This weekend was Summer Solstice here in the Northern Hemisphere–the longest days of the year. After long indoor days of working from home, videoconferencing all day long, and working into the evenings, Sarah and I were ready for a break and the great outdoors. The timing was good too. Ontario has been opening up as the pandemic eases (for now).
We set out for her family farm in Prince Edward County and then made it to Gananoque to visit Jeff on the boat and ride our bikes.
Success! I finally felt comfortable recreationally riding away from home.
This was my first time riding my bike beyond the boundaries of Guelph. It felt like a holiday. It helped that we were riding on the bike path that runs alongside the Thousand Island Parkway. It’s separate from traffic which is less scary. The odds of needing to call for help were pretty low. I recommend this path for nervous cyclists who can ride some distance but who hate riding near cars. It’s one of my favourite sections of road on the Friends for Life Bike Rally. We didn’t even see many other bikes, just one pair of Brompton riders early on. We only passed one lone jogger.
While friends were posting on Facebook about the days being shorter from here on in, I resisted the urge to give in to anticipatory sadness. We’re out and about now, riding our bikes, and eating lunch on patios with long days of sunshine. I don’t expect this degree of openness to persist through the fall. I know the sun won’t last. But I intend on enjoying the sun, the outdoors, and meals on patios while they’re here.
We’ve been doing the “bikes and boats” thing for awhile. We have a routine. Drop stuff off on the boat with Jeff. Ride our bikes and then meet at spot down river (canal, or whatever). This time we met up at Gananoque and then again at Rockport. We got back on the boat with our bike at Rockport and toured around the islands. They’re so cool.
Cottages on tiny islands and a National Park Island
They also give you an idea of how porous the border is between the two countries. On our left, American islands. On our right, Canadian islands.
I’ve had friends in Ontario wondering what to do about holidays. Let me recommend houseboat rentals. It’s not cheap but for those who usually fly for vacation, it’s affordable by comparison. It’s beautiful out there and easy to keep distance from other households.
Enjoy the photos!
Black and white bikes on boats
Boat haircuts
Flat water and calm
Beautiful blue water and sunshine
Sam in her boat hat and sunglasses
Chainring grease on calf on boat with pink toenails
Sarah with sunnies and hat
Jeff at the helm
Bikes relaxing at the patio
You can read about earlier versions of bikes and boats here and here.
You can also check out Jeff’s boating blog here and follow his adventures.
(Michele A is a fitness and nature enthusiast. She likes dirt, most things with fur and feathers, and tasty plant-based food. In her free time, you’d most likely find her playing outside or in her kitchen. This is her debut blog post for Fit is a Feminist Issue. Let her know what you think about her love story about a cyclist and some goats.)
It’s never lost on me how fortunate I am to have my own pack. They consist of a group of women ranging from their early 30s to mid-60s who are almost always willing to partake in local adventures. I can send a group text or email asking if anyone wants to join me for a particular activity that following weekend and am almost always met with a positive response. 50-mile road ride followed by mocha lattes? “Sure!” 65-mile gravel ride in the hills of northern New England? “I’m there!” Nighttime trails on a chilly autumn evening under a full moon with post-ride ice-cream? “Absolutely!” Snowshoe trek on a single digit day in February? “Wouldn’t miss it!” Some version of this happens at least a couple of times during an average week, and I’m always in great company. These women have as much appreciation as I do for getting outdoors on bikes, and occasionally by foot. It may mean something a bit different for each of our minds, bodies and spirits, but I don’t think there’s one of us who could go long without being out there.
Being out there often affords us with other, sometimes unexpected, soul-lifting experiences. One example is meeting a local herd of Nigerian Dwarf Goats. I first interacted with them a few years ago while riding trails in a nearby town. Over time, I learned more about my ruminant friends. They live in the backyard of a house in the center of town, but get out for walks most days year round, so they too, can get some exercise, and also have access to a variety of grass, moss, bark and other vegetation to supplement their basic diet.
Each time I see them, I feel a twinge of excitement, and stop to say “hello”. As it turns out, I found another reason to be grateful for my riding partners because they are just as happy to stop for a visit with the ladies. The herd is also made up of all women, now spanning five generations with their most recent births.
In these last few months, the goats have taken on larger significance. These days, I’m doing only solo rides until it’s safe to ride in groups again, which may be a while. I’m sticking close to home and staying on terrain I’m familiar with. When I happen upon the goats, I linger for longer than usual. I live alone and have had very little in-person interaction with other humans. The goats used to be a fun sighting during a ride, an adorable pit stop in the midst of a multi-hour social excursion. Now, they are a meaningful source of comfort and joy. They are the main event, not just the popcorn while watching the feature film. They don’t know it, but they made quarantining and social distancing more tolerable for me.
When I see them, I stop and have various kinds of interactions:
Sit and pet: Sometimes I find a cozy spot to sit in the tall grass or along a rock wall. The goats do things on their terms. If one wants some attention, she will come over and plant herself sturdily next to me, and then I will rub her ears and stroke her head and sides. This is most often Mei Mei. She is the most equanimous of the bunch. Usually once she has gotten my full attention for several minutes, either Eia or Luna will follow and try to intervene. I often end up petting two goats at once, which is like brushing your hair and your teeth at the same time. It takes coordination, and I am getting better at it!
Discreet goat petting.
Foraging: Other times, I search for things they like to eat. I have learned what they deem as the perfect acorn and how to prepare it for them, by cracking off their shells and removing the meat. I find a large flat rock to spread out the acorns, and another hand-sized rock to crack them. Sometimes I have an audience while I do this. I often feed these to Lycian. She is the great-great-grandmother and is now in her 80s in people years. Getting the acorns out of the shell on her own has become difficult for her.
Helping by opening acorns for Lycian.
Goats consider almost everything to be food.
Cuddling: In the last month, my heart has been completely taken by Lydia. She is one of the two kids born to Lyra. When she is in the mood, I can pick her up or she’ll come sit in my lap. She will settle in and enjoy the attention. Sometimes she nibbles my shoulder, shirt, pants or wrist with her tiny mouth, mimicking the eating of the adult goats while she is still mostly drinking her mother’s milk. From her tiny mouth also comes the littlest bleats when she is chasing after the herd, reminding them of her presence. When she plays, she hops erratically about and returns head butts to her sister, Lyla.
Happiness is cuddling a goat.
Mama nuzzling baby. Cuuute…
These are all-absorbing and satisfying activities which allow me to forget life beyond the pasture. For the time that I am with them, I am immersed in their world and focused on their needs and behaviors. There is nothing but the goats.
Chewing or mugging for the camera?
A little friendly head butting, as one does.
More goat posts for Fit is a Feminist Issue1
Whether or not you have your own pack or flock or covey of companions that you’re missing terribly, it’s likely that your activities and routines today are different than they used to be, and you’re feeling unsettled or yearning for aspects of your former life at times. Comfort and joy can come in many forms. It doesn’t have to be goats. Finding your own special Red Beech tree to sit under its canopy, leaning on its enormous, smooth trunk can be grounding. Perching on a bridge overlooking a creek where you can toss in sticks and watch them float downstream can feel serene. Walking the same path regularly to watch it change throughout the weeks can remind you that life is going on all around you. Identifying the birds outside your window and watching them go about their eating and gathering can be calming. I’d love to hear examples of how the outdoor world has brought you peace.
Many many moons ago, I ran in the very first Pride and Remembrance run, back when Pride was shifting away from the Parade into a weekend long event. It actually turned out to be my fastest 5K ever (I came in 4th, thanks to mis-timing my energy and being passed by two people in the last 400 m). (And because of when it was, I probably ended up staying up until 4 am that night — ah, youth).
It’s a venerable institution now — Kathleen Wynne ran it when she was premier — but this year, the official event has been canceled because of the pandemic. But Frontrunners, a long-time queer running group, has issued a challenge to raise money for Supporting Our Youth in a virtual version of the event.
I am going to do it next Saturday. I can assure you that I will not be matching my best time, nor will I be wearing the fairy costume that won me best outfit one year — but I’ll be out there. Join me?
And when you’re done running, do a virtual drop by of my the installation my friends Ray and Stewart are making in their backyard, also free:
Tracy and I often joke about all the things we have in common. We’re both immigrants to Canada who came here with our parents when we were young. We’re very close to the same age. We both have American PhDs. We wrote disserations in ethics. We started our careers in the Philosophy Department at Western in the early 90s. And we’ve had a multi-decade friendship and conversation about body image and physical fitness in our lives and the lives of women more generally. Then there’s the “fittest by fifty challenge,” this blog, and our book.
“[Fit at Mid-Life] reinforces the message that fitness can and should be for everyone, no matter their age, size, gender, or ability.” ––SELF
What if you could be fitter now than you were in your twenties? And what if you could achieve it while feeling more comfortable and confident in your body?
Here’s what we looked like when our book was published. Promotional photos are from the Amazon site. Thanks Ruth! (Ruthless Images)
Tracy and Sam as blondes
Now we’re aging and going grey together. Tracy first! See Tracy enters the grey zone. Tracy’s move to grey/silver was deliberate and planned and involved hair salons. Mine was accidental and a result of COVID-19.
I love Tracy’s silver hair and think it looks beautiful. I confess that silver envy is part of my motivation but I am not sure mine will look as good.
Luckily Sarah owns clippers and has been tidying up my undercut as it grows. Here’s my latest bikes and boats haircut. Gradually there’s less and less blonde and more and more of my hair’s natural colour.
But the thing is I never was someone who coloured her hair to cover grey. Here’s 80s me with a similar haircut and colour scheme. In wilder times it was also pink and purple. I’ve also never coloured the undercut bits and hiding my age was never part of my intention. I’ve always thought of hair colour as fun. I like tattoos rather than jewelry because they can’t get lost. And hair colour rather than make up because you don’t have to put it on and take it off each day.
And yet.
Here am in, in my 50s, in an administrative role as an academic, frequently sitting around tables with men in suits and women in dresses, almost of the women my age with blonde streaked hair. It’s ubiquitous.
I know why we do it. It’s easy. Highlights aren’t that expensive. The blonde is easier on your complexion. It’s closer to the lighter colour your hair is naturally turning. It’s forgiving in terms of growing in. It’s flattering.
But what if it no longer feels fun? It looks (except for my secret graying undercut) mainstream. What if it starts to feel mandatory?
Blondness is also complicated.
Apparently just 2 percent of adult white women in North America are blonde naturally. You wouldn’t guess that looking around campus or at the mall.
I hadn’t thought of blondness as connected to normative identities and whiteness until I read this article, The Pursuit of Blondness.
“Blondness, then, exists as a complicated form of self-expression. It can signal youth, beauty, privilege, and conformity. But it can also represent rebellion, independence, and the demand to be looked at and respected. It’s a choice that’s both distinctly personal and deeply intertwined with what society has taught people to value. Rankine and Lucas have a term for that: complicit freedom.“
Anyway, I’m growing it out because of #PandemicHair. Maybe I’ll keep it its natural colour. Maybe I’ll revert to blonde. It’s easy to do. It’s shockingly more dark than I remembered!
Cheddar, by the way, is a completely natural blonde.
Sam and her yoga dog
What are you doing with your hair colour during the pandemic? Any post pandemic hair colour plans?
It is officially summer now. The solstice was yesterday, Saturday June 20. We’re having a hot spell in the Northeast, which means I just installed my bedroom air conditioner unit more than a week ahead of my usual schedule (I always shoot for July 1 for no particular reason).
Today, I was taking a break from an online bioethics conference (which involves sitting at my computer looking at an endless– if very interesting– list of powerpoint presentations with audio). The break was the perfect antidote to sitting: hauling plastic chairs and stools downstairs to the driveway to soap, scrub and hose them off, in preparation for spruce-up spray painting.
As I said, it’s hot hot hot outside. I had a garden hose in my hand, multiple spray settings at the ready. It didn’t take long to put two and two together. Dual results: clean plastic outdoor furniture and a soaking wet, refreshed, happy Catherine.
This reminded me of how much fun I had as a child in my yard with garden hoses, sprinklers, kiddie pools, and a Slip ‘n Slide. I think my original one looked a bit like this:
Vintage Slip ‘n Slide box, with illustrated kids sliding on a wet piece of plastic on grass, and more people waiting for their turn.
Apparently they’re not designed for adults. Bummer. Look here for ominous tales about Slip ‘n’ Slide hazards.
When I got back inside, dried off, changed clothes, and sat down at my computer, I took a minor detour from bioethics talks, and searched for water-delivery-system fun toys or contraptions for local summer fun. It turns out there’s little to nothing for grownups. Here are some of the things I checked out.
Backyard inflatable splash/spray pads:
68″/1.72 meter round inflatable spray pad, with family of four totally photoshopped in to make it look like they all fit in it, which they don’t.
Novelty backyard sprinklers for kids:
Backyard sprinkler with 1) two kids poorly photoshopped in; 2) fake-looking grass; and 3) water spritzing photoshopped, too, as many reviewers said it hardly worked at all.
Kiddie wading pools, of which there are many variations:
Woman and kids actually in plastic pool but photoshopped to be in a bathroom. No idea why.
More deluxe inflatable model, with mini-slide, sprinklers (which may or may not work), and inflatable palm trees. Woman is outside pool, with tiny kids inside.
Standard model plastic pool, with two young kids and woman (outside pool), splashing.
Note: I searched and looked at a lot of pool-related products, and not one of them had pictures with black kids or black families. Not one. Perhaps such photos are out there, but they are not used for advertising any of the hundreds of products I perused.
If you have a bigger space or grander wet and wild ambitions, here’s something for you:
16’x30′ (4.8×9.1 meter) inflatable waterslide/pool. Now that’s what I’m talking about.
This baby weighs 375 lbs (170kg) costs $USD 275/day to rent. It also requires a large area for maximum frolicking fun, either wet or dry.
Sadly, none of these options were what I had in mind. I live in a three-family house that’s been condo-ized, and I’m the second floor owner. We share a backyard, but in reality I never use it. I do use my back porch a lot, but even a small wading pool seems like a very bad idea.
Here’s a promising idea: maybe I could have something like this for refreshing water dunking from time to time.
A contraption that releases 2 liters of water if someone hits the target to the side.
FunFunnel in action, with kid being showered with water. Looks refreshing.
But what if it’s just me, in need of outside cool-water immersion? Yes, I could hang a solar camp shower bag on my porch and get a cool water shower outside (you can tell I’ve really been avoiding those conference presentations today), but where’s the wild and giddy fun in that? Sigh.
So readers, you heard it here, maybe first: I think there’s a marketing opportunity here: fun water toys for 1) adults; and 2) anyone who lives with minimal outside space, like a porch, deck or balcony. Any thoughts? Product ideas? Recommendations for items I’ve missed? I’d love to hear from you.
I was riding my bike the other day, on Leslie Spit, and I was truly happy. The weather was perfect, the midges that fill my mouth were being blown away by the wind, I was only two kilometres from my house but I felt like I was out of the city. I was on my current favourite bike — the intrepid bombtrack — and I felt that sense of complete freedom and joy that only a perfect bike can bring.
I’ve spent a lot of time on the Spit during the lockdown, walking and running and riding, and I’m very grateful for it. I’ve also been in the don valley trails at least twice a week. Actual nature in the middle of the city. Freedom to move. Trees.
But.
As most of the world peeks out from under the lockdown (not us — in Toronto we’re still in phase 1), I am filled with a desire that I can’t fully express. It’s a feeling that never had to have a name before. It’s like missing a person, yearning for someone I long for who doesn’t quite love me back, the person who makes me more of myself. But it’s not a person, it’s a way of being.
The only way I have to express it is through a kind of metonymy: I’m yearning to move my body, on a bike, by myself, in a place I don’t know. I want to actually do those things. And I yearn for the me that comes with the freedom to do those things.
Over the past few years, I’ve been privileged to do cycling trips in a bunch of countries: with organized groups in Laos, Sri Lanka, Bhutan, Cambodia and Thailand; with a solo guide in Vietnam; with two friends and a tent in Germany; with a van and friends and a lot of chilly wind in Newfoundland; and — most preciously — by myself, carrying all my stuff, in Australia, Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania. I’ve also grabbed bikes for a day or two for solo explorations in Beijing, Singapore and Myanmar.
I’ve written about these trips a lot, and I went back to browse a few of those posts to try to understand exactly what it is I’m missing. And I found it in this post — it’s what I called “mindful surrender.” The absolute presence of a being on a bike in a place I’ve never been before, having to take what comes, discover what is there, navigate unexpected issues.
When I list those issues, they don’t sound very relaxing: unexpected forks in a road not captured on the map; shooting out of a park onto a highway entrance; the sense of never knowing for sure if you are going in the right direction; an unexpected corrugated, almost unridable dirt road that shakes all of the screws off your frame; unexpected stairs to a train you have to persuade urchins to help you navigate with all your stuff; dropping the bike with all its stuff onto you trying to go up a train ramp and having to be rescued by oblivious teenagers; running out of water on a hot day; ending up on the wrong side of a river with a boat schedule to meet; hotel clerks who find bikes distasteful; wind wind wind so much wind.
But after three months of adapting everything in my life to an online, distanced, anxiety-inflected world, I am yearning for the muscle and soul flex of setting out alone from a non-descript hotel, finding my way through a foreign land, the unexpected encounters of a beach, a popsicle, a holocaust memorial, a bird sanctuary, a new kind of baltic scone. I long to find myself alone at the end of the day riding through a wind farm to a tiny hotel at the end of the sea, and to have a woman ask “meat?” then serve me a mess of fried pork and onions and vegetables and a weird little liqueur I end up pouring out into the long seagrass. I long for pink soup and the unexpected find of a perfect meal in a small town. I long for the imagination of wondering what it would be to live in a town with pigeon cotes in the backyards and the worn down history of occupation.
It’s not as easy as saying “I miss traveling”. I do miss “traveling,” my personal rituals of tomato juice and haribo and fig bars on airplanes, the incredible privilege of being able to transport my nieces to new landscapes.
But it’s not that — it’s about missing the sense of openness to make choices that aren’t really very consequential, theelemental sense of finding myself alone on a literal road with literally no idea what lies ahead, seeing the unexpected pieces of lives you only see from a bike or your feet, like a woman selling a piece of a pig by the side of the road, just a table and a piece of flesh and an old scale and a knife. The transcendent joy of finding the strength in my body to make my way, alone, up 35 km of mountain road to a hidden monastery tucked in the himalayas. The radical acceptance that comes when you don’t know what terrain is really behind the lines on the map, you can’t ask for anything but the simplest needs because you realize, over and over, that English is not as ubiquitous as you think.
What I most miss is being able to *practice* radical acceptance in a non-consequential way, being able to experience not having control but trusting that it will all work out, knowing that at the end of the day, there will be a bed, some kind of meal, a sense of accomplishment.
In January, I wrote a post about taking a breather from travel for a while, especially organized bike trips. I wrote about how maybe I had done enough building of that muscle of strength and flexibility and needed to turn that energy elsewhere for a while. Now that being “grounded” has been imposed on us, that dealing with the unexpected — which for me isn’t that difficult, just wearying — I realize how much I yearn for the incredible privilege of being able to play at being accepting.
Nice one, universe.
What are you yearning for, right now?
Fieldpoppy is Cate Creede, who is still hoping to be able to travel to the west coast of Canada at some point this summer.
CW: This post addresses trauma, flashbacks and PTSD, although it does not directly describe traumatic events. Sex and personal anatomy are referenced.
Six weeks after my hysterectomy, my gynecologist gave me the OK to return to all physical activities–including sex. And a few weeks after that, my husband and I found an opportunity to explore what that meant. I was eager to enjoy a regular sex life again. Before the surgery, while I hadn’t had any pain associated with intercourse specifically, I was afraid of potentially magnifying the pain I was already experiencing. I also felt increasingly alienated from my reproductive system as the months dragged on before the surgery–like my uterus and the surrounding architecture were fighting against me, forcing this mutant litter of fibroids upon me, despite my lifelong disinclination to ever becoming pregnant.
But instead of easing our way back into a regular sex life, I found myself heading into becoming frozen–stuck in place, nearly nonverbal, unresponsive as a possum hoping you won’t drive over it in the middle of the road. I managed to softly say, “no, no, no, no, no,” and everything stopped.
This was the first sign I had that something about the hysterectomy had been emotionally traumatic for me.
I recognized the feeling. My therapist and I had identified that I had many of the markers of PTSD long before the hysterectomy. I can be jumpy for no reason, startled by everyday noises. I can experience emotions disconnected from the present moment–overwhelming dread being the most common. I get heightened into fight or flight at the grocery store, or walking down the street, or driving, and have to work my way back down into my emotional window of tolerance. In these moments of panic or dread or rage, I know that they don’t make sense. I’m aware that they aren’t a true response to something in the present, but a ghost of terrible moments in the past.
But while I knew this about myself, I was not prepared for it to get worse with surgery. Nowhere did I read that this can be a risk, and it seems especially surprising given my past traumas are not sexual. Many of the resources I found as I prepared for the surgery mentioned that many women mourn the loss of their womb, that connection to motherhood in their bodies. I get that, but I wasn’t concerned about it for me. I have never wanted to be a mother, and I’ve always viewed my reproductive system as a sort of vestigial set of organs, that maybe protects my heart and definitely inconveniences me one week out of every month.
My surgeon knew of my PTSD symptoms as well–she got a firsthand look at them on our very first appointment. Her office is unfortunately located in a hospital associated with some of my past trauma, and from about two blocks away, through the entire hour-plus visit, and until I was able to leave, I was in a full-on panic attack flashback. I hyperventilated, found myself crying, and felt totally overwhelmed by the emotions flooding over me. Honestly, I felt completely ridiculous trying to explain to the nurses why I was so clearly struggling with self-control. For the next visit, they prescribed me some Xanax to take before I arrived.
Past traumas increase our risk of future trauma. Our nervous system remembers the feelings of threat, hopelessness, dread and loss of control. It is not a surprise that I was at increased risk of new trauma, but I am surprised that a procedure performed completely under anesthesia can result in trauma. According to my therapist, our bodies can remember what our conscious minds cannot. She equated it to the feelings you have when a tooth is extracted at the dentist–thanks to the novocaine, you don’t feel pain, but your body registers the pressure and physical trauma of the loss of a tooth. And so, apparently, my body registered the hysterectomy as a threat, and now I am finding myself urgently needing to protect myself from future perceived threats.
Now I am startled by simple, intimate experiences. I’ve had to ask my husband to ask permission before he reaches out to stroke my back or leans in for a kiss. Without the “warning,” I can’t breathe through my startle response and reorient to the present moment. Sex scares me. Even the thought of a nonsexual item like a tampon entering my vagina makes me feel anxious–my breathing becomes shallow, my heart starts to race. I am increasingly on edge, so much closer to fight-or-flight than I was before.
You might be asking yourself how common this is. In an admittedly cursory search, I didn’t find a lot of information, but this very recent study found 16.4% of participants experienced multiple symptoms of PTSD 2-3 months after hysterectomy. This older study from the Mayo clinic found a smaller, but robust, increase in the number of people showing signs of anxiety and depression after hysterectomy than compared to a similar population who had not had a hysterectomy. Now, neither of these studies can show us causation–does getting a hysterectomy make people more likely to develop these mental health concerns? Or is it that certain mental health conditions or predispositions make it more likely that someone gets a hysterectomy? Since we can’t do placebo hysterectomies on half of a cohort and then see if there’s a difference in prevalence of PTSD symptoms, I’m not sure how we can suss that out.
Regardless, I can’t help but believe that people would benefit from knowing about these risks in advance. At a minimum, people like me with a history of trauma could potentially work with their mental health professionals in advance to develop a treatment plan, should it be necessary. That is why I’ve decided to write about it, even though it feels very personal. It would be my hope that more patients and doctors can be aware of these risks and be encouraged to talk about them.
It has been a year since I first wrote about my hysterectomy here. At that time, all I was concerned about was my physical health and fitness afterwards–I wanted to stay as strong and physically resilient as I could as I healed. Those physical concerns are in the past now. I can lift however I want. I can run without pain. But I’m still dealing with the consequences of my hysterectomy, and I can’t help but wonder how long these new ghosts will haunt me.
Marjorie Hundtoft is a middle school science and health teacher. She can be found reorienting to the present, picking up heavy things and putting them back down again in Portland, Oregon. You can now read her at Progressive-Strength.com .
Photo description: a pathway leading towards a sunset or sunrise.
You all, I am back in the water! As mentioned in my post on Saturday, my lifeguard club has started training again this week. Tuesday was our first session and it was… somewhere between glorious and very, very strange.
Glorious because we were back in the water after almost exactly three months. I have really been missing it, especially now that I can no longer run because of my pregnancy. It felt great to swim again and even though I’m noticeably slower (due to three months without training and being a lot less – what’s the water equivalent of aerodynamic, aquadynamic?) I’m pleased to report I didn’t drown. I felt a lot more graceful in the water than outside!
And this is where we get to the “strange” bit, because we spent a lot of time outside. Because of distancing regulations, and because our pool is very small, we can’t swim laps back and forth once there are more than three people in the pool. The pool has three lanes, so we swam up one outside lane, back down the middle one, and up the third. Then we’d get out, walk back to the beginning, and do it all over again. One thing that you definitely can’t get into this way is the flow that I love so much about swimming laps, which is a bit sad.
We also can’t:
overtake each other,
swim closer than two metres behind the person in front,
shower after swimming (we’re allowed to quickly rinse down before getting in),
have a conversation that goes beyond very simple instructions,
linger in the changing rooms,
walk around the common areas without a mask (unless it’s to go directly to the pool deck and get in the water),
and many more things that I’m currently forgetting.
It feels truly bizarre, and some of the rules don’t make all that much sense to me, like the not showering – I get that we’re supposed to minimise time spent in the common areas, but if we can shower before, surely we could at least wash the chlorine off after, even if we can’t take a full-blown shower? And the “no talking” rule, which is… impossible to implement among a group of people who are friends and in some cases haven’t seen each other in three months.
It also wasn’t terribly efficient in terms of actual swim practice. We swam about half of what we would normally do in a session, and because of the “no overtaking” and distancing rules, we swam very slowly.
It did feel safe. Between all the regulations in place and infection rates in our area being extremely low now, I was definitely comfortable.
Overall, I’m grateful to be back! But I do hope that we can get back to more “normal” training conditions soon.
Have any of you been back in a pool or practicing a team sport? Did you enjoy it? What were your regulations? If you can’t go back yet, would you if pools were to open up in your area? Feel free to share in the comments!
Many of my friends have been adapting their living spaces during the pandemic to allow them to work from home. First seen as a temporary measure, work from home is becoming a permanent option as companies and employees look forward to the next two years.
It’s not just about working from home but also working out from home. From yoga and high-intensity routines to creatively modifying everyday objects for gym equipment, our homes are segmented into zones for living, working, exercising, gardening, crafting, and oh yes, baking.
My kitchen currently has this poster Keep Calm and Eat a Cupcake (shown above), playing off the old British war slogan Keep Calm and Carry On. Quilting friends have signs on their sewing room doors indicating a variety of moods. This one is my favourite:
So it occurred to me if I was redesigning one of my corners to manage my workout equipment (yoga mat, skipping ropes, stretch bands, yoga bricks etc), what inspiration would I like to see to give me a smile and a positive nudge?
Most of what I found is rather “bro” in focus: Beast Mode; No Excuses; No Pain, No Gain etc. I’m not keen on those that use body shaming, guilt, or alcohol, and if you do find any featuring women, they tend to rely on thin, blond, ultra feminine presenting humans to sell a message (which is okay for those who see themselves there but not for me).
Many are also quite funny in a gentle way like this one, which combines my love of pie and coffee:
However, it doesn’t get to affirming my choice to move consciously and work my body in a challenging way. I thought I would ask you, dear readers, what would you find positive, feminist and inspirational to hang on your walls in your workout space?
A few weeks before official ‘stay at home’ recommendations were issued, I left the gym and started working out at home. We started out strength training with resistance bands, the TRX and a lone kettlebell.
It all began in the livingroom but with the nice weather we’ve moved to the back deck and the back yard. The first purchases were a mount for the punching bag and a giant tire for flipping.
Recently, we’ve added sand bags and water jugs to our lifting repertoire. Both work well for workouts with partners who lift different amounts. Here it’s me and my 22 year old son who significantly stronger than me.
I confess these purchases were his, both the inspiration and the execution. He’s been planning and provisioning for our back deck workouts. In the “220 workouts in 2020” someone called me a “badass.” That’s partly true but it’s more true I raised one and he is good about including his mom in his workouts. He owes me for all the time on the 401 when he played rugby! Also, it’s nice to workout with company.
The sandbag is one large bag with handles and then smaller bags filled with sand go inside. You buy the bags and the sand separately, of course, for reasons of shipping.
What do you do with sandbags? Pretty much anything you’d do with dumbells.
What’s the advantage of working out with sandbags?
First, there’s the one I mentioned above. You can load up the bag with a different number of sandbags for different people or different exercises.
Second, the instability of the sand gives the workout an added edge.
“One of the most versatile tools you’re probably not using, a sandbag is great for when you want to work out but also don’t want to spend all day working out. With a sandbag, the center of gravity is always shifting, because the sand moves back and forth, causing your core to engage in a different way than with a stable weight, even when you aren’t doing a core-focused exercise, explains Patrick McGrath, a certified personal trainer at Project by Equinox and SLT studio in New York City.”
Here’s a sample sandbag workout.
If you find they are all sold out online, there are lots of DIY solutions. Fill up your own bags with sand. We’re not travelling now anyway. You can also weigh them using the handy scales that we used to use to weigh our luggage–back in the before times.
The water jugs are the same idea. We have two sets of different sizes and you can (obviously) fill them up with different amounts of water. As with the sand, the water is unstable making for an extra challenge.
Today we used the heavy water jugs for deadlifts and farmer walks.
But here are some more ideas.
I will say that we aren’t the neatest when it comes to filling and emptying the jugs so for us it’s a good thing that these are outdoor workouts. Also, I think the lawn appreciates it!
