Some places just have magical properties– they excite us, calm us, soothe us. I am now in that place for me: a small beach called Litchfield in South Carolina, where I’ve been going since birth with my family. My grandfather Womack had a beach house here long ago, but it was partly washed away in Hurricane Hugo in 1989. The family ended up selling the house. I’m still sad about this.
Since then, we’ve rented a variety of places, but settled on a condo area with great biking paths, swimming pools, fabulous beach access, and lovely marsh and wildlife all around. We’re here now, having arrived yesterday (with lots of others heading to their favorite spots, if the traffic is any evidence).
We went to the beach first thing. Here’s proof:
My sister, niece and nephew playing impromptu beach volleyball.View from my activity– strolling and looking around.
We also went out to dinner, to celebrate my oldest nephew’s birthday. We’ll be doing the same for his younger brother next week. In the meantime, here’s our plan:
swimming
biking
beach walking
napping
some game playing
eating (out and in)
deck sitting
idle chatting
However, since we haven’t done those things for me to report on to you, I’m reblogging another such outing 6 years ago. The kids were smaller, but we did approximately the same activities. If it isn’t broke, no need to fix it.
I was a proud “Dickie Chick.” One of a threesome of sisters, with a dad named Dick, who participated relay-style in the 70.3 Ironman in Muskoka in 2017. One sister swam the 1.9k, the other sister biked the 90k, and I ran the 21.1k. (That’s me on the right.)
The Dickie Chicks. Janet is on the right.
I remember flying past runners who were doing the full slog, calling out “just doing the relay” so they wouldn’t feel bad. As beaten up as they looked, I was strangely envious of their extra sweat, grime and grit. Fleetingly.
Running prevailed and I started to get serious about it. I raced for personal bests and prizes and bought a Garmin. About a year ago, I noticed my runs were turning into countdowns: 9k to go, 6k, 5k, 4k, 3k, 2k, done.I was also getting unnecessarily anxious before races, even before speed workouts. (Ridiculous!)
A few months ago, my oldest son announced a goal to do the Muskoka 70.3 Ironman to mark his 40th birthday.
And there it was—that fleeting feeling from seven years ago. Me? An Ironman? The feeling started to linger. It started to grow.
I did some research, talked to a few experts. Before long, I’d gone way past doing the 70.3 in cottage country at age 64. I was fantasizing about being at the 2025 Ironman 70.3 World Championships in Spain on November 8, 2025, at age 65.
I kept things to myself. I was afraid that if the words came out of my mouth, I’d be committed.
Uncertainty swept in. I hadn’t swum lengths in four decades, not to mention my childhood trauma over cold water.
In a bold moment, I called a personal coach—Ryan Power, as good as they come. I was surprised he was keen to take on a 65-year-old female novice. You know what he said? He said that he’s currently working with seven athletes right now and two are over age 75.
Well then.
He said that an equivalent to qualifying for the world tri championships is qualifying for the Boston marathon, which I’ve done twice.
Well then.
It’s in the cards, I said to myself. I was ready to let it out of the bag. Now I’m committed.
What has gotten into me? I prefer simplicity. What can be more complicated than a triathlon watch, or a fuel plan to sustain 8 hours of work?
I don’t really like spending money. In the last 20 days, I have spent at least $2.5k, and according to Austrian triathlete, Clément, I can expect to spend another $3k to get myself geared up for competition, and then $2.9k in every year to follow. (Not including things like Spain.)
A bike covered in tri gear.
Worst of all, I can’t figure out the leg action to clip out of the pedals on my new road bike.
“You’ll want to clip out with your right leg,” said the bike specialist, “so you can lean away from the traffic.”
But my right leg wasn’t working. Forget the traffic, I thought, I’m using my left.
Last week was my first official week of training. Don’t tell Ryan, but after day one, I had a stiff back. After day three, I had a bruised elbow from banging the lane ropes. And on day five, I added a scraped knee to the old bod from tipping over on my bike. (I’d clipped out—yay—but forgot to use the brakes.)
It’s week two. I can hardly wait to get going again.
Will I make it to Spain? I have no idea. But I like picturing myself crossing the finish line. If that gives me joy and motivation and a good reason to hop out of bed every morning, then why not try. Anyway, I’m 64; I can do whatever I want.
Is that the point of this endeavour? That I’ve reached the age where I can do whatever I want? Let’s think about this.
I cannot get too excited and talk about my new hobby too much or people will think I’m bragging. No one likes a braggart. Humility is the much-preferred trait, especially in the family I married into.
I cannot let myself get too exhausted. Yawning through social gatherings is equally as unattractive as bragging. And I need energy to continue baking bread, concocting hummus, and creating grandkids’ birthday cakes (another source of joy).
I cannot let my new hobby negatively impact my 42-year marriage. I cannot consume our travel budget around races; I cannot get too obsessed because that’s hard to live with; I cannot cram the drying rack with any more workout clothes; I cannot let this interfere with happy family traditions; and I certainly cannot expect a cozy night on the couch livestreaming tri championships. It’s not golf, after all.
The cannots add up, and they’re hard; I think about them all the time. But I cannot not do this or I’d be short-changing myself on something my gut is telling me to go for. Who cares if I get a little excited, exhausted and obsessed? It’s nothing that a new drying rack can’t fix. Or a glass of wine in Spain.
Lots of athletic wear on a clothes drying rack.
Janet Tufts’ bio
With over 30 years of local, national and international experience in the non-profit and public sectors, Janet is currently enjoying semi-retirement, balancing a part-time role as Executive Director of Operation Walk Canada with her love of reading, writing, baking and moving. Previously, Janet served as the Executive Director of both Big Brothers Big Sisters of London and Area and the Canadian Medical Hall of Fame.
From 2016 to 2018, Janet spent two years in Malaysia as a member of a multi-cultural team that led the government’s implementation of their blueprint for public school transformation. Janet holds a Master’s in Business Administration, Bachelor of Education, Bachelor of Arts, and a Professional Certificate in Communications and Public Relations. She has served as a director on numerous boards, and is currently a board member of St. Joseph’s Health Care London. Janet embraces any opportunity to be part of a humanitarian mission and to date, has been to Southern Sudan, Peru and Ecuador.
It’s blustery. It’s cold. There’s a struggle to zip up playground-stained mittens over synthetic down jacket sleeves. Our daughter, 5, accepts the lovingly crocheted scarf that I’ve wrapped around her neck. I look at her, satisfied with her bundled body, and proudly watch as she sets off, walking up the hill towards her school with her dad. She will be protected and warm, I think to myself. My pride sinks slightly as I watch her grab the scarf and tuck it under her chin, exposing her sweet cheeks to the frosty air.
It’s bright. It’s warm. The sun streams through the window, highlighting the living room furniture. My family bounds with natural energy. Our daughter, 6, comes down the stairs arrayed in patterns. Floral pants, a graphic t-shirt, and a speckled sweater clash in a medley of colours and fabrics. Confidence beams through her eyes, and I smile affectionately when she caps off her outfit by stretching mismatched Monsters Inc. socks over her pant cuffs. She insists that she won’t need a jacket, but I make her bring one in her backpack just in case— after all, Alberta is known for its unpredictable climate.
It’s sopping. It’s wet. The rubber boots are too small. A self-proclaimed water-resistant pair of yellow combat boots is the only option. Our daughter, 7, zips them up and ties the aesthetic-only laces, excited to be wearing them. Internally, I worry that she’ll catch severe illness if her toes get wet and remain so for the duration of the school day. I throw an extra pair of socks in her backpack. She hears my instruction to put them on if her socks get wet. I’m sure she forgets her affirmation upon reaching the sidewalk.
A rainy walk to school.
A man and his young daughter walk up a rain-soaked sidewalk. The man is wearing all black and looking down affectionately at his daughter. The daughter is holding a speckled umbrella above her head.
When we bought our house at the bottom of the hill, one of the highlights was its proximity to the local elementary school. From the date of purchase, I envisioned uphill walks filled with dreams for the day ahead and downhill returns replete with tales of recess and the classroom.
We are three years into my daughter’s elementary years, and our reality is not far-off from these visions. For the most part, my husband walks our daughter up to the school before walking to work, and I get the privilege of walking her home.
Our walks are filled with learned moments for all of us. The trudge up the hill has been enlightening as we speak the wisdom of physical exercise and mental perseverance to our tired children. Admittedly, walking up a snowy hill in snow pants and boots really descries the concept of “an uphill battle.” Although she sometimes complains about the walk, I am thankful she gets to learn these difficult lessons gently. Walks down the hill are my time to learn as I listen to what fun and affliction look like to her generation.
When I pick her up on the snowy days, she is dressed in much less fabric than when I sent her out the door. Her mittens are lodged in her backpack, buried by her scarf and often her snow pants. Minus 20 degrees Celsius hits kids differently than it does us adults. On our walk home, if I suggest she put on her winter accessories on our walk home, she will insist that she’s “boiling.”
On warmer days, I watch her burst out of the school doors, beaming like the rays of the sun. Often, she is just in a t-shirt, even if the temperature would support wearing a sweater. If she does exit the school in a sweater, it is bound to end up draped on my arm on our walk down the hill.
When an umbrella is warranted, I arrive at the school to find her splashing in the puddles and her backpack sitting in one. Are her socks wet? Yes. Have they been wet all day? “Mostly,” she responds humorously and then continues to skip joyfully down the soggy sidewalk.
Our family candidly enjoying a walk by our local river.
A family of four way away from the camera. From the left there is a man, a young girl, a younger boy, and a woman. All face away except for the young girl who is looking delightfully at her younger brother. It is a beautiful day with a blue sky and green grass.
It is not lost on me how fortunate I am to work from home and spend these precious moments with my daughter (and son, since he’s three years younger and often in tow). I have had the privilege of watching her grow from running ecstatically to me at pick-up to dropping her backpack at my feet and racing off to join her friends in the schoolyard. She tucks her socks under her pant cuffs now, and I would be lying if I said that I didn’t mourn it a bit. I take solace in that she still often chooses unconventional outfit pairings. I am safe from the loss of this innocence for a while.
Each year, her personality changes like the weather. There is no predicting who she will be as time meanders on. What I do know is that I’ll be proudly watching as she grows and adapts to what each season brings. Of course, I’ll have many suggestions for her, but I know she’ll find her own path. All I can hope is that she welcomes me and her dad on the walks with her up and down the hill for many more years. And with each passing season, I will hold close to my heart the memories of releasing her in the mornings and excitedly reuniting in the afternoons. Each walk will be a walk to remember.
Stephanie Morris is a transcriptionist and writer based in Alberta, Canada. She is a wife, a mom of two, and a newcomer to the career-writing world. As a fancier of history and literature, she aspires to blend the two in fiction and nonfiction pieces. To follow Stephanie’s writing adventures, find her at @words.and.smores on Instagram.
Well, it’s happened. I didn’t know if it ever would. But this was my year. Yes, I’m talking about finishing my 223 workouts in 2023 challenge without frantically rushing around the block multiple times on December 30 or grimly doing bridge exercises in my living room. But, on December 22, I made it: hit the 223 mark!
Go me!
Yes, I know this news isn’t of tremendous import: I wasn’t the first over the line, and it was Dec 22 when I met the goal. But: this was the first year since I joined the challenge group in 2018 that it went so smoothly. Every other year, I had to plot and plan to get the workouts in over the holidays so I could finish up by Dec 30 or 31. All that last-minute hustling left me feeling foolish instead of glad or proud. Not good.
Poor me!
But that didn’t happen this year. What was different in 2023?
Looking back, I see a few changes. The main one is that I sought out or let myself be pulled into group activity. This sounds simple, but during the pandemic many of us shifted to more solitary workouts. I thought that would go well for me. It so didn’t. Turns out I do much better in groups, even groups where I’m the least fit person.
Also, I traveled more in 2023, seeing friends and family, going to conferences, doing a little touristing even. Again, I wasn’t a solitary self for any of these trips; I was accompanied by friends or family, who swam and walked and cycled and did yoga alongside me. It was fun. More often than not it was low-key as well– just getting outside and enjoying ourselves.
My sister and niece with the dogs, accompanying me on workout number 223.
This year I tried to say yes to more outings with people, to worry less about my fitness and instead to focus on spending time with people whose company I enjoy. And those people often like to move around in space (including water). So I went with them, and enjoyed myself as well.
Finally, a big shout-out to Nature, for being there all the time, ready to accept our visits. None of this is news to any of us, but heading out to green spaces, preferably near water, smooths out the rough edges of anyone’s day. Here are a few highlights from workout #224, done yesterday with family.
Winter brush with a view of the Congaree river in South Carolina.Rocks and gentle rapids in the afternoon sun.Unexpected art carving of two owls in a log beside the river.
I expect I’ll rack up a few more workouts before year’s end. But I’m not sweating it. And that, my friends, is news to me!
Dear readers, how is your end of year activity going? Are you getting out there? Staying in? Looking to bust out of a relative’s living room to stretch your legs? Running after dogs or kids? I’d love to hear from you.
Two weeks ago, I went lane swimming for the first time in a long time. In my last blog post, “All Lanes are Open,” I commented on how I often let my excuses overtake my need for physical exercise. I left the pool that day hoping that I would have better self-discipline going forward. While I did think about swimming more, I found that fitting another session into my schedule was still difficult. In fact, I haven’t fit another one in yet.
However, this is not a self-deprecating post. I may not have succeeded in getting to the pool, but I still got a workout in. Only, it wasn’t in a gym, on a track, or in a studio. It was in a house. And no—it wasn’t an at-home fitness program.
Last week, my mom and I set out towards the small Albertan town where my sister had moved. Our goal? To help her clean her new place so she could begin settling in. When we arrived and saw the little two-bedroom bungalow nestled on the large property, we were giddy with excitement. It was a house with character. Inside, wood paneling and mismatched trim adorned the walls. Vinyl flooring ran throughout the house with some newly replaced planks poking up in attestation.
The door on the floor leading to the storm cellar.
The highlight of the mid-century home was the proper storm cellar situated in the floor of the laundry room. The heavy floor-door revealed a series of six-inch-deep stairs that led to a surprisingly high-ceilinged cellar. Here housed the furnace, a work bench, some smaller pieces of furniture, and, of course, cobwebs. Thankfully, there was a sliver of a window to ease claustrophobia.
What does this have to do with fitness? We had to clean the house. All of it. I’m talking dusting the walls, washing the walls, scrubbing the baseboards, doing all-the-above to the floors, disinfecting the bathroom, degreasing the kitchen, and deodorizing everything. Then there was dodging flies while vacuuming up their deceased friends from windowsills. It was an intense workout!
To tackle it all, we decided to divide and conquer. I declared myself in charge of the bathroom, doors, and windowsills. My mom and sister tackled the main bedroom and living rooms.
Have you noticed the abdominal workout that cleaning a bathtub provides? If you’re like me and refuse to stand in the bathtub while cleaning the surroundings (because—gross), then you’ll understand the shoulder stretch you get from reaching across the tub. It is a must to engage the core muscles to avoid back injury. Then there’s the up, down, side-to-side motions. Thankfully, cleaning the basin portion offered a relieving stretch along the lower back as my glutes lowered me into a squat.
Then there are the mystery group of muscles that are featured in cleaning toilets that are situated close to walls. I had to be deliberate in my movements, keeping my muscles obedient to ensure I didn’t bend carelessly around the bowl. I certainly did not want to pull a muscle on my first task!
Cleaning the vanity and mopping the floor—and re-mopping it after my sister’s boyfriend walked through with boots to change the light fixture—concluded my bathroom workout. Next were the doors. Now, that is a good squat routine!
Our trio reconvened to tackle the kitchen which, fortunately or unfortunately for me, provided a similar full-body workout as the bathroom and doors did. Arms were favoured in scrubbing out cupboards. Legs and core were the primary targets of the lower cupboards and the space behind the appliances. Even with all three of us tackling it, breaking a sweat was easy come by. We happily took advantage of water breaks.
The three of us in front of the house post-clean.
Amid the scrubbing and polishing, us girls got to talk. We’d laugh over cloths, asking each other which one was for soaping and which one was for rinsing, and asking ourselves why they were all the same colour when there were other colour options. Even though we were too busy and too tired to talk about deep things, we all felt content just being around each other.
Doing life together is a value that I hold dearly. If I had it my way, I would do everything with at least one person present, even if it’s reading in silence. Having this extroverted viewpoint does often stifle my ability to self-start my fitness routines, but it’s a part of my personality. Companionship ignites my spirit.
I did feel more sore in the days following the cleaning than I did after swimming, but I still experienced the same gleeful energy as I did at the pool. The joy from working out alongside two of my favourite people made me realize that hard workouts can be completed without mental burnout. I can leave tired and wake up sore and still want to do it all over again. I thought that feeling was reserved for passionate fitness gurus.
I seem to have a pattern emerging. My fitness journey finds success most frequently when I execute it alongside something my soul loves. In the pool, my love for the water propelled me forward. At this house, it was my love for my mom and sister.
While I wait for my next lane swim or deep-clean day at a friend’s place, I’ve decided to come up with a list of things my soul loves and see if I can pair them with a physical activity. Maybe I’ll try hopping on my stationary bike and watch train-wreck reality TV. Maybe I’ll go for a long walk-and-talk with a friend. Unfortunately, I have yet to come up with an idea where I can read or write while exercising.
If you have an idea for me, please let me know in the comment section below. While you’re at it, let me know if you are a solo-fitness person, or an extrovert like me who prefers having someone else’s energy come alongside.
Stephanie Morris is a transcriptionist and writer based in Alberta, Canada. She is a wife, a mom of two, and a newcomer to the career-writing world. As a fancier of history and literature, she aspires to blend the two in fiction and nonfiction pieces. To follow Stephanie’s writing adventures, find her at @words.and.smores on Instagram.
Would you rather be able to fly or be able to breathe under water? My seven-year-old daughter has been entertaining our family the past few suppers with “Would you rather” questions. This one, between flying or breathing under water, comes at a time when my choice is clear. However, if she had asked it two days ago, that clarity may not have been there.
Two days ago, I found myself spiraling towards depression. The current economic climate paired with my four-year-old son’s exercises in emotional regulation had been agitating my anxious mind. The stress had begun to cling to my arms, threatening to squeeze me into suffocation. By the time I sat down at the supper table, I was detached from conversation and desperate for solitude, a state of being that is contrary to my extroverted nature. I felt on the verge of a mental breakdown when, suddenly, I was hit with an undeniable desire: I wanted to go lane swimming.
Swimming is my preferred fitness activity, though, admittedly, I don’t often engage in it. My fitness journey has been one of ideas more than one of action. When I am thinking about fitness it is in the context of “When I have some free time, I’ll get to it.” The problem is that I am the mom of two busy kids, a responsible pet owner to an active dog, a socialite who desires to stay connected, and an aspiring entrepreneur about to jump into a new career—free time evades me. These identities of mine are used as my primary excuses for scarcely devoting time to exercise.
However, that evening at the supper table, I chose to listen to my desire, and I declared to my husband that I was going lane swimming. We had already made plans for him to complete the children’s bedtime routine while I got some work done, but I told him that I needed to go swimming instead. Being the knowledgeable and supportive husband that he is, he heard my desperation and encouraged me to go.
Yet, even after mentally committing to going, I found myself putzing about, slowly gathering my aquatic attire, waiting for the excuses or distractions to come. A small voice trickled in bringing guilt over leaving the family and household responsibilities to my husband. Isn’t that often the case, that women feel guilty about taking time to take care of themselves? I am thankful that my husband doesn’t support that mindset. Seeing my hesitation, he told me again to go. No other excuses came.
So I went. I drove the one kilometer to the pool, navigated the newly renovated changeroom, and walked awkwardly towards the lanes. Feeling out of place and slightly embarrassed by my existence, I paused to confirm with the lifeguard that all lanes were open. They were. Then, after more than five years, I snapped on my goggles and dove in.
What a glorious experience! The salty basin welcomed me freely, extending the kindness of washing the tensions and stresses from my body. Giving way to my strokes, the water let me rise and fall with the movements of my limbs. My muscles propelled me forward in a pattern understood by my lungs, which held air for me until my mouth broke the surface. I swam two lengths, rested for a minute, and then repeated, cycling between the front crawl, breaststroke, and backstroke.
For 30 minutes I resisted the urge to push myself in favour of allowing myself to enjoy my time in the water. That proved to be difficult as two swimmers in the lane next to me had performed their butterfly strokes at twice the speed of my breaststroke. To tame my competitiveness, I allowed myself to admire the strength of these women. Though their skills surpassed mine, I knew that it was a result of ambition, perseverance, and conditioning.
These women were working hard, and I knew that they had reached their level of athleticism by choosing to engage in that hard work regularly. I felt inspired by these women by their mere existence in the pool, so I chose to allow myself to think of myself in that light too. I left the pool with a confidence and a knowledge about myself that I had silenced. I learned that in the water I am powerful, graceful, capable. In the water I feel hopeful, patient, and at peace.
Two days later, these feelings linger. The minute tension that remains in my glutes and hamstrings brings me pride. It took more effort to get myself to the pool than the act of swimming did. The only barricade between a lifestyle that heals my anxieties and nourishes my body is me.
My priorities, while focused on good things—like my children, pets, and wanting to contribute to the household in duties and in finances—have needed this awakening to consider the exponential benefits of physical activity.
My fitness journey is alive. When I am not physically moving, I am growing. My life leads me to places that challenge my priorities, my patience, and my fears. Fitness has a place in that growth, and I see it attract me back to it in my most desperate states of being. This time, I am certain that I won’t be waiting five years before visiting the lanes again. In fact, I find myself thinking that next time I’ll ride my bike the one kilometer to the pool.
I couldn’t have imagined that one lane session would be so transformative. So, when I am asked if I would rather be able to fly or breathe under water, my answer is quick and easy: I would rather breathe under water. It takes me to new heights anyway.
Stephanie Morris is a transcriptionist and writer based in Alberta, Canada. She is a wife, a mom of two, and a newcomer to the career-writing world. As a fancier of history and literature, she aspires to blend the two in fiction and nonfiction pieces. To follow Stephanie’s writing adventures, find her at @words.and.smores on Instagram.
All of us at FIFI are grateful to Samantha and Tracy for starting the blog in 2012, inviting us to join as writers and readers, and keeping it going strong in the midst of whirlwinds of change over the past decade plus some. In honor of her birthday, and in no particular order, are 59 great things about Samantha, who turns 59 today.
1–4: Samantha’s in-house menagerie of various creatures:
Three dogs. from biggest to littlest: Cheddar, Charlie and Chase.Lizzie, the bearded dragon, whose eating habits Sam compares to that of a toddler.
5–8: a rotating roster of cats, past and present, including the venerable Zippy, who lived to the ripe old age of 18, Boo, her son Gavin’s cat, who lodges with them from time to time, and her daughter Mallory’s cats Louie and Moon, who visit on occasion.
9–16: Sam’s well-looked after family of Mallory, Gavin, Miles, Kathleen, Sarah, Jeff, Susan, and others I’m forgetting. Not to mention her many friends, students, colleagues, and neighbors (which I’m counting as one for these purposes).
I don’t think I got everyone in this montage, but that’s just because Samantha’s family and friends cannot be contained by mere digital means.
Samantha with family, friends, dogs and bikes.
17–26: Sam’s written a lot of very popular blog posts over the years. Here are ten of them:
The fact that Sam wrote in both 2013 and 2021 about finding clothes to fit athletic women’s bodies shows a real need for this blog. And by the way, it’s not fixed yet. But don’t worry, Sam and the rest of us are on it.
27–31: Samantha has been writing about real women’s bodies (in contrast to Barbie bodies) for a decade before the movie came out. Here are five of her posts:
38–40: Sam continues to embrace the gear! 1.667 boats
1/3 of a big sailboat
1/3 of a small sailboat
3/3 of a canoe
41: Sam doesn’t embrace single car ownership, but shares one with her mum.
42: Say what you will, but I think Sam and I looked pretty similar in high school.
Catherine, with less good hair than Sam but a good shirt.Sam, very composed and camera-ready
43: I think we still look like we could be cousins (which we certainly are in a psychic sense, or something)
Sam and me in fall 2019 at the covered bridge in Guelph. Note similar smiles and eyes.Sam and me in October 2022 at my talk in Guelph– similar smiles, eyes, choices in professional wear.
44: Samantha loves books! She buys books, reads them, talks and writes about them in our FIFI book club (and elsewhere), and gives books to people. Hey Sam– what should our next FIFI book club be about? Something to think about.
45: Sam’s To Listen, Read and Watch posts. They are a relaxing and often informative time-out from work emails or more serious reading. Wanna catch up on some of them? Look here.
46: No matter what sort of snafu or whoopsie-thing happens with the blog (and yes, below our sleek, professional exterior, we are fallible like everyone else…:-) Samantha manages to a) fix it; or b) compensate for it; and c) not sweat about it. Thanks, Sam!
47–59: For each year of this blog– 2012–2023 and on, Samantha and Tracy deserve praise (Tracy’s birthday is coming up soon, too, so stay tuned…)
Happy 59th, Samantha, from me, the bloggers, the readers, and Robert Anderson (who took this photo on Unsplash).
Renting bicycles for vacation two-wheeled adventures with friends and family (and solo ones) is one of my favorite things. I’ve rented bikes all over the world for me, and all over the US with my sister and her kids. In fact, my sister and I have an upcoming e-bike tour in San Francisco that includes riding across the Golden Gate Bridge and taking the ferry back (with bikes) from Sausalito. Don’t worry– I’ll be documenting and reporting on it as soon as it happens.
But renting bikes doesn’t always go well.
Case in point: my sister recently reserved rental bikes online from the beach condo resort where she and the kids were staying for a long weekend. They were part of the accommodations package. When she went to the main desk at the resort to begin the pick-up process, here’s a bit of what happened:
Sister: We’re here to pick up three bikes I reserved. What sizes do you have?
Desk person: They’re all the same size (this is totally false), but the seats are different heights.
Sister: Oh, okay. Are the seats adjustable?
Desk person: We don’t have any tools for adjusting them. You would have to go buy one (while not false, this shows ignorance of the fact that the seats are all quick-release and therefore all adjustable without tools).
Sister picks up bikes, but there are no locks or helmets anywhere in sight. She doesn’t think about this until later, and is very unhappy. They can’t use the bikes to ride to the beach because of no locks (and no helmets). By the time they get back to the rental desk, it’s raining, so they give up and return them, unhappy.
My sister had much more to say about her unsatisfactory experience, but the upshot is this:
Unhappy!
Let’s contrast her experience with mine when I rent beach bikes from an actual bike shop near that same resort. Here are some things they know and deal with that the resort bike people either don’t know or don’t care about:
Their bikes come in different sizes and styles (step-through and not);
Their beach bike saddles are quick-release height adjustable;
Bike tires need pumping often, which is tended to;
Each bike comes with a lock and helmet;
Their bikes also have bottle cages and removable handlebar bags.
Every time I’ve ordered from Cyclopedia, they delivered and picked up the bikes themselves. We didn’t have to be there even, because they were locked them outside our condo. And the lock combo is pre-set by these folks to be the last four digits of my phone number.
When our bike rental period is over, we leave them locked outside, and the bike shop van comes to get them, knowing the combo because my phone number is on their form.
Easy peasy lemon squeezy!
I’m writing this tale of two bike rentals because if you aren’t a regular cyclist but enjoy riding bikes on vacation, you might consider renting from an actual bike shop rather than whatever place you’re staying. I’ve had great experiences and great conversations and gotten great tips from bike shops all over by renting directly from them.
Readers, what kind of experiences have you had while renting bikes on vacation? I’d love to hear about them: the good, the bad, and the atrocious.
HI readers– during the past five days I’ve been on vacation with some dear friends, taking some time out (and away) to enjoy water, sun, nature, food, a little culture, and laughs with each other. I’ll be blogging about it soon, but have to get to the airport very soon. So, I offer you another family vacation blog post– from 2016 with my sister and her kids– about adjustment, fitness and fun. Enjoy, and then head outside if it’s nice where you are.
CW: Mention of loss and complex family relationships on Father’s Day
Today is Father’s Day in the US, Canada, India, China and a bunch of other countries. When we celebrate it varies, just as it does for Mother’s Day. How we celebrate it varies also, according to community and family traditions, proximity of family members, relationships among family members, and where we are along the family life trajectory. In short, Father’s Day rarely reflects the simplified messages that we see in cards.
I’m don’t know why so many Father’s Day cards use dogs in human roles to issue greetings, but whatever. They are kind of cute, though.
For my sister and me, Father’s Day has always been complicated. Our father didn’t teach us how to fish, or play chess, or make a bookcase, or do those things that movie-dads (and maybe some others?) seem to excel at. Our parents went through multiple marriages, resulting in both distance and complexity in family relationships. Father’s Day was, at best, awkward for us. We really didn’t know what to do or celebrate because all the other days of the year didn’t give us a clue about what fathers do for and with their children.
My father died young and a long time ago, making Father’s Day complex in a different way– about regret, loss, and wondering what I had actually missed by having that relationship.
Today, though, I am not feeling that sense of loss. I’ve been visiting my family for the past two weeks, seeing a lot of relatives. I’ve been seeing and hearing about the fathers in my family– uncles and cousins who have been attending to their children in ways they feel like they can and should contribute. From school work to boogie-boarding in the surf, these men are doing what they know how to do and learning how to do what they’re not good at, all geared toward teaching and loving and making the world as safe and wonderful as they can for their kids.
Once I took all this in, I looked around and saw how fathering happens in my family. My sister and I do these things– for each other and for her children. I’m the one who takes the lead on travel plans and outdoorsy activities. I do the major gear-buying (read bikes at every age) and opportunities to use them (rail trails for the win). My sister teaches the kids about money– how to manage it, how to save it– and about living in the world of grown-up things to do (like oil changes, bill paying, house maintenance, etc.)
We also do this for each other, providing structure and security when it’s needed, helping each other learn or get more comfortable or just push through things that are hard. Travel planning isn’t my sister’s forte, but I love it. Doing car things for my car isn’t mine (see? I can’t even word it precisely…) but she helps me, even from afar.
Elizabeth and I agree on the importance of planning ahead, the necessity of contingency/back-up plans, the simple pleasure of dog walking, and the superiority of beaches over mountains (fight us). Beyond that, we help parent each other and her kids in our own inimitable ways.
Dear readers, wherever you are with your father, we wish you a Happy Father’s Day. And wherever you are, we hope you find some ways to let yourself father and be fathered today and all days.
Father’s Day (and general) greetings from the Womack sisters, Catherine (left) and Elizabeth (right).
