My social feeds are filled with people baking as they stay home during the pandemic. The grocery stores report shortages of yeast and flour as everyone gets their bake on.To borrow a line from Doonesbury, Gary Trudeau’s long running political cartoon series, we’re eating more carbs, y’all!
I’d like to think that today’s post will add to that happy relationship, but I fear not. Back in January, I heard about a new cookbook so I wrote off to the publishers to request a review copy. As a long time baker who has done her share of contributions to feminist fundraisers including a long running stint as a producer of 20 pounds of butter crunch yearly for the rape crisis centre, I was intrigued.
Rage Baking, by Kathy Gunst and Katherine Alford, promised a look at the transformative power of flour, fury and women’s voices. In a way it did, but not I imagine, in the way the authors thought it would or should.
I am not going to cover the ground already well trod by other writers. Suffice it to say Tangerine Jones, the creator of the concept of rage baking as a female-empowered political act against racism, wrote an incredibly detailed piece here about her work was appropriated, capitalized, ignored and initially denied by the authors. Her post covers everything from the silencing of black women’s voices to the lack of acknowledgement for her creative act within the greater context of similar acts of oppression. And you can go here to read the response from the authors, who thank Jones for starting the conversation (an ill conceived approach to a serious allegation, but that’s a discussion for another day).
Alford says in the introduction she was inspired to ragebake in response to the Bret Kavanagh hearings in 2018 and tat as she began to explore the idea, she found others doing similarly. Curiously, she did not include Jones but see above for more about that.
For the record, I find ragebaking as a concept antithetical to the change work I engage in. Baking for me is an act of comfort, to release stress and rage. If I actually did bake in a rage, whatever I would produce would not be fit to eat. Food, and the sharing of it, has also been a constant presence in my last 40 years of active feminism. Or as my friend’s child noted once when they saw her making a familiar casserole: “Another feminist potluck, mom?”
Setting aside my own feelings, I read the book looking to learn how baking actually served as a transformative process. I struggled with the idea that feminist, woman-powered rage started in 2018. Or even 2016. There is a very long, very rich tradition of food as a tool for organizing, and I didn’t get any of that history, or any sense of connection to earlier movements made change happen without the internet, social media, or even faxes.
To suggest women’s anger is a recent phenomenon is a huge disservice. It’s interesting that the one entry that does look at women’s anger (by Rebecca Traister) will be removed from future editions of the book at her request in light of the Jones’s fiasco. She writes:
Women’s anger has been buried, over and over again. But it has seeded the ground; we are the green shoots of furies covered up long ago.
We are the green shoots of furies covered up long ago. Yes, yes we are. And we are angry for a multitude of reasons, many of which Traister described in her own very good book, Good and Mad: The Revolutionary Power of Women’s Anger. But Rage Baking is not really going to help with any of them, except for our filling our need for comfort and calm with food, the kind usually comes with a good cup of tea and a hug, before we hit the trenches again.
The problem with this book is that it is neither fish nor fowl. It wants to be a cookbook and it wants to be a political handbook with essays driving action and change. There are lots of interesting recipes from some fabulous, radical women and some of them have cool story to accompany them. And there are some interesting essays. Overall though, it left me pretty flat, or as my younger friends say, it was meh. There is a lack of cohesion here, as well as, surprisingly, a lack of heart, both of which defy understanding. Had Jones been involved from the start, we would likely have had a very different book. As it is, we have so much work left to do, that it might be best if you considered other approaches, unless your goals, as is Jones, is to build a kinder, more caring community as an antidote to the system oppressions which surround us.
According to Alex Hutchinson, everyone agrees that regular, moderate exercise is good for your health.
“Doing regular moderate exercise lowers your risk compared to doing nothing; studies typically find that near-daily moderate exercisers report about half the typical number of upper-respiratory tract infections. That’s an important message for anyone who’s tempted to slack off their fitness routine until life returns to normal.”
Got it. Get moving. Check!
Okay, but we’ve got lots of time, right? Why not exercise lots more.
The worry is that too much is bad for your immune system. Again from Hutchinson, “If you ramp the dose up too high, your risk climbs steadily until you’re more vulnerable than if you’d done nothing at all. For that reason, Oregon-based elite track coach Jonathan Marcus recently argued on Twitter that athletes should avoid the type of gut-busting workouts that might put them at higher risk. “To train hard now is irresponsible,” he wrote.
(Short version: It looks like intensity is okay, what sets back your immune response is long duration exercise.)
“Both too much and too little are bad while somewhere in the middle is just right. Scientists commonly refer to this statistical phenomenon as a “J-shaped” curve. Research has shown exercise can influence the body’s immune system. Exercise immunity refers to both the systemic (whole body cellular response) and mucosal (mucous lining of the respiratory tract) response to an infectious agent, which follows this J-shaped curve.
A large study showed that mild to moderate exercise — performed about three times a week — reduced the risk of dying during the Hong Kong flu outbreak in 1998. The Hong Kong study was performed on 24,656 Chinese adults who died during this outbreak. This study showed that people who did no exercise at all or too much exercise — over five days of exercise per week — were at greatest risk of dying compared with people who exercised moderately.”
Interestingly, exercise rates are on the rise during the covid-19 pandemic among everyday exercises and down for elite athletes. In a way, that’s not a surprise for serious competitive athletes. All of their competitions are cancelled. They are just in maintenance mode mostly. For us, everyday types, we actually have some time, some of us, and exercise is one of the few things we can do outside. We’re moving more and they’re moving less and maybe we’ll all meet in the moderate middle. Go us!
It’s the same I think for strength training and weight lifting. The moderates like me, have installed home TRX-es and bought the odd kettlebell. I’m glad I got mine before they all sold out. But some of the serious gym rats I know have just out and out declared it bulking season and say that if there aren’t big weights available, they’re just waiting it out and doing lots less.
And none of this is shared with any advice giving intentions. If you care what sports scientists have to say about how much exercise is best during a pandemic, then go follow the links above and read away. If you need, from the point of view of your mental health and well-being to do more or do less, than do what you need to do.
It’s the moderation point that interested me, and I thought I’d share. Thanks for reading!
What’s different this time? We’re inviting you to join us. Read along and put your contributions in the comments. It doesn’t need to be a lot. A few sentences, a few paragraphs, whatever you’re moved to write.
Chapter 4 ‘Let Yourself Be Moved’ is a celebration of music’s innate effects on our bodies and brains.
I was interested to learn that some of my experiences with music and movement (not just dance but movement in general) are actually common experiences that have scientifically measurable effects.
(For example, choosing specific songs for certain parts of a workout, not just for the beat but for the feelings they create and the messages they promote.)
I was especially intrigued to read that at certain points in your workout your music can affect your perception of your exertion (i.e. you can work harder than you realized) but, at other points, it can positively affect your feelings about that exertion (I’m working so hard, I’m getting stronger!)
I will definitely seek to make use of that information in my future playlists.
This chapter is filled with wonderful examples of how music serves us well for both our movement goals and for feelings of joy and connection. On top of the useful information for movement, this section is worth reading just for all the happy experiences in the examples – I found myself smiling all as I was reading.
Sam
Our brains hear music as an invitation to move. That’s the theme of Chapter Four, Let Yourself Be Moved.
We don’t just hear music with our ears and our brains, we hear it with our muscles.
I loved reading this chapter for the many happy stories of people moving to music. Again though, I have to say, I hate the drug-talk. McGonigal refers to music as a performance enhancing drug. Why? It might be performance enhancing but not everything that’s performance enhancing is a drug.
Once I got past that, I enjoyed the discussions of the different aspects of music that aid performance. Yes, a commanding beat that matches the tempo that you want to maintain helps. But so too do inspirational lyrics and heroic imagery.
My favourite parts of this chapter were the author’s story of her love of dance and music and how that’s connected to her family history. It made me want to do some dancing during these quarantine times!
Catherine
Chapter 4 is a cheerful reminder that movement is intertwined with many the things we love, including music. I had read about the therapeutic effect music has on people with Parkinson’s, and McGonigal’s section describing a dance class for PD was heartening.
I think that people’s preferences differ about combining music with other types of athletic activity. Some runners have playlists in their heads (rather than wearing headsets). For cyclists, using music can distract from hearing important traffic and other environmental sounds. I know this is an issue of some contention, but it’s worth noting.
With respect to training, especially indoor training, it makes sense (and I’m glad that studies support) that music can enhance motivation, enjoyment, distraction from pain or discomfort, and overall feelings of well-being. McGonigal is preaching to the choir here, so I’m not in need of more convincing. In summary:
Just as Catherine asked us to reflect on how endurance training in the past had helped us navigate our surreal present, one of my journals from 2009 almost literally fell open at my feet. (I keep trying to tidy up pockets of my space, fruitlessly trying to put some order to a jumbled time). I found this entry, written I was traveling back home from climbing Kilimanjaro, reflecting on what happened for me when my focus narrowed completely to one almost impossible task, oxygen thin and nausea overlaying everything:
What did I find on Kilimanjaro? Economy of decision-making, quiet focus, determination, recognition that the connections to people whose imaginations overlap with mine are more powerful than any fears. The mountain is the mountain — today is today. There is only the next step. There is a lot to be found in the absence of yearning.
So wise, that 44 year old version of me. Economy of movement, quiet focus, connection — these are the essence of how I’m trying to swim through today’s pandemic hours, days, unknown span of weeks.
I hunted out the blog post I wrote on a long-defunct site about the actual climb. Instead of writing about today, I’m going to share that post, artifact of the Before Times when travel felt heady and light and what a thoughtful, globally curious person did. This is me, climbing Kilimajaro in 2009. It’s long, but so was the climb.
**
They get you up at 11pm for the final ascent to the Summit. The guide knocks on the door of the barracks-like bunk at Kibo (the “hut of hostility,” we called it), and brings you tea. You’ve had about 5 hours of agitated rest that couldn’t be called sleep, anticipating what you know to be the most demanding 10 hours you’ve ever done.
It doesn’t seem possible to be alive right now. It’s pitch black, frigid, and the air is empty of oxygen. You’re at 4740 metres. For the past 5 hours, you’ve had to go out into the hostile night every hour to deal with the churning guts you’ve had for 10 days now, but which altitude has prodded into agony. The first time out, you forgot your glasses, and in the snow-misted night, lost the path to the toilet and walked into the fence that’s put there precisely so tourists don’t stumble into the abyss in the night. Crouching over the fetid hole in the ground that you’ve got surprisingly good at thinking of as a toilet, you are wondering what the fuck you are doing here, how it is possible to be alive and having chosen this.
By midnight, you’re bundled up. Silk long johns, winter running tights, mountain hardwear hiking pants, rain/wind overpants. Five layers on top. You find yourself outside with your three mates, the joking of the previous three days subdued. In the air is a kind of dread.
Immediately, you find yourself on a steep ascent, rock and scree. Pole pole, says Fata Aeli, your guide. Today is today. The mountain is the mountain. We walk silently, slowly. Above us on the path, headlamps shine up until they blend with the vivid stars, the end of the path and the beginning of the sky blended and indiscernible.
Fata the indefatigable
After 30 minutes, we stop for water, to take off one of the overly eager layers. Beneath hats and balaclavas, everyone looks strained. Fata breaks into a swahili christmas carol, joined by Harold, one of the assistant guides. I recognize the tune but can’t place it. The singing in the blackness, the torches plodding uphill, the stars. I use my stick gratefully, muttering the only swahili sentence I know. Na penda fimbo yangu. I love my stick. Pole pole. Slowly slowly.
At the cave, we stop for tea and a biscuit. Above 5000 m now, the night and empty air pressing on us. Rebecca looks ill, says she’s nauseous, and after the tea, suddenly darts up. I’m going to be sick. Harold holds her up, while Flip rubs her back. Do you want to go on? She nods, fiercely.
After the cave, the casualties begin. Guides gently leading people back down the hill. First a man heading down, then a woman sitting blankly on a rock, her guide whispering to her. Through the night, as the endless ascent winds on, several times we suddenly come across guides nestled into a rock shelter, cradling a climber. African men, white climbers. It’s surreal and frightening and pragmatic. I nod. Fata occasionally exchanges a few words with the guide.
I turn on my ipod and let cello music wash at the edges of the gripping headache. Pole pole. Up. Occasionally I push Rebecca forward. Every time we stop, her body provides her with another excuse to quit. Diarrhea. Her period. Nausea. Headache. My own guts force me to be more immodest than I’ve ever been. When I stand up, I realize I’ve picked up scree in the layer closest to my skin. I find it for days later.
The night is stars, and steps, and up, and pain, and resistance, and surreality, and will, and kindness. Up. Up. The final thread up to Gilman’s Point is almost impossible, stopping every 20 or so steps to lean on your stick, occasionally sip the water that is starting to freeze. Up. Scrambling now, big rocks that require hands as well as feet. Up. Tightness, empty air, the stars. Up. The Swahili christmas songs have stopped, though once Fata breaks out into We are Climbing up to the mountain, yes we are, and a deeply unexpected Yippee Kai Ai Yippee Yippee Ai.
I stay connected to Rebecca, checking in with her. Her will is another coat around her, carrying her up. I’m in pain, and the resistance is unbearable. She is somewhere else entirely.
Suddenly Fata points up — that rock up there, it’s Gilman’s Point. This pleases no one. It’s too far. “It’s not what I expected,” mutters Flip, the indefatigable travel writer who never ever complains. Up. Breathing deep, finding lungs where there were none. Up. My ipod has shifted to Alison Kraus and Robert Plant, which moves me forward just enough, distracts just enough from the pain. Stars, still, crisp and close.
At 5:45, we scramble up over Gilman’s Point. An uneasy milestone. Once thought to be the highest point on the mountain, we know there are still probably two hours to go. We remember the advice of Seamus, the gnomic sage who briefed us. “If you can still put one foot in front of the other at Gilman’s, go on.” He implied that the last two hours wasn’t so difficult as what came before, but right now, that seems impossible.
Trying to smile
We are silent, forcing down tea and a biscuit. I’ve had no appetite for days, no fuel left in my body. We’re wordlessly checking in with each other. Miraculously, the sun cracks the night in the east, a slit of flame. Rebecca watches the dawn wordlessly, bleak. I can see the curve of the earth.
As we sit, the night is shattered by shouts over the edge. Never Again! shouts a woman, hysterically, laughing. Suddenly we are surrounded by loud South Americans. I want to punch them in the head, no energy for absorbing anything so full. I find out later that Flip poked them with her stick.
We nod at each other, and go on. Fata, then Rebecca, then me, then Flip, then guide Stevie, then Ray, then Harold. “Is it flat,” I ask. “Up and down,” says Fata. My heart sinks as the first steps are down. I lose track of everything behind me, except for the continuing boisterousness of the South Americans. I’m grateful when they pass us.
We’re on the west side of the ridge, the crater and brilliant icefields off to the right. The crater is redbrown, deep, a desert surrounded by ice. The sky is beginning to be blue. I’m walking carefully, pole pole, step, grateful for my stick with mountain on my left and full exposure on the right of the narrow path. Rocks, rolling steps, gasps for breath.
Suddenly we come up to the top of the ridge, open mountain. The world is open on both sides, miraculous. The glaciers on the left, cumulous clouds far far below us. The world below. Sky brilliant now, the sunrise still flaming red and orange.
Sit, water, breathe, bleak disbelief. The world is more open than it’s ever been, and more narrow, my gaze a tight band. The headache has formed itself as part of me, no longer mentionable. Rebecca’s eyes are small, her movements tiny. Flip darts about taking photos with her big camera, exhilarated. When Fata says Sawa sawa — okay — she doesn’t hear. “We’re going,” I try. I have no more energy to mobilize. Fata, Rebecca and I continue, leaving Flip and Ray and the other two guides on the ridge.
The last 45 minutes are hallucinatory. We can see the summit now, impossibly near and impossibly far. A few people are descending, wan and taut, occasionally muttering a word of encouragement. The path is gentle under our feet now, red-brown dirt, the ridge open, but the hills roll ahead of us, every step impossible. I remember the people in the rocks cradled in the arms of the guides in the night, my sister and her husband on the summit 7 years ago. My hardest marathon, my hardest emotional moments.
Breathe, step, step, step, lean on stick. Every time I stop, I realize I couldn’t have gone on another second, want to sink to the ground and lie down, just for a minute. I know that’s crazy. Fata is encouraging us, just another hill. We’ll see the summit. I count steps, breaths. It’s me, and the hill beneath me, and my tan worn leather boots, and my lungs, and the lights shooting across my vision. Rebecca in front.
Step, stick, step, stick. Fata is holding Rebecca’s hand now, and occasionally I pat her shoulder. I give her my water. As we round the last hill, about 100 metres from Uhuru, I begin to weep. Empty, exhilarated, pushed. I did this encased in this amazing group, and I did this on my own. Crossing the last steps, Rebecca tucks her arm in mine, and we hug each other. Fata hugs us. SUPER, he says. The man who wears years of the mountain on his face.
Uhuru Peak. 7:15 am, December 17, 2009. 5895 metres, 19341 feet.
I sip water, dig out my good camera. Rebecca’s is with Harold, who’s been carrying her pack since the cave. Me at the sign, Rebecca, the two of us. The world is open and the world is tiny and narrow. The snows of Kilimanjaro are disappearing, I heard on CBC before I came. I’m here. The mountain is the mountain. Today is today.
We see Flip coming near, and then Ray, staggering, holding onto Harold. The four of us on the summit, hugging in a group, then Ray staggering away and vomiting. Aussie to the core, he rallies for a smile for the photo of the four of us. Harold and Stevie squabble over the camera settings.
My aussie crew. None of us knew each other before this trip, but we are forever connected.
I need to get down, chill and immobility setting in. It’s the most miraculous place I’ve ever been, and it’s fleeting, a moment only. Fata, Rebecca and I set off down the red path, what feels fast now, any descent a gift.
Halfway back to Gilman’s Point, exhaustion overtakes me. Two weeks of not absorbing any fuel, 3 days of trekking, 4000 metres of ascent, no sleep. My body is my body and the mountain, slow. We sit and I force down water, a bite of a bar. Flip and Ray join us, and together, we thread back to Gilman’s Point. Na penda fimbo yangu.
We sit, daylight now, drink water, quiet. “I nearly fucked myself with those pictures,” laughs Flip. “I think I have that whatsis,” says Ray, “that cerebral edema.” We look closely at him and realize he’s right. Staggering, slurring, vomiting, headache. The 200 m down is restoring him. Altitude is relentless.
An American is sitting with us, and I watch with a kind of detached disbelief as he hauls out his Kindle, his e-book reader. “I take this everywhere,” he says, “I thought a photo of it up here would give my friends a laugh.”
I’m searching for sunblock and in disarray with my waterbottle and pack when I realize Fata has decided it’s time to go. Everyone else is over the edge while I’m still struggling to put my pack back on. It’s the only moment resembling panic I feel. “Wait for me!” I shout. I realize how much I’m carried by the formation, lost without the path stepped first by Fata.
Back in formation, we step carefully down, scrambling in reverse. The sun is up now, the blank cold of the night replaced by hard hot rock. My sunglasses are somewhere in my pack. The rockface is practically vertical, so steep, impossible. We climb at night because of the sun, but also because seeing this would make it impossible to keep going.
Down is forever. Scrambling, heat, sun. Layers come off, water dripped in, body emptied. After about 15 minutes, Fata tracks us into the scree slope, and we ski scree, slaloming. At first it’s fun, but then it’s hard dusty work, sun blazing, dust in eyes, feet uncertain.
The 45 degree slope is forever. Flip slips, and we take off more clothes. Any modesty I had is gone, as I remove all of the underlayers of my hiking pants. Down, ski, sun, heat. Finally Kibo, 4740 m, 10:10 a.m. We started climbing at midnight, after a 6 hour day of hiking upward.
We have one hour at Kibo to rest, but the altitude is too hostile to stay. People have been sent back from this hut, no further climbing possible. We have a 9 km walk ahead of us to Horombo. Head still taut, I sink into the unforgiving bunk.
**
The mountain is the mountain. Today is today.
**
Fieldpoppy is Cate Creede, who is isolating in Toronto, wondering if learning swahili should be her pandemic project.
Hi readers! As part of our continuing coverage of life in these unusual times, we asked our bloggers to comment on their experiences of long-term training and long-term projects. What is it like to be immersed in a process that’s important, for which the outcome is uncertain– in terms of time and what it will be like? How do you manage the discipline, the repetition, the discomfort, the uncertainty?
We’re posting their replies this Monday, Wednesday and Friday at 2pm. We would love it if you would add your comments and offer your own tips from your training experiences. How are they helping you (or not!) during this time of sheltering and isolating in one place? We’ll post those comments in a separate post next Monday.
Here’s what Emm has to say about endurance from a weight training perspective:
Resilience in weightlifting looks like sticking with it for the long term–consistent, hard work week after week, year after year, in order to get results. I’ve been lifting for about 5 years now, and research suggests that it could be as much as 5-7 more years of consistent training to approach my personal, genetic potential.
So, how do I keep at it, especially when the public conversation is about quick transformations? I focus on what I’m doing in the moment and the immediate benefits I am getting from it, not my long term goals and aspirations. In the moment, while I’m lifting, I focus on what I’m doing, how it feels, and how I’m benefiting. It feels good to use my muscles, to feel strong and capable, to be able to do a little more today than I could yesterday.
The lesson from this for my current situation is to focus on small, immediate successes rather than the long term. Right now, I will benefit from staying present and taking the time to enjoy and appreciate what is working for me. This will help me reinforce these helpful decisions and may also reduce any stress from thinking about all the unknowns of the future. As I’m making breakfast, I appreciate that I’ve taken the time to make a balanced meal that will give me energy for the hours ahead. I notice the smell, taste and appearance of my breakfast, and I avoid multitasking while I’m eating it. Gold star! I’ve accomplished breakfast! Now, on to the next task.
A little girl in a Wonder Woman outfit, with a big gold star. Photo by Gabriela Braga on Unsplash.
Next up is Cate, talking about running and grit:
For me it’s about the grit piece — reminding myself that the hard parts are momentary and there will be ease in another kilometre, or that I can get through things that are very difficult. When I was running marathons and was facing a hard mile or the last tough 10 minutes of a run I would tell myself “you could run 10 minutes in a nightgown with a fever — you can do this.” I probably wouldn’t use the fever analogy now (!) but the notion of reminding myself that I have the fortitude I need right now is really important.
When I typed in “fortitude” to Unsplash, this came up. I hope Cate likes it. Photo by Handy Wicaksono on Unsplash.
Finally, here’s Bettina on navigating the ups and downs:
So far, I’ve been dealing with the lockdown better than I would have anticipated. I won’t lie, as bad as this is, it’s catching me in fairly ideal circumstances: I can do essentially my entire job from home, we have a big flat with enough space for husband and I to work without getting on each other’s nerves, we have a beautiful terrace, and we can still go outside to exercise, we don’t have children or parents to care for. Plus the weather has been gorgeous, which has definitely helped. We are incredibly privileged.
Even so, I had one day last week where I was irritable in a way I don’t usually get. Mostly, I was annoyed with colleagues not reading their email and sticking to instructions properly. It wasn’t helped by back-to-back videoconferences from 10am to 5pm. At the end of the work day, I was the grumpiest. Then I went out for a run, and it was a complete game changer. It really helped me calm down and get back into a more balanced outlook on things.
Overall, the ups-and-downs remind me of my half-marathon training last year, but also of writing my PhD thesis. The bad days are like a bad long run that you slog through, or like an 8h-day of transcribing interviews. The good days are like a day where the running just flows, or a day where you get so deep into the writing zone that the words just flow.
A staircase, which goes both up and down. Gorgeous photo by Stefan Steinbauer on Unsplash.
Dear readers: how are you putting your physical training or other long-haul experiences to work these days? We’d love to hear from you, and will post your comments next week (let us know in the comments if you prefer not, which is fine).
Not that my moods didn’t swing from time to time before, but now they are subject to the shelter-in-place amplification factor.
On any given day the non-stop voice in my head drags me along on her wild ass rollercoaster ride, hands flung up in the air, hair a streaming tangle in the wind …
You’re so ridiculously lucky to be able to play out here in the snow on these beautiful mountains. Look at that view. Breathe that air. Oh *&%@, who could possibly keep their balance on this ungroomed mess. You’re the biggest loser on skis. Don’t ever ski again. You are so Zen after that new breath meditation. You’re cruising right down the middle of The Middle Way. Is it seriously snowing again? Will spring never come? If you have to shovel one more load of snow, you should just give up forever. That was the most delicious bruschetta on homemade sourdough bread ever. That ricotta couldn’t be creamier. You are such a glutton. It’s so fun Zoom-ing with friends & family. You could cry from how much you want to hug them. All that Zoom yoga, Zoom meditation, Zoom Laughing Club (that’s a clown class) and Zoom dance parties is so innovative and fun. How can you stand looking at yourself as a small, horribly self-conscious little square on your computer screen? What overly-contorted and wrinkly facial expression will you make next? That was the best Zoom planning meeting ever. You’re super jazzed about the workshop idea. So exciting. You are so not maximizing this stretch of solitude. Your life has no meaning. Just give up. If only you’d become a doctor, then you might at least have been useful. Yay, you get to take Pete’s virtual yoga class (your favourite San Francisco teacher whose class you never get to take, because you haven’t been in SF in ages). Happy body, happy body. Those unpolished toenails on your yoga mat are disgusting, never mind your sad old feet. Don’t ever wear sandals again. Well it doesn’t matter anyway, because you’re never going to wear sandals or proper shoes again, because you’re never going to be able to go anywhere except the grocery store ever again. That was the most delicious salad ever. Could those roasted veggies you made last night have been any better? Are you really washing dishes again? Don’t you want to just throw all the dishes off the back deck? 9:20 p.m. time, your deliciously cozy bed awaits. You can cuddle up with your partner and listen to your cat purr on your pillow. Are you seriously tired already? Get a life. Oh, that’s right, there’s no life to be. Those new superhero name that you and your partner riffed up for yourselves are hilarious. Your stomach is going to hurt from laughing so hard about The Snowbank Buster and The Avocado Mangler. You’re so lucky to be sheltered with him. Could your cat be any cuter? Be grateful, you ingrate. Be grateful. You’re not being grateful enough. Grateful. Resentful. Happy. Depressed. On top of the world. Sinking into a morass of anxiety. Grateful. Self-hating. Filled with vitality. Don’t want to get out of bed. Grateful. And then…
Is anyone else at the amusement park, too? Please say I’m not alone.
In January I wrote a blog post about my first week of retirement. It was filled with the joyful anticipation of long workouts in preparation for a half ironman race in May, a lane to myself in the pool, lots of recovery time, the freedom to train when I wanted and workouts at what I would call ‘civilized” hours.
As the month unfolded, it was all of that and more. Building through February to cycling over two and a half hours on the trainer, while indulging in classical music on CBC radio, longer runs built up to 13k , long swims and a stunning trip to Arizona for hiking and outdoor adventures. I was on target for race day, May 31st.
And then things changed a little. First a small injury requiring a shift from running to walking for a bit. No big deal. This, while somewhat frustrating, could be managed. I did notice however, how challenging it was to “slow down”. Little did I know what “slowing down” would come to mean.
Fast forward one month to March 1st. I was walking my dog Ranger, the last vestiges of ice on the sidewalks, when this walk was cut abruptly short with a fall on the ice resulting in a broken wrist.
I digress briefly in this blog from my theme here, to acknowledge the incredible kindness of strangers I experienced as people stopped their cars, called an ambulance, made sure I was warm, called my hubby and took care of the dog. True angels of humanity.
Many hours later I was sporting a beautiful orange cast. It seemed only fitting that I choose the Balance Point Triathlon team color.
Author on bike trainer, sporting orange cast supported on pillow
Now what? This is taking slowing down to yet another level. As the bones heal, Netflix binging becomes the activity of choice. Sitting still for this girl, proves to be somewhat challenging.
Meanwhile enter the unprecedented times of Covid 19. Social distancing, the closing of many of my frequent hangouts; gyms, pools, yoga studios, physio clinics. While the time frame for wearing a cast and slowing down for it, was somewhat annoying, there was light and recovery at the end of the tunnel. Now what?
The pain of the injury subsides and the body is restless. Slowly I am able to add some time on the bike trainer with the arm propped up and the arm can now be at my side for some longer walks.
I start to notice something on these walks. There is a sense of peace in this slowing down. I hear the birds, my senses are heightened. The traffic is quiet. There is not the constant mind chatter of the next workout, of pace times, of calculating nutrition needs. Something is shifting.
And then the announcement that the race is cancelled. While this was at first difficult, I do notice that I slow down again. Things that were relevant it my world fade for now. There is more space. Priorities change. My thoughts shift especially as I witness what others are going through. How important really is a pace time?
I know that I will ramp my training up again at some point in the future. My body loves to move, it loves a challenge and it really does not do Netflix well. Who knows what racing will look like in the future and when that will take place?
What does Retirement, Covid 19, an orange cast and a cancelled race have in common? For me it is the gift of slowing down. The chance to be still, to play a little with technology, to read, to listen to the birds and meditate. I reprioritize and experience life in a different way, if only for a little while.
Meanwhile, the tires remain pumped.
Nostalgic photo of author at empty race site.
Mary is a recently retired Elementary School Music Teacher, an Energetic Body Worker, an Access Consciousness Certified Facilitator and a professional violinist. When not involved in any of the capacities mentioned above, she can often be spotted in water, on a bike, or running to prepare for her next triathlon.
I was part of that peak, riding with the Swarm, a ride for women riders many of whom are new to Zwift, led by experienced Zwifters.
Here’s my indoor bike and me.
Sam needs a haircut!
The Swarm rides are meant to be easy paced with lots of chatter. A text exchange runs along the right hand side. “Greeting from Guelph, Ontario, Canada!”
I was curious to see what people talked about. In many ways, we’re all having the same conversations these days. Have you watched the Tiger King show? What are you all watching on Netflix these days? What’s your family baking? Have you cut your own bangs yet? How are your kids doing with school at home?
We also talked about what we wearing while riding our bikes at home. Bike shorts, socks, and sports bras yes, but opinion was divided about actual bike jerseys. The pockets aren’t so handy when you can keep snacks on a stool next to the bike. I’ve been riding in shorts and a sports bra. I wouldn’t ever have said the presence of other people affected what I wore and yet I’ve never ridden in just a bra in a spin studio. Live and learn.
There was some chatter about gear, bike trainer specifics, heart rate monitors, fans, and all of the household internet use. One partner riding on Zwift, another Zooming away at work, and kids watching Netflix or online learning all at the same time.
I was happy to hear women cyclists also talking about bikes, about Zwift, and about learning to group ride and race. The ride leaders were good at answering questions. I liked it that even the technical questions were answered directly. There was no “get your husband to look at it.” Phew.
There was good advice about beginning racing and selecting rides. In the weeks ahead I’m going to give that a try. I did my first time Zwift time trial and thinking about team racing. I’ll report back.
Hi readers! As part of our continuing coverage of life in these unusual times, we asked our bloggers to comment on their experiences of long-term training and long-term projects. What is it like to be immersed in a process that’s important, for which the outcome is uncertain– in terms of time and what it will be like? How do you manage the discipline, the repetition, the discomfort, the uncertainty?
We’ll be posting their replies this Monday, Wednesday and Friday at 2pm. We would love it if you would add your comments and offer your own tips from your training experiences. How are they helping you (or not!) during this time of sheltering and isolating in one place? We’ll post those comments in a separate post next Monday.
Now, onto our bloggers’ stories.
First up: Nicole, on savouring the moments:
One thing that has always helped me with long distance running is trying to savour the moment. That doesn’t mean “enjoy” the moment. Some moments might be challenging, some might be easy, some may be blissful. But when I am struggling during the longer distances I tell myself this may be the best moment of my day. And to savour it.
I think that can translate to the current moment. Savour each moment. Try not to look too far ahead. Honour each moment for what it is. Find gratitude and humbleness. Be sure to stretch and take it easy some times to support the times when bigger pushes are required. The more bigger runs completed provides confidence that one can get through it by savouring and honouring each moment.
Savoring.. by McJames Gulles, on Unsplash.
Now to Tracy, on the power in doing small things:
In the past couple of weeks, I’ve read that we are to think of this social distancing and self-isolation that is being required of us as a marathon not a sprint. Since the one marathon I’ve run was pretty much a horrible experience, I feel better when I think about not the event itself, but the training for it.
When I train for an endurance event, the end goal (a marathon, a 30K, an olympic distance triathlon) always seems daunting. But I make it manageable by breaking it down into small, achievable parts. A 10K run here, an hour in the pool there, some hill repeats one day, a short tempo run another. If these are part of a training plan where I build on what has gone before, then I can do it.
I have used the same strategy for writing a book — small and consistent daily effort. I’m working on a book now, and I eased myself into the writing back in January by setting a goal of 15 minutes of writing a day. This physical distancing is 24/7, so it’s not entirely the same, but there is some similarity in the spirit of the approach.
The key, for me, has always been to be realistic about what I can reasonably expect of myself. As in training for a distant goal or completing a huge project, what is required of us in this pandemic is not necessarily going to be fun, even if there are some good moments. I expect that there will be times where I feel I’ve hit my stride, and there will be other times where my feet feel like lead weights. But from past experience I know there will also be a gentle and steady building of strength, where I start to say “I can do this; we can do this.” And we can.
Small things do stack up nicely. by Jakob Owens, for Unsplash.
Last up for today– Mina, on presence and acceptance of where we are (and aren’t):
As I try to keep my head together in this period of extreme uncertainty and disruption, I’m thinking a lot about how to use the consistency and adaptability that’s served me for the endurance events I’ve done can help me now. As much as I love running or any of the other sports I do, there are always days (weeks) when it’s hard to motivate, even when I’m training for something. So I’m trying to remind myself of one-day-at-a-time. Just promise myself to show up for the day at hand.
That’s what this current situation feels like. That’s the consistency part. The adaptability part is reminding myself of all the ways I improvise when I’m training for a long event and then think of these days in the same way. Again, that’s a day to day thing.
For me, if I start theorizing about how long I’ll be living under these conditions, I get overwhelmed. Bite size pieces of time is essential to my capacity to keep my spirits up. Which, again, feels similar to training for a big event. The event is way out there and that can be dispiriting, but the day that’s here is manageable.
All of that said, today I was out for a long cross country ski in knee deep new snow and when I stopped for my peanut butter and tahini sandwich snack I suddenly thought of one of my favourite restaurants and how I couldn’t wait to eat their flatbread again.
A sumptuous offering of flatbread, yogurt, olives, salmon, and other yummy items, with a latte in the middle. By Juliana Malta, for Unsplash.
Dear readers: how are you putting your physical training or other long-haul experiences to work these days? We’d love to hear from you, and will post your comments next week (let us know in the comments if you prefer not, which is fine).
CW: discusses food and eating behaviors, with references to dieting, food restriction and overeating
Do you find perceptions of scarcity triggering? I do. Food scarcity in particular, even the belief that it might become scarce at some point, can lead me to make self-soothing decisions like buying extra “just in case.”
I’m not truly hoarding food, but I’ve definitely got an especially well-stocked pantry at the moment. And chest freezer. And refrigerator.
And I’m settling into old habits like baking bread in batches, so there’s always some fresh sitting on the counter. Last night, when I made rice, I made a double batch. Now, I can freeze half of it just in case. And maybe now my lizard brain knows I will have rice, even though I already knew that, since I have several pounds of dry rice sitting in my pantry. But apparently, that primitive part of my mind needs the reassurance of cooked rice in my freezer right now.
I recognize that this is not a rational response. It is not in response to actual scarcity, but its perception. It’s true that when I go grocery shopping, I don’t have access to quite everything I want. However, suitable replacements are often available. My grocery store has instilled 2-can per purchase limits on precooked beans, and there are no dry beans to be found other than lentils, so I bought a couple pounds of those. My pre-pandemic meal preparations had me consuming 2-4 cans of beans a week. This week, I’m eating lentils. I have enough. But I can feel some uneasiness that I’m using them, like a part of me wants to just keep them on the shelf so I’ll know they’re there. I bought a whole, frozen turkey when there wasn’t any chicken available on one grocery trip. But I don’t want to cook the turkey. I want to keep it in my freezer, so I know I’ll always have a turkey.
This feeling of scarcity has led to some unplanned eating, too. It’s not so very different than the imposed scarcity that chronic dieters put themselves under. When we feel restricted, we tend to lash out and overeat eventually. Sometimes not so eventually. I am NOT restricting what I eat, except to recognize that when I eat something, then it is no longer available to eat! And so I suspect that is sometimes leading to me doing the counter-productive thing of eating ALL THE FOODS. I suppose I’m storing it in my body in preparation for the hard times.
These behaviors have long been a part of me–the uplanned eating and the food storage. Friends and family members have teased me for as long as I’ve been an independent adult for my tendency to can and preserve mass quantities in the summer and fall. I can freeze, dehydrate, can, bake, ferment and pickle with the best of them. For as long as I’ve had the resources to do it, I’ve kept 20-30 pounds of flour in my pantry. I keep bulk nuts in the freezer, and dried apple slices, candied orange rinds, and every kind of jam and jelly you’d ever want on my shelves. Every year, I put up apple and pear sauces and butters, whole seckel pears, pie apples, berries in wine pie filling (amazing!) and whatever else floats my boat. I have the habit of putting something on the grocery list the minute I open up the last back-up, so there’s always an extra bag of sugar or canister of oats. All of this was true right up to before our world was put on hold.
And yet, I still do not feel secure. I can see it in how I’m doing math every time I reach for something in the pantry. If I open this jar of berries, that leaves me only 2 more jars, how long can I stretch those out? Can I make them last until berry season again? Will I even get to go berry picking this year? If I make coq au vin for dinner tonight, that will be the last of the chicken breast in the freezer; will they have more this week, or should I plan on cooking something else so I can keep some chicken in the freezer?
I do not like feeling triggered in this way. I like to feel like I’m in control, and when I’m triggered, my more primal self is in the driver’s seat. And, of course, the fact that there are so many important things out of my control is in its own way triggering. I know, intellectually, that it’s going to be ok, but I wish there was a way to reassure my lizard brain of that fact. For now, I’m going to head down to the pantry and gaze upon my stockpile of homemade applesauce and try to contemplate abundance.
In case you’re eating lentils this week, too, here’s a recipe. It is loosely based upon one for Lentil and Barley Stew from the New York Times Natural Foods Cookbook (Jean Hewitt, 1971), which was a staple of mine when I was a vegetarian. Today’s version has ground turkey in it, which you could completely omit and still have a lovely dish of lentils.
Lentil Stew with Turkey
one. In a large, heavy duty stock pot, sauté in a couple tablespoons oil and/or butter: 1 diced onion 4 large carrots, diced 4 stalks celery, sliced 1 tbs dried rosemary 4 cloves minced garlic 1 bay leaf
two. When the onion is soft, add 3 lbs. ground 93% lean turkey. Break it up with a wooden spoon so that it isn’t in big chunks.
three. Once the turkey is fully cooked and no longer pink, add 1 lb. green or brown lentils (not the red or yellow kinds that cook down into mush) 5 cups water, stock, broth, or a combination thereof 2 15 oz. cans diced tomatoes, with their juices
four. Bring stew to a simmer. Lower heat, cover, and cook at a low simmer until lentils are fully cooked, about 30 minutes. Season to taste with salt and pepper.
This will be 9 2-cup servings for me, so I plan on portioning it out and setting some aside for my freezer so it’s available when I need a quick lunch, or you know, so I have it just in case.
Marjorie Hundtoft is a middle school scienceand health teacher. She can be found making fermented cabbage and using her bodyweight in lieu of picking up heavy things and putting them down again in Portland, Oregon.You can now read her at Progressive-Strength.com .
Image description: A large pot of lentils, ground turkey, and vegetables. Maybe not very pretty, but it tastes delicious!
