometimes I am so shockingly happy that I am stuck, while passing a grassy field, with the odd urge to do cartwheels though it.

The tragic thing is I'm not sure which I find more odd; the urge to do cartwheels or the underlying happiness that drives the desire.

This morning, on my way to work, no less, I was struck with the cartwheel contagion. I resisted the urge – being right downtown and dressed in my long leather coat and dress clothes I was afraid I’d be picked up by a passing police cruiser and escorted to the nearest mental institution after being mistaken for an escapee.

I guess the feeling was a kin to the day I resisted the urge to do my Happy Dance on the way home from work. But then, it was Spring, the long cold hibernation of body and spirit was at an end.

Now, nearing the end of October, I face the next 5 months with a sense of dread and resignation – Winter is just around the corner and the days of darkness are rapidly approaching. I already walk to work in the morning in the dark and soon, it will be dark by the time my work day ends and I shall travel home in the dark then too.

But today, in the dark, I wanted to do cartwheels.

I think the cartwheel compulsion comes from the desire for weightlessness; it is a controlled fall in which you cause yourself, for one brief moment in time, to be suspended upside down in mid air. It could also be a desire to recapture the whim and whimsy of childhood; when silly was fun and inhibitions were at a low ebb.

I mentioned my cartwheel compulsion to a couple of people – first they questioned the cartwheel compulsion and then they, after I explained I want to do cartwheels when I’m happy – they questioned my happiness.

Why are you so happy?

I don't know, was my response. I just am.

Maybe sometimes you shouldn't question things, shouldn't try to find a reason and just embrace the mystery. Rather than analyze it to find a cause, you should just accept it.

Sometimes, without warning and without reason, I just want to do cartwheels in the grass.

Another Season Passed

Last Sunday (October 11th) marked the end of yet another "race season"; quotes are important here because I use the term rather loosely, since my race season only consisted of three races spread out over about four months.

The final race in my season was the Royal Victoria Marathon a race I have done several times before and like my other big race this year - a race I was rather under prepared for. I had the best of intentions - but unlike some people who get awarded Peace Prizes for having the best of intentions - I will win no prizes for my intentions and my actual effort fell short of my goal of expert training - quite possibly proving why people should not be awarded prizes for their intentions but rather the summation of their actions (but enough wailing and gnashing of teeth over Peace Prizes and how they are awarded).

Having disappointed myself with my less than stellar effort to train for my first main race in July, I thought I might have redeemed myself by re-doubling my efforts for my last main race - eat better, exercise properly, don't miss workouts, train smart. Alas, ultimately, I accomplished none of these goals. So race day found me unnaturally resigned to my fate of a lack-lustre performance knowing that the extra ten pounds I was carrying around was going to translate into a slower time and the sore muscles I were feeling five kilometres into the race would only get worse as the race progressed.

On the bright side, the day could not have been better for the race. Sunshine (once the sun came up), no wind and about 6 degrees at the start and 12 degrees at the finish - perfect weather! The route itself is spectacular - winding its way though Victoria, along the waterfront with the Olympic Mountains off in the hazy distance - though the upscale parts of town before turning back on itself to lead the runners back to where they began in the heart of Victoria, nestled between the inner harbour and the Legislature.

It's a shame that I expend so much willpower and brain power to running that I don't have an opportunity to enjoy my surroundings (I'm sure there is a life-lesson in there somewhere).

Amazingly, as I stood at the start with about 2000 other lucky individuals, I wasn't very nervous. Unlike last year, when I secretly told myslef I was running for my Mum beacuse she couldn't run at all that year due to a recent surgery to have a pace maker implanted. This year, I was just here to run, to do as well as I could do given all the things I felt were against me this year (mostly self-induced). I was just out for a very long run with a lot of other people.

The gun went off and the racers surged and stopped, surged and stopped as they sorted themselves out, crossed the start line and found enough space to run properly.

"How do you mentally prepare to run 42 kilometres?" my friend M had asked me the day before the race. "I try not to think about it," was my response. And I do try not to think about it; I try not to think about the long four (if I’m lucky) hours in front of me, the number of steps I have to take, the number of volunteers I encounter, the number of spectators I pass (which included my friend P about 4 times), the signs announcing each passing kilometre, but most of all I try not to think about all the aches and pains I feel as the race progresses.

Unfortunately, this last item for ignorance is not, despite my best intentions, able to be ignored: left shin between k-one and k-5 (as expected, it fades); the right hip - which starts about k-4 and continues for the remainder of the race; left knee and lower back which began somewhere near the turn-around and steadily worsened as the distance to finish diminished.

Despite my best efforts, which included ample doses of Ibuprofen, the knee, hip and back all conspired to slow me down and while I was 1:56 at the half and was on track to break four hours (my secret goal) as the distance to finished, so did my speed.

And then there was that damn pink bunny!

No, I was not hallucinating due to exhaustion and ibuprofen overdose, most of the longer distance races I have partaken in recently have participants called “pace bunnies”. The job of the pace bunny (besides crushing the hopes and dreams of the runners they pass in the later kilometres of the race) is to run the entire race, at a constant pace, running for ten minutes and walking for one with the aim of finishing the race at a specific time – i.e. four hours. To distinguish them from the rest of the mere mortals (and race wreckage) on the race route they wear tall pink bunny ears with their race target time written on them for all to see.

And see him I did. The route itself is more or less an out-and-back with a loop through downtown to begin with before heading out along the “sea wall” on Dallas Road, wiggling its way into Oak Bay and Uplands before doubling back on itself and finishing outside the Legislature Buildings next to Victoria’s inner harbour. It was just after the turn-around that I first saw the evil four hour pace bunny.

As a rule, I don’t look at my watch as I run, I don’t want to know. Knowing leads to extrapolating, extrapolating leads to one of two things, having a time I’m happy with, or (more likely) having a time I’m not happy with. One year, I kept track of my time and ended up extrapolating myself into what I think must have been a panic attack (or a giant ego attack) and drop out of the race with less than ten kilometres left.

So seeing the pace bunny about five minutes behind me at the turnaround point (about 23.5k into the race) made me realize that I was on pace to have a sub four hour marathon, provided I could keep the bunny behind me. So, when I saw him for the second time, with about 6 kilometres left in the race I was less than impressed.

Glancing right, I saw the ears and swore – he laughed. “Did I say that out loud?” I wheezed. “Yup,” he chirped. I swore again and continued to slog along; trying to keep pace with the springing spry and completely annoying pace bunny from hell.

My weakened but still hopeful mind reasoned that since he was walking and running, if I could keep pace almost keep pace with him as he bounced along, I could catch up when he stopped to walk and then I might be able to complete the race in less than four hours. My feeble brain attempted to work out, based on the number of kilometres left and the time it takes to run each kilometre, just how many times he’d be walking for and just how far away I reckoned I could let him get. What my foolish and exhaustion addled brain failed to realize was that it wasn’t in charge. Math would not be of any use to me, my body was ruled by the Triad of Pain (knee, hip and lower back) and they weren’t interested in the math.

Soon after the blasted bunny passed me, he stopped and did his walk, at which point I passed him, only to have him bound past a couple of minutes later. Brain told legs to stay with him; legs complied at first, then decided it was too much work. I watched as the blasted bunny complete with large white pompon tail (like the ears were not enough taunting) bounced off towards the finish line leaving the crushed souls of slower runners in his wake.

As the pink ears bobbed away in front of me getting smaller and smaller as they until they disappeared, so did my faint hope of a sub four hour marathon, but why did it matter. Why, after I had reasoned thought out my training that a sub four hour marathon was not attainable this year did it matter that the blasted bunny had been there at all? Because, if it wasn’t for the bunny, my brain wouldn’t have done the math and my spirit wouldn’t had had hope - Hope that was squashed by a blasted bunny. So I spent the last five kilometres cursing pink bunnies and forcing legs that didn’t want to run anymore to keep going.

I finished the race, 4:02:40. A very respectable time. A time, all things considered, I am quite happy with. Was it my best time ever? No, not at all; but it was the best that my body could do and even though the basted bunny squashed my spirit as he bounded past, I kept going, kept telling my legs to run, kept telling myself that I was going to finish. If I just kept pushing myself, I’d get there, in my best (albeit only) time this year.

I just had to keep running. And so I did.

Damage Done

I think the damage is already done. I think it's probably too late, the die has been cast and there is little (or nothing) I can do to change it.

Recently I spent a fun Saturday afternoon with a friend of mine, wandering around in a trendy part of town browsing through an assortment of knick-knack shops and junk shops. In one of these shops we came across a display of humourous t-shirts and S and I began reading shirt slogans out to each other. One of the shirts depicted a daily weather forecast, three symbols and descriptions under each symbol. The first said something about waking up grumpy, the second was something like “annoyed with the risk of angry outbursts” and the third was something like “Chance of more of the same tomorrow”. I chuckled and said I liked it S agreed and said something along the lines of; it suited me.

That’s when it hit me – that IS how people think of me – as a grouchy and angry person. That’s what I will be remembered for – heck, that’s what I AM remembered for.

That fact, or possibly more accurately - that perceived reality, leaves me feeling rather depressed. Depressed because it is NOT the way I want to be remembered.

I don’t want to be remembered that way because I don’t think it’s accurate, I don’t think it is the real me.

I will concede that I DO wear my heart on my sleeve and as a result it is always clear how I feel about things. Maybe that’s a bad thing, I don’t know.

I will also admit that I have displayed my annoyance and frustration in public and I agree that a mature (theoretically) adult should not throw temper tantrums like an over-tired ten-year-old child but there you are, sometimes emotions get the better of me. The problem is, though my emotions are fleeting the impressions they leave are not.

When I was a teenager, I came across a bumper sticker (or some such thing) that had the following slogan on it: “When I do right, no one remembers; when I do wrong, no one forgets.” The fact that I liked it I chalked up to the fact that I was a typical angst-ridden teenager who felt like no one understood her.

Unfortunately, I am now at an ever-increasing distance from being a teenager and yet I still can’t help thinking there is a grain of truth to the saying.

People remember my temper and not my tenderness.

I have cried bucket-loads of tears upon hearing of the death of a good friend’s pet cat.

I have driven a friend to another city an hour away because she needed me to.

I have worried about good friends when they have been going through hard times in their marriages.

I have sat up all night with a friend who needed a shoulder to cry on and who just really didn’t want to be alone that night. We sat up all night and talked and hugged and then went out for breakfast and got on with the things we needed to do.

I have (in my humble opini0n) a really big heart and a lot of love for my friends and yet I’m not remembered for being fiercely loyal – just for being fierce.

I’m like a hedgehog; I appear a bit prickly and if stressed I only show my prickly side. But really, I’m rather soft and, like a hedgehog, I will eagerly eat foods that are high in fat and sugar – though I don’t think that’s relevant.

I know that throwing temper tantrums at my age is not socially acceptable and I am working at curbing that. But I think, too, that I am too sensitive when it comes to jokes about my ferocity.

I am a no-nonsense person. I don’t suffer fools gladly and I have rather high standards, all qualities that, for the most part, serve me well and are, in my opinion, good qualities to have.

So maybe I don’t need others to forgive me my outbursts as much as I need to forgive myself. Maybe I should, as someone suggested, go buy the humourous t-shirt and wear it with pride. I can poke fun at myself; I know my own shortcomings and am better off for the knowledge.

Putting the Tech in Technical Clothing.

I wish I was an inventor.

Last week, when I was nearing the end of my agonizingly long long run (about Kilometre 26 of 36) I decided I wanted to create a new type of running vest. Well, more specifically, it is a new type of "Technical fabric" that I would create.

This fabric will not be a better wicking fabric, or a thinner material or more light weight and it won’t make me faster or make my long run easier. You see, I don’t want to make clothes that will make faster, strong, better runners – I want to make clothing that tells the world what I’m up to.

Rather than clothes that breathe, I want to make clothes that brag.

I want to create a vest that has a series of super tiny LED bulbs embedded in the fabric. These bulbs would be wired together and connected to a little programmable CPU, all of which would still need to be super light weight and breathable so as to not hinder my athletic performance.

This whole set up would have one very vital purpose: allow me to upload to the clothing a saying or a set of sayings that would be displayed on the front and back of the shirt.

I could upload slogans like “I may be slow but at least I’m running” or it could just flash “Good Morning!” as I run past people, thereby saving me the energy of having to exchange pleasantries with passing runners. Or maybe I could upload motivational saying that would be displayed backwards that I could read with the aid of a mirror (that I would then have to take with me, ok, maybe not).

There could be an additional feature of a GPS locator that I could upload your running route and it would keep a running tally (so to speak) of how far I’ve gone.

So when I look so knackered that passers-by think I might require medical intervention they could see on my shirt that I’d completed “x” number of kilometres of my “Y” length of run.

Or maybe I could have it send Twitter updates as I go; every half hour – “I am now passing spot ‘A’ and my heart rate is ‘n’” – (hey, I’ve read less interesting things on Twitter).

For the security conscious, maybe it could be made smart enough to register when I fall unconscious and then flash “SOS” followed by my emergency contact information. “If found unconscious please call…”. That in combination with Twitter might actually be useful.

Ok, I freely admit this invention would be almost solely to massage my aching ego as I run my super long runs, but in my defence, why shouldn’t the passing masses know just how hard I am working.

Or maybe this invention is just the ravings of an oxygen starved mind – but tell me, when you’ve reached kilometre 26 of 36, wouldn’t you want the world to know?

Damsel in Distress

I do not play the damsel in distress well.

It interferes with my desire to be a strong, independent, self-reliant woman.

Alas, every so often I am faced with a situation that reduces me to a hapless and helpless individual in need of rescuing; the most recent being only a couple of weekends ago.

The day started off innocently enough, C and I were camping and decided to go on a hike. Our campsite was near a river with a reasonably steep river valley walls (I might describe it as a small canyon; C might think I was being overly dramatic).

With our backpacks and bear bells we set off along the top of the wooded ridge parallelling the river; every so often, catching glimpses of the far side of the valley and it’s rather foreboding rocky face. Occasionally we would wander off the path and out to the edge of the cliff and survey the river below and the condition of the near face, you see, with me being rather water-philic (and C most likely keen for adventure), we really wanted to find a way down the slope and into the river valley.

Spotting only steep scree slopes and the occasional group of mountain goats we kept wandering along the top until we saw a spot that, from a distance and at an angle, looked like a viable candidate for getting us to the river’s edge. C sized it up and started discussing how we could easily get down to where only scree remained and then scree-ski our way down to the river bed. My brain kept repeating “seriously” with an increasing level of incredulity, but I deferred to C’s expertise/confidence and we headed off along the top to find the “treed area” that would, theoretically, lead us safely to the river’s edge.

Often, in life, theory and practice are two completely different things. How often have you said, “Theoretically, this should work” only to reflect after the fact with “I was good, in theory”. For me, this was one such moment.

We skidded down the slope through the ever-thinning trees, me swinging from tree to tree like some ground-bound monkey refusing to believe it’s ground-bound. Taking comfort in the stability of each branch, then tree, then shrub, then tuft of grass as we descended. In reverse proportion, my fear of tumbling butt over head (or worse still, sliding face first) into the river increased as my handholds decreased.

Then we ran out of handholds (or at least I ran out of handholds, since C never needed them in the first place) then my fear rose in a rather exponential fashion.

I was standing, well, crouching, on the side of a rather steep slope, facing nothing but about 25 feet of scree and a couple of rocky outcroppings between me and the rocky river below. Then, in true damsel in distress fashion, I began to panic and whimper in equal proportions as I slid my way down to the first rocky outcrop (only about 5 feet away).

Propped up on the outcrop I attempted to calm myself down as C suggested that I could just “scree-ski” (sliding sideways down the slope) my way down to the next rock outcrop – and my helpful brain began showing me short vignettes of me somersaulting my way down the slope until ending up in a heap in the cold river. Thanks brain, really helpful.

I would be reluctant to describe myself as paralysed by fear, I was, more accurately, temporarily immobilized by a strong reluctance to injure myself. The Damsel was demobilized. C, obviously realizing that I was unwilling to skid uncontrollably to my death in the river and knowing that he couldn’t, in good conscience, leave me behind knew that his only course of action was to rescue his damsel in distress. (Honestly C, I do try to be brave, and calm, and level-headed, honestly, I do).

Then C said to me the three most incredible, situation altering, awe-inspiring, heart fluttering words a woman in my situation could ever hope to hear: “I.have.rope.”

Feeling calmer and able to focus on something other than my brain's fatalistic films, I took out my camera and took a few pictures, after all, it was very pretty. C dug though is pack and then dug though the emergency kit he was packing along (just in case - he assured me it wasn't just because I was along for the hike) and unearthed a small bundle of rather thin rope. C reassured me of its tensile strength after I made some disparaging remark about its size. After all, it didn't really need to hold my weight as much as it needed to offer something for me to hold on to so I could control my descent as I skidded my way down.

Hooking and unhooking the rope over each of the rock outcrops, C managed to get me ("safely" in my mind, "calmly", I expect in C's) down in stages to the river's edge.

Finding ourselves at the edge of the river with no discernible bank and needing to find an alternate way up and thinking that the other side of the river held more promise, we took off our shoes and socks and waded into the river. Refreshing turned into freezing as I waded, well rather hobbled, my way along the rocky river bottom. We stopped mid-river on a large dry patch (a rocky sand bar, if you will) to let our feet dry and to take a break.

I was mentally kicking myself for getting so panicked – I may think I have the soul of an adventurer, but I have the bravery of a skittish housecat – a rather depressing dichotomy. I am grateful the C was there, that he wholeheartedly embraces the phrase “always be prepared”, that he had rope, and that he was understanding and patient with me. I am lucky in so many ways to have him in my life.


With our feet sufficiently thawed and dry we put our shoes and socks back on and surveyed our options. Realizing the shortcomings of his hiking companion, C and I ruled out scrabbling back up the way we came down; I was also reluctant to head along the river’s edge back the way we had come knowing that there was no better way down meant, to me, there was no better way up either; and the other side of the river was too much of an unknown for me to want to venture forth in that direction.

Further down river, on the same side of the river as we had been hiking, just at a bend in the river, there seemed to be trees that came right down to the edge of the water. I felt it offered the best chance of a save and “easy” way out of the river valley (at the very least, there would be things to hang on to as be climbed up.

We headed off in that direction along the rocky "sand bar"; me stopping to take a picture of a very pretty piece of slate then wandering along looking at pretty rocks and picking up the occasional stone to take home with me; C stopping to put the pretty piece of slate into his backpack and then walking along to catch up to me.

After wading once more though the river to the river’s edge we clambered along the rocks to see what was just beyond the bend in the river and to find the best place to begin out ascent.

We snapped a few photos and then began out climb, me complaining mildly about my tight calf muscles, C carrying a 30lbs pack (16lbs of which was the piece of slate that is now adorning my living room) and making no complaints. When I grow up, I want to be just like C.

Despite it all, I quite enjoyed the hike (I hope C did too; despite the damsel in distress he got saddled with).

I hope in the future that the damsel will not return, but if she does, I hope that I am lucky enough to have a hero like C able and willing to come to the rescue.

This experience served to reinforce three things that I strive to attain –

Bravery

Strength

And a sturdy length of rope

The Day Begins

"You have to get up!"

I opened my eyes; daylight – barely. I looked at my watch; 6:30 AM – barely.

“Sleep” I responded, snuggling deeper into the sleeping bag.

“You have to get up, we have to go!” my bladder insisted.

As if in league with my bladder, a group of squirrels decided, just then, to have an argument, which gave way to a skirmish and the chittering turned into chittering and skittering as squirrels rampaged past the side of the tent.

“Now, please!” My bladder would not be ignored.

“Fine,” I sighed and unburrowed myself from the sleeping bag, added one or two warm layers, put on my toque and adeptly exited the tent.

I wandered down the dirt lane towards the outhouse and marvelled, between yawns, at how quiet it was (aside from the rampaging squirrels whose battle had deescalated into little more than name calling from opposing tree branches) there was very little noise, little more than the occasional whoosh of the wind though the trees (which I could always hear before I felt it). No traffic, no people – the absence of both I would expect (and welcome) when camping in the near-middle-of-nowhere (especially this early in the morning) – but there were no birds, no dawn chorus; just silence and the scrunch of my sandals on the gravel and the intermittent squabbling Sciuridae.

Once I had appeased my bladder, I returned to the campsite planning to re-cocoon myself and await a more humane hour at which to begin my day but as I rounded the front of the tent, I saw movement in the forest and I froze.

Less than 30 metres away stood a group of deer. (Sorry, were you expecting a bear?) There were five of them – two does and three fawns. One doe and one of the fawns were moving slowly away from the our campsite wandering slowly though the tall thin pine trees, while the other doe and the remaining two fawns seemed more content to stay.

I stood rooted to the spot – the silent observer – then slowly began to unzip my jacket pocket to get out my camera.

The observer became the observed. The remaining doe and one of her fawns seemed to fix me with their gaze. They seemed rather un-phased by my presence though the fawn continued to stare at me. The second fawn, either not seeing me or not caring about me proceeded to lie down on the mossy forest floor.

I slowly moved my camera up to my line of sight and began to take a few pictures; too far away, the light is too low; I thought and I tried to slowly and silently move towards them.

Getting a little closer I fixed my camera lens on them again – still I couldn’t capture the moment in an image. Silently cursing the shortcomings of my camera, I realized that I was missing the experience by trying to capture it in a digital image.
So I stopped. I stood. I watched.

The sun was forcing thin shafts of light down between the trees and the air seemed to sparkle with a golden morning haze.

The deer seemed to go about their regular routine, one of the foals got startled and ran a little way away, the doe began to slowly follow and the second foal (sill resting on the ground) unfolded itself, stood and trotted off after its mother. All three began to move away and I was left to watch as they receded into the forest.

As if awakening from a trance, I realised I was cold. I looked at my watch; 7:30 AM – almost. Knowing there was no point in trying to go back to sleep; I gathered some dry twigs for fire starter and turning my back on the forest began making my way back to the campsite.

It was time to start a fire, make some tea and begin my day.

Banning the BAND

When I’m at work, I don’t want to be; when I’m at home I don’t want to do the tasks I need to get done. When it’s nice outside and I should go out and enjoy the weather, I can’t be bothered.

I really wonder how long I can go though life being this apathetic about things. Don’t get me wrong, my life isn’t one big yawn-fest; actually this past week was quite to opposite. But that week is in the past and the near-future seems to be filled with little more than what feels like a never-ending “To Do” list.

I know I’m teetering on the brink, I know this, because I’ve been here before; the problem is: can I change direction before I drop over the edge (or have I already slipped past the brink) and right into the arms of my old nemesis Depression.

Depression and I have had an on-again off-again rivalry that goes back years. I’m sure this isn’t the first blog I’ve done about Depression and his evil ways.

Like the four horsemen of the apocalypse; Depression doesn’t travel alone, he’s generally accompanied by his companions; Boredom, Apathy and Neglect (BAND for short). And like the four horsemen, BAND is a harbinger of bad times (I stop short of calling them apocalyptic, because even to me, that seems overly dramatic). BAND at its least potent, is a dampener of life and fun; at its worse, it has a paralytic effect that is hard to shake and at its MOST extreme (a level I shall NEVER allow it to reach with me) BAND is the bringer of death.

BAND and I are at the early stages; Apathy and Neglect are hanging about (as inseparable as conjoined twins) and Boredom seems to come and go like teenage acne. I’m getting behind in my bill payments and it has been ages since I gave the apartment a good cleaning. I know that aversion to unpleasant tasks is commonplace – even the happiest of persons will most likely spend some time avoiding tasks they’d rather not tackle. Though, after some amount of procrastination, most people get the tasks done – I sometimes do not.

Rather than do the unpleasant tasks, I allow myself to get seduced by Apathy and Neglect’s other buddy – Pacifying Distraction. PD helps the other two out by preoccupying the unsuspecting victim whilst Apathy and Neglect weave their web of seduction. Now PD isn’t always a bad guy – just ask any new mother with a crying kid – shiny object and soothers are more valuable than gold, at times. The key things to point out are: 1. “at times” is the operative phrase and; 2. I am not a wailing infant (though there might be similarities in my behaviour to that of a spoilt two-year-old) I am an adult and I must admit I am also quite addicted to my PD.

My PD is TV.

Now I hear you saying, TV isn’t a true addiction and I’ll admit it’s not as bad as some addictions; I don’t smoke, or drink, or do drugs – thank goodness; but still, I spend an inordinate amount of my “free-time” watching TV and most of this free time could be better spent doing, well, practically anything else! Instead of doing things I ought to be doing, I watch TV and, of late, instead of doing things that I’d like to do, that I used to enjoy doing, I watch TV – sounds like an addiction to me.

Thankfully I won’t wake up with a hangover the next day, or go though a tough physical withdrawal (should I decide to give it up) but still, since I do it at the exclusion of most other activities, it is becoming rather destructive.

The hard part is it’s so easy to do. All I have to do is turn the TV on and I become a gormless blob on the couch for the next X-number of hours. I have plenty of things to watch (mostly British mystery shows at the moment, in case you wondered) and have even spent nice sunny afternoons lolling about on the couch wasting the wonderful weather whilst watching some show or other.

Mindlessly I spend hour after hour sitting about watching TV, never thinking I ought to be doing anything else. Then, the next day or even later that same night, as I tumble into bed, I berate myself for wasting so much time watching TV, just to come back the next day and do the same thing!

Ah, PD, you’re doing your job quite nicely; Apathy and Neglect are so proud of you.

I know the solution to all of this; ridding myself of PD and the BAND. It’s the same solution that I have tried to establish before – Will Power and the Forces of Good – a little over done? - ok, just willpower then.

If I don’t want BAND to take hold, I have to give PD the ol’ heave-ho, or at the very least make him less front-and-centre in my life.

Easily said – I need to turn off the TV and do more, or maybe just to start with, turn off the TV and allow myself to do nothing. Or better still, read, or blog, or work on one of the myriad of stories I have swirling around in the creative half-conscious part of my brain. Do fun stuff! Then work in some of the "to dos" as less palatable (but necessary) as they might be.

I also need to get out of my apartment more (oh, this is beginning to sound very familiar). Find a pastime that forces me to go out and interact with real people instead of passively watching the lives of fictional people on the TV.

I know it starts with willpower and forgiveness and understanding, and maybe a smaller and slightly less daunting “To Do list”.

TO DO:
1. Turn off TV
2. Leave TV off
3. Rediscover the real world
4. Tell BAND where to go
5. Get on with things

Fear and Consequences

I've been thinking a lot about fear lately; partly due to the fact that I decided to jump out of a plane and partly because I went camping.

I am not afraid to camp, I actually quite enjoy it – being out in nature, the peacefulness, chopping wood – but there is one hitch; I am afraid of the dark, or more specifically, things that go bump in the night, or rather, when it comes to camping - things that go "grrrrr" in the night.

You see, I’m rather afraid I’ll be eaten by bears if I leave my tent in the middle of the night.

Now this wouldn’t be a problem if I didn’t wake up in the middle of the night and have to answer the call of nature (and potentially face the wrath of nature). But unfortunately, on the two nights we were camping, I awoke in the wee small hours and needed to, um, well, take a wee.

So I would lie awake for awhile; listening for bears and trying to conversely; summon up the courage to go out into the dark and convince myself that if I could just go back to sleep for a couple of hours it would be daylight and safe to go out. Alas, after twenty or so minutes of debate, my bladder was wide awake and demanding satisfaction; so grabbing my jacket and my flashlight I left the safety of the tent for the unknown darkness of the trees adjacent to our campsite.

I furtively looked around and listened, seeing nothing and hearing only the snoring of my tent mate (sorry C, but the truth must be told) I found a suitable spot and turned out my flashlight and did what needed to be done (I will spare you the details – I know, you can thank me later for my prudence).

Mission accomplished I quick-stepped it back to the “safety” of the tent and scrambled under the covers and, once my pulse stopped racing and I calmed down sufficiently, I went back to sleep (about an hour after first waking with the need to pee).

I’m annoyed by this rather irrational fear of the dark. There were no warnings of bears in the area, the chances of me coming face to face (or cheek to cheek) with a bear were remote and yet I wasted an hour of contented sleep fretting about the imagined marauding wildlife.

C congratulated me for overcoming my fear, but I didn’t overcome it – I just found that my need to pee outweighed my need to stay safe in the tent (little more than an imagined safety, really, if a bear really wanted to munch on me a thin tent and a bit of bedding really wasn’t going to deter it much).

But maybe that’s the point; you overcome fear by realizing that the consequences of giving in to fear are far graver than just facing the fear (and trust me, with a full bladder, the consequences would have been rather dire).

When I faced my fear of falling from great heights to my death by committing to a tandem jump with my friend T, I realized at some stage that the consequences of giving in to my irrational fear of dying during the jump would have been that both C and T would have wasted their time coming out to the drop zone and though I could get my money back, I had driven out to the airport twice (over an hour each way) and gasoline is not cheap these days. Also, and here I have to give a nod to my ol’ buddy Ego – to back out (after telling everyone I was going to do it) would have been embarrassing and hard to justify so since I had committed.

I just realized this approach of pros and cons of fear and consequences is not just related to fear and consequences but can also be applied to all aspects of my behaviour – do the pros of sticking to the status quo outweigh the cons of sticking to it.

Interesting – who knew so much would come out of waking in the wee small hours in need of a wee.

The 10,000ft. View

Last night I tossed myself out of a plane.

Well, not so much tossed, as perched myself out on a tiny platform above the wheel and under the wing of the plane and waited as my Tandem Jump Master (my friend T) thrust us both forward, in the direction of the tail end of the plane, and out into midair at 10,000 feet - but tossed seems somewhat more succinct.

Over two and a half hours prior to tossing myself out of the plane (2.5hr PPT – Pre-Plane Toss), C and I were travelling up the same road I had ventured up on Sunday morning. Thankfully C was driving, so all traffic laws were adhered to and I was able to quietly, or not so quietly get all twitchy in the passenger seat.

Arriving early, having made better time than I expected in the rush-hour traffic, I was surprised to see a crowd of people waiting to go up; having expected to find a near-deserted airstrip, I said hi to the teenage-pilot and did my name dropping – “I’m T’s friend” – ‘nuff said.

C and I waited around and eavesdropped on another Jump Master going through the pre-jump lecture – giving all the stats; height of jump; speed of fall; length of fall (in both time and distance) and the all-important landing procedure – most of which, though T went over it on Sunday, I missed hearing due to the voice in my head questioning my sanity. T arrived and checked on the time of our jump – a bit delayed, as it turned out, due to the large volume of people who had arrived not long before we did.

It was a sunny and warm evening, and though part of me just wanted to get going, part of me was content enough to delay the jump a little longer – it was now 90 minutes PPT and counting down.

At about 60 minutes PPT, it was time for me to don my jumpsuit and harness; struggling to keep my decorum, I tried to keep the giggling to a minimum and managed to stop myself from making silly comments as T tightened the shoulder, chest and leg straps – they would have been a bit off colour – something about having straps between my legs that bring out the racy humourist in me – who knew.

Standing around waiting for the plane’s return, I had to fend off the paparazzi (or C with my digital camera) who decided to pass the time by taking pictures of me from every angle. One last tightening of the straps and then we headed to the plane – less than 30 minutes PPT

I suppose I should mention that I doubt that the teenage-pilot was actually a teenager; he just looked awfully young, though he seemed to have perfected his take-offs and landings so I suppose his age is rather irrelevant.

I should also mention that, in my humble opinion, a tandem jump is probably not for everyone that wants to jump out of a plane. I think those in the human population that require a fair amount of personal space should not try a tandem jump because you get awfully up close and personal with your Jump Master.

30 minutes PPT – We folded ourselves into the plane; T first, me second, ungracefully clambering over him and managing to plunk myself down between his legs (this is the up-close-and-personal bit I was talking about). I sat folded knees up, trying not to lean back against T too much, glad of my mere 5ft. 4 inch stature (a rarity to be sure), and wishing I was about 15 pounds lighter (5 off in the tummy area and 5 off of each thigh) – the sign next to my right knee, on what used to be (I imagine) the door to the luggage area helpfully announced a weight limit of 120 lbs in “this area” – I hoped the bulk of my bulk was in front of “this area”. The other novice jumper and her Jump Master hopped in too and we were off.

We all sat facing backwards and I was worried that my old nemesis Mo Sickness would put in an appearance (Motion Sickness to those on a less first-name basis) but it seemed as if he’d miss the plane. T and I chatted a bit as we climbed in altitude and I was feeling surprisingly calm. T mentioned that he’d read the two previous blog entries I’d made about tossing myself out of a plane. I kept sneaking glances at the altimeter on his wrist.

At about 5 minutes PPT, we donned out helmets (more accurately, ugly leather caps with chin straps – the sort of thing rugby players wore about 50 years ago( and our goggles. T began hooking up my harness to his parachute harness and tightening more straps – we were now fastened so close together I could feel his chest rise and fall as he breathed – which, incidentally, didn’t rise and fall nearly as frequently as mine did (a fact I took comfort in).

Since we were the first pair in, we were the second pair out, which required us to slide left and then back before exiting the plane. In my excitement (ok, panic) I was a little over exuberant with my sliding back and managed to get my arm caught between the pilot’s seat and T’s right leg (T would later tell me that I had managed to back him into the pilot’s seat – oops).

I tried to remember what T had said about exiting the plane – tuck in the left leg to get the foot out, place foot on “platform”, right leg, same thing – don’t grab the plane frame, hold on to your harness (so you’re not flailing about) and get ready to trust your pelvis forward and toss your head and legs back – only some of which I remembered; it was Zero Minutes PPT!

During the exit, I was rumoured to have said; “Oh My God” – but I don’t really remember...

There were three things I wasn’t prepared for in the decent.

The first being the somersault with a half twist that we did after exiting the plane. I mentioned this to T after we’d landed and he said most people didn’t notice the plane on the exit – I didn’t, was my reply, I just knew that at soon after I left the plane, up wasn’t up and down wasn’t down and free-falling wasn’t what I was expecting; but we soon evened out.

At some point T tapped me on the shoulder – that was my cue to stop clinging to my harness and put my arms out. At another point – I think it was later, he tapped my leg, which meant I needed to bend my knees more; “heels to butt” I thought.

One of the strangest sensations during free-fall was the feeling that T wasn’t really there – though I knew he was, and I wasn’t worried, for a few seconds I felt I was falling on my own – the closeness of him somehow negated by the distance to the ground and the speed at which we travelled toward it.

The second thing I wasn’t prepared for was the sheer force of the wind in my face, I couldn’t breathe – my brain had to make a concerted effort to ensure I breathed (it was a similar sensation to trying to breath through a SUCBA regulator on free-flow); so, for most of the free-fall, I was doing little more than thinking; breathe, breathe, breathe.

The third thing I wasn’t prepared for was the appearance of the guy I thought had missed the flight – Mo Sickness.

Mo and I go back a long way, back to my childhood and long car rides in the back seat. While my sister could read and read while on the trip, anytime I tried to read, Mo appeared and spoilt my fun. Though the years Mo would pop up; while I was riding backwards on a train, while I was whale watching off shore, while I was SCUBA diving in New Zealand – ah, Mo, you spoil-sport you.

Mo didn’t rear his ugly head until after the parachute had deployed – the sudden jolt as our rocketing decent instantly slowed might have been a precipitating factor. It also might have been the spin we voluntarily, just to see how it felt - I can't recall if he'd shown up before of after the spin - though I probably should have known Mo was lurking...

The rapid deceleration (as opposed to the instant deceleration I was not secretly afraid of) caused my goggles, which were only being held in place by the force of air against them, to come off my face and hang loosely around my neck, as I hung loosely in the harness. T asked me how I was and asked about the goggles and I jabbered some unintelligible reply then remembered I was supposed to be hanging on to the "handles" (my technical term for them) in order to "assist" in steering the parachute.

I hung in my harness watching the ground get closer and feeling Mo make his presence known. I felt a bit like a human marionette instead of an active participant in the decent; because instead of helping steer and enjoying the trip I was too busy concentrating on not decorating the front of my jumpsuit with the meagre remains of my lunch.

This was also why I wanted to jump, the feeling of near-weightlessness and near human-flight; the almost gravity defying feat of floating in mid air... and yet Mo was there, the ever-present killjoy. We coasted down and T positioned us for our landing.

Amid a cloud of panicked grasshoppers attempting to launch themselves to safety we executed a perfect 4-cheek landing - that's butt cheeks, not facial ones. I sat there, a bit stupefied and hoping that now that the ground was once again solidly under me, that Mo would bugger off; but as I slowly got to my feet, while T wrangled our parachute (having already detached my harness from his, I noticed that Mo hadn't left.

T asked as we wandered back toward the office if I had enjoyed it, which I did, I suppose, though I know I would have enjoyed it a lot more if Mo hadn't tagged along.

In actuality, I'm surprised at how calm (for the record, for me that was calm (reasonably), I could have been a lot worse) I was throughout the flight and free-fall; I suppose it was because T was there and I trusted him to keep me safe. Thanks T, you are awesome. Funny how the most frightening part was committing to the jump - I was more nervous while paying the money, signing the waiver and waiting about on Sunday than I was last night for the actual jump (I guess I still haven't learned to not build up events in my head).

Once I was in the jump suit and the harness was tightened, I was no longer scared, I was eager.

I'm also disappointed, not in the jump, because it was practically flawless (in my opinion, though T might think otherwise), but because of Mo's presence putting a damper on what should have been a TONNE of fun. Fear, it seems, I can overcome, but how to I get rid of motion sickness?

So here I sit, trying to remember what happened and in what order and how it all felt and what all was said, and I think I'm a bit vague about bits and wished I'd paid better attention at the time and I'm left with this feeling and thought; I want to do it again.

Having said that I realize T will be sitting somewhere reading this, grinning and thinking "I told you so" but I do want to go up again. Hopefully next time with T and only T - Mo, feel free to stay home next time.

Oh, My God - "Next Time"!

Anticipation and Anticlimax

Today I did not toss myself out of a plane.

NO, I didn't loose my bottle and cancel. I was completely willing to do it - ok, not completely willing, but I was prepared to go though with it, for the most part.

I headed out to the air strip with a combination of excitement and dread - in what proportion I don't really know.

The adrenaline got the better of me as I headed up the highway - and speed limits seemed to become more of an suggestion than a rule. I arrived in good time for my excursion.

T - who was to be my tandem partner, was just getting ready to go up with another set of tandem jumpers. So I paid my money, signed the waiver and tried to limit the growing panic I was beginning to feel.

I heard the plane take off as I was finishing off the last of the paperwork; then went outside to watch, wait and try not to completely loose my nerve.

So I stood on the grass listening and watching as the plane climbed higher and higher into the morning sky - getting smaller and smaller as it went. Half an hour passed and then, there they were, with the clouds as a backdrop, four parachutes and six sets of legs. The first two parachutes (with one set of legs each landed first). The first to come down rocketed toward the ground - making the knot in my stomach both larger and tighter - just before pulling up sharply and landing as if he had just stepped off a front porch; in a manoeuvre I found out was called swooping.

I watched as one parachute seemed to hang in the air above my head four legs dangling down and continued to watch as they came in for a landing.

As all this was going on, I was also watching the sky for other things that were also approaching - the nasty set of dark clouds that formed a wall that approached ever closer as the jumpers landed.

T approached from the landing zone, grinning, with his parachute collected in his arms. A few minutes later he returned, sans parachute and harness and took me and four other tandem wannabes into the office to "allay" our fears about the safety and security of rig and harness.

As he spoke, a voice in my head kept asking me what the heck I was doing there, so some of what T was saying didn't penetrate. Out at the plane, T went over how we would exit the plane and what we would need to do in order to do so. My anxiety grew - I was actually expected to have functioning legs at 10000 feet!?!

The clouds had set in quite completely by then, and we were left grounded, until the clouds cleared - the plane flew by sight, not instruments so a reasonably cloud-free sky was required. One requirement that sadly remained lacking as I waited and waited. The longer I waited the more my legs shook, but as time wore on I knew they shook more from cold than trepidation.

T and I sat and chatted and he joked about how he was overdue for having to use his reserve parachute; almost as helpful and C last night wanting to know the definition of "Terminal Velocity" - I have such supportive friends.

Two and a half hours later, clearing was little more than a pipe dream and T and I decided I should cut my losses and try again on Tuesday night. All a bit anticlimactic, really.

Feeling like a prisoner on death row who just got a last minute postponement - I rumbled down the dirt road with the grounded aircraft receding in the rear view mirror.

Dread filled me again on the way back down the highway; now, after telling everybody that would listen that I was jumping today, I will have to tell them all I didn't. Unless I'm lucky that they'll all read my blog tonight and not need to ask.

I should be so lucky.

Leap of Faith

Tomorrow I am going to toss myself out of a plane.

Sorry that sounds a bit overly dramatic, and just to allay any fears - no, I am not suicidal.

Truthfully, tomorrow morning, securely strapped to someone I trust and who jumps from planes on a regular basis, I will jump from a plane for my first (and quite likely last) time. I don't imagine I will jump as much as I will stumble on wobbly legs out of the airplane, or if it comes to it, be forcibly removed from the airplane by the friend I shall be strapped to.

You see, though I do this by my own volition, I am completely, utterly and hopelessly terrified of falling from heights. Yet I want to jump tomorrow.

I have been telling everyone I know (and anyone else who'll listen) that I am gong to toss myself out of a plane tomorrow and it has been met with a mixed set of reactions. There are those like my friends C and J who think it is fantastic and are just a bit jealous that I am going and they are not. There are others, like my parents, who have reserved comment and who I imagine think I am nuts but see no point in pointing this fact out to me as I will probably just ignore them. And there are still others, like my friend S - whose blunt and succinct response was "Why the heck would you throw yourself out of a perfectly good airplane?!?"

Why indeed.

The closer the event gets, the more I ask myself that very question. Why?

The best answer I can give myself is that it is because it scares the crap out of me that I feel I have to do it. I only have to do it once, and really all I have to do is allow myself to exit a plane that is just a smidgeon off the ground. Ok, maybe a bit more than a smidgeon.

But this is something I have decided I HAVE to do, not simply because I have told virtually everybody I know that I intend to do it, but because it DOES scare the crap out of me.

Most of my life I have been ruled by fear, limiting myself to that which is safe, that which I know I won't get hurt doing. I don't try many new things, opting instead for the safe and familiar and I don't want to always settle for safe and familiar. I fear being excluded, so I opt to not join groups, I fear looking foolish, so I don't try new things.

I am tired of being ruled by fear.

Every time I think about tomorrow's adventure, I vacillate between excitement and fear; the fact that I wrote my first will ever this past week in no way reflects on how I think tomorrow will go - everyone should have a will, right?

Tomorrow I am going to jump out of a plane.

I don't imagine I will have an epiphany. That, as I hurtle toward the earth that my life will take on some new and greater focus. I expect that when I safely touch ground again my legs will be shaking uncontrollably and I'll be as giddy as a schoolgirl (but hopefully not as giggly). I hope too, that I won't need a change of underwear or a bag of throat lozenges to combat the sore throat brought on by the continual screaming that began shortly after exiting the airplane.

I DO hope I manage the experience with some level of dignity and decorum and that some day in the future, when the road ahead looks a bit scary, I can say - "Meh, I threw myself out of an airplane, how scary can this be!"

Planes and Trains of Thought

As I sat with my fingers hovering over the keys knowing that the topic was wanting writing about, I just couldn’t begin it. I couldn’t think of anything catchy to start off with. I made brief notes about what I wanted to say, and then nothing. Inspiration had left the building. And I sat staring at a white “page” with a flashing black cursor taunting me; flashing like a visual metronome, like the second hand on the clock, ticking off the seconds as I sat and waiting for inspiration to return.

Nothing....

More nothing....

...Writing blog posts are like airplanes. The metaphorical non sequitur popped into my head.

Airplanes, huh, ok, I’ll go with that. And with that non sequitur thought this blog post was born.

I don’t know if it’s a good writing practice, or if it’s just something I think is a good writing practice, but I have always felt that each of my blog posts should have an intriguing introduction and an amusing or poignant conclusion to make it a reasonably good post. If the beginning and ending are good, people might forgive the middle if it’s gets a little out of hand or wanders off on a tangent or stops mid sentence for no apparent reason.

So, by this reasoning, I recon, blog posts are like airplanes; you can forgive a little turbulence if you have a good take-off and landing.

Not that I know the actual statistics, but I would wager a guess that more planes crash during take off and landing than just fall out of the sky mid-flight – if anyone reading this works for Transport Canada or the Federal Aviation Administration feel free to send me stats on this – it would make such comforting reading for me as I prepare for my next airplane adventure. I would imagine that taking offs and landings are more dangerous due to the proximity of the solid and unforgiving presence of the ground (albeit running into the side of the mountain mid flight would also prove somewhat unforgiving).

I think I'm beginning to deviate from my initial flight plan. Let's see if I can get back on course.

I have skipped the occasional post of some of my favourite bloggers because they didn’t grab me right off the bat (and I was reading them at work and the level of guilt outweighed my level or interest).

Maybe having a good beginning is not something simply reserved for blog posts. I have, on occasion, given up on reading a book because it hasn’t piqued my interest within the first 10 pages or so. I also vaguely remember a teacher in school warning us against LDEs – no, not LSD - LDEs (Lame Duck Endings – an ending to a story that leaves you thinking – meh, what was the point), so it can’t simply be a figment of my imagination; this need for a good beginning and a good end to wiring - in general and, more specifically a blog post.

I realize that in my confession of this strange albeit loose analogy, that from now on (or from now until you forget about this blog post) will have you reading all subsequent posts (or previous posts, if you missed a few and need to catch up) of mine with an eye to the take-offs and landings.

Hopefully you will forgive the occasional rough departure and bumpy or sudden (hopefully not fatal) landing as you read my posts, not all days are ideal for flying, but sometimes you still need to take the flight.

I have to confess, this is not the blog post I was planning on writing today. That blog post will have to wait – existing for the time being as little more than random thoughts in the form of short sentences, phrases and single words on an otherwise blank page. I’ll have to save it for another day when my inspiration for it takes flight and my creative plane takes off with that blog post on board, until then it will have to just wait at the gate until all the passengers have safely stored their carry-on bags.

...Not with a Bang but a Whimper

Have you ever built up an event in your head; trying to imagine how it will go. Envisioning it, playing it out over and working yourself up into a state until the day of the event and it happens – the event just happens.

There is no trauma, no drama, just the event - more like a non-event compared to the one you have imagined, ad nausea, in your head.

Never experienced that? Ok, just me then?

Actually, it has happened to me twice this month.

The first time being the GWN event at the beginning of the month and the second being the anniversary of Beau's passing.

Don't get me wrong, for the latter, I got up, had a little cry and got on with my day, it wasn't until I was happily enjoying the evening in the company of a friend of mine when all of a sudden I was gripped with what I must imagine to be "survivors guilt".

I was having fun on the anniversary of the worst day of my life; I felt guilty, fought back the urge to get weepy and then reminisced with my friend, who just happened to be the awesome person who took the day off work on the day I had to have Beau put down. We joked about re-watching the horrible movie we went to the afternoon after Beau's passing. And then we moved on with our evening. Fitting, since I have, to some degree, moved on with my life.

I don't know why I build up events in my head, working myself into a fit well before the day of the event. Why I feel it necessary to fill certain event with such black forethought and dread

Ah, yes, so much for Promoting Positivity.

But it’s not just potentially negative situations I build up in my head. I saw a musical last night that everyone in my acquaintance, that had seen it, raved about how good it was; so naturally by the time I went to see it, I had great expectations of a fabulous show and, once again, it was less than what I had imagined.

Once again, the Universe is busy trying to teach me something I seem, as yet, unwilling to learn. Stop getting so attached to outcomes, just let things happen.

As a famous character in a famous play once said – “Ay, there’s the rub”!

Haunted By Deams, Again and Still

I dreamt of Beau last night.

Sound familiar?

I've blogged about dreaming about Beau before.

I have dreamt about Beau since blogging about dreaming about Beau but, as the one year anniversary of his passing draws near, I feel compelled to blog about dreaming about Beau again.

I dreamt he was playing and wanting me to play with him. I knew it was a dream, I said as much and then decided, dream or not, playing with Beau was a fantastic idea - and so we played.

I don't remember how the dream ended, like I find with most dreams, it didn't end as much as faded away. I awoke and remembered - last night I played with Beau - now I am alone.

The pain is still palpable, but for better or for worse, less profound.

I suspect the dream is my subconscious' way of reminding me what my conscious mind keeps telling me not to remember - but telling yourself not to remember is like telling someone “Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain” - immediately they look at the man.

I am trying not to think of the 21st of July as anything other than next Tuesday, so I keep telling myself; "Don't think of the 21st as the day Beau died" - yes, that will work, noooooo problem.

So here it is, now in print, the anniversary of Beau's death is less than a week away.

It is yet another first I must endure. A little more significant that most, I suppose, but still, like the first time I went on vacation since... or the first time my parents visited since... or the first Canada Day since... I guess it too shall pass but still it is different. It is the anniversary of the day I made the hardest decision of my life. It was the day my heart broke completely in two.

The tears are flowing quite readily now... I had thought that I had gotten over the spontaneous water-works that accompanied thinking about Beau, apparently not.

I was hoping this blog would provide me with some profound solace; some deep life lesson that I could use as a growth-medium. But nothing so profound is found.

The bottom line is: I still miss him, I still think about him, I still cry for him.

I still think he was an awesome dog - I still think he was irreplaceable.

So I am still without a four-footed companion; still haunted by him, slowly learning how to embrace playing with the phantom; still learning how to find comfort in his absence.

Positivity

When he said the word - Positivity - I didn't think it was actually a word. He countered with "Negativity is a word, so..."

I suppose it would stand to reason that positivity would be negativity's antonym. How telling is it that I only recognise negativity as a word and not positivity?

This was a few weeks ago now, and I didn't really think much more about it, until about a week ago when a work colleague told me a story of how she locked her keys in her car at the gas station that morning. She was almost laughing as she told it. Her reaction; call someone to come unlock it and go get a hot tea and relax.

I thought of what my reaction would most likely have been; something akin to an emotional train wreck (a complete emotional meltdown followed by lingering embarrassment for getting so worked up over it); so in other words; a typical response for me - unfortunately.

I think KT Tunstall got me pegged: “Miniature disasters and minor catastrophes / Bring me to my knees / Well I must be my own master / Or a miniature disaster will be / It will be the death of me”

I have known for years that I need to remove the Aura of Negativity that I have established and that now follows me around like Pigpen’s dirt cloud, the issue has always been – HOW?

I wonder if it is partially the need for me to make a paradigm shift and instead of trying to rid myself of my negative aura, if I should, instead be trying to establish an Aura of Positivity.

I need to try and learn from those around me that seem unphased by small setbacks, miniature disasters and minor catastrophes.

I guess the trick will be to work at fostering Positivity and in doing so, with any luck, it will displace the Negativity.

Oh great, that makes me think of another song (by Harold Arlen & Jonny Mercer) “You've got to accentuate the positive / Eliminate the negative / Latch on to the affirmative / Don't mess with Mister In-Between”

It might be a bit trite, I know it’s not going to be that easy; but I suppose it makes more sense to attempt to focus on what you want, instead of focusing on what you want to get rid of.

So, Producing Positivity – my new objective!

#53, You Amaze Me!

Early in the ride, I saw her, out in front of me. She stood out for two reasons; firstly, she was on a pink bike, secondly (and I am partially ashamed to admit this) she was a reasonably heavy-set woman in amongst a myriad of more athletically-built individuals. I admit it, I judged her.

We had just completed a two kilometre swim and were in the early stages of a 90 kilometre ride that preceded a 21 kilometre run which made up the third part of the event known as The Great White North Triathlon (GWN). Still shedding lake water we had swapped paddling for pedalling and were working our legs like pistons as we made our way along the highway. My initial thought was, "gee, she beat me out of the water" (ah, Ego - thanks for coming along - the event wouldn't be the same without you).

I had her in my sights and began to gain ground on her. As I got closer I could see her race number - #53. I caught up to her and passed her, egotistically thinking to myself; “Well, at least I can pass one person on the bike.” Not being as strong a cyclist as I’d like to be, I generally get passed, on the bike leg, by what seems to me like half the entrants of the GWN, so I took extra perverse delight in passing at least SOMEONE on the bike portion.

The delight was short-lived however, as about 5k later, #53 passed me. And so it began, the pedal-powered leap-frogging; I pass #53, #53 passes me, back and forth, back and forth. At one point she cheerily declared how much fun she was having passing me and having me pass her. I grumbled that I was not enjoying it as much (my Ego was taking it as a personal affront).

To bolster itself up, my Ego began saying things like – “once we get to Heartbreak Hill, we’ll leave her behind. She weights about 60 lbs more than you do, physics must be on your side; you must be able to climb more easily than she can. Once we turn into the head wind, you’ll be faster than she’ll be.”

Though I did beat her up the hill (after she flew past me down the hill – physics proving right for once on the ride) she did manage to pass me while we rode into the headwind; thus, pummelling my Ego into little bits leaving it broken and bloody somewhere around the 75k mark; the Universe once again attempting to teach me the danger of hubris.

So with my legs and Ego smarting, I kept pumping the pedals towards the ever closer end of the bike leg while watching the ever shrinking form of #53. It occurred to me that though her ability to beat me annoyed me, I had to admire her. She was considerably heavier than the average competitor and yet, there she was, working hard and enjoying herself. When I weighed by heaviest about 7 years ago (about 40 pounds more than I do now) I wouldn’t have considered taking on a Half-Iron Triathlon – heck I wouldn’t consider putting on a bathing suit.

She became both my nemesis and my inspiration. She was awesome.

I passed her, for the last time, soon after I started the run. I saw her a couple of times during the run (as the run course doubles back on itself three times) and cheered her on; “Way to be 53!”

I had a reasonable run, and in the end I had had a respectable race despite the fact that my training had been as focused as a racoon in a room full of shiny objects (in other words – all over the place – sporadic and undisciplined).

I waited around for #53 to finish; for some reason I wanted to cheer her across the finish line. When she had finished, we hugged and went our separate ways.

I was both humbled and bolstered by meeting #53. No doubt she had to work harder than I did, not only on race day but also with all the sweat equity she put into her training. She didn’t let her size be any sort of limiter on what she could accomplish. For that reason, and because she kicked my butt during the ride, I just have to say: #53, you amaze me!