This post is a reflection on a recent bike and barge trip I took with 4 women friends from Bruges to Amsterdam.
In thinking about this post, I re-visited a post I wrote for FIFI in Oct 2014 about my feelings of inadequacy, particularly around my lack of fitness, on a bike trip to Utah. To provide context for those of you who didn’t read, or don’t remember, my earlier post 😊, I am a member of a biking group that started 17 years ago when a small group of women who worked together began taking bike trips together! In 2010, I was asked to join them on a trip to the Loire Valley, and since then we have had the privilege to bike through places near and far, such as Quebec, Italy, Portugal, and Denmark.
Most of these trips were self–guided, meaning we were responsible for getting ourselves around – there was no team leader navigating and no sag wagon available to provide a break from riding. This year though we opted to try something new – biking 300 km over 6 days while travelling on a canal barge.
I suspect the motivation was partly our aging bodies but primarily due to concern about my limitations. Although I am the youngest at 58, I have Parkinson’s disease, degenerative disc disease and other assorted ailments. Furthermore, I broke my tibia in a 2020 bike accident. These factors contributed to limit my outdoor bike riding. Although I did some training on the gym bike, the sad truth is that at the time of the trip, I had only ridden my bike 5 times outside in the past 2 years.
I could comment on several aspects of the trip such as how it made me grind my teeth listening to the “sweep” (another passenger) voluntarily mansplain how to purchase an e-bike to one of my friends. However, I am going to limit myself to observations about two disparate subjects – the power and importance of true friendship and the way the trip helped me begin to accept my new body shape.
One of my favorite sayings is “Surround yourself with champions”. I am very lucky as each one of my fellow biker chicks is a true champion. The following are just some of the ways:
One was insistent from day 1 that I was going, even if I ended up sitting on the boat the entire time. She even offered to sit and people-watch, if need be, when we were off the boat, despite the fact that she had not been to Amsterdam or Bruges before.
When we met as a virtual group to discuss our pre/post time in Amsterdam and Bruges, the group could not have been more accepting of my need to eat and take medicine at specified times, or accommodating, planning around my down time when my meds start to wear off.
For several weeks prior to departure, we checked in regularly regarding our exercise regime to encourage one another in preparation for our travels.
While on the trip, my big heavy bike fell over on me three times – my friends took my bruising in stride and on one occasion one of my friends prevented a well-meaning stranger from physically grabbing me in his efforts to help.
I chose not to bike on two days and felt that the team completely supported my decision.
Perhaps most importantly, my friends navigated the difficult road of looking out for me with exemplary care and compassion, recognizing my need for autonomy but readily providing assistance when requested.
I have always struggled with body image issues but never more than in the past 18 months or so. This is because I am shrinking while essentially maintaining the same weight. I have lost 7 cm and feel like I am all boobs and big belly these days. I truly hated my body before I left on this trip, but I’m happy to say I’m back on the road to acceptance.
Why? The first step was a vow I made on the eve of departure; I promised not to complain about how I looked or be grumpy about having my picture taken. I did this because I didn’t want to ruin my friends’ trip by whining. I even made one of my friends promise to give me the stink-eye if I broke this vow.
The next step was being physically able to participate in the trip. I was able to walk in Amsterdam/Bruges without much difficulty, but the true triumph was biking 200 km over 4 days. I had forgotten how much I enjoy biking as a way of sightseeing. It made me realize that I cannot hate a body that is healthy enough to allow me to experience this.
Lastly it seemed full circle to re-read my 2014 post. I said then that life has a way of throwing us curveballs. The curveballs, although different, keep coming. I need to remember to embrace every opportunity while I can. Life is too short to live any other way.
Susan F
Susan M
Fortunate. I feel so, very, very fortunate. To have friends who share my love of cycling, and of learning through travel; to be able, at the age of 60+, to physically do all the things I want to do; and to have the financial wherewithal to get up and go when the opportunity presents itself. Our group may move differently now than we did 15 years ago but we are still moving, and moving makes life better, in the short term and the long term. Not only do I feel fortunate, I am grateful to my friends for moving with me!
Friends on bikes, without the bikes
Vicky R
“What to do, What to see, What to remember…’ This was the inscription on the notepad at our hotel in Amsterdam.
What to say about a group of 55+ women who have been cycling together for over 15 years in Europe and North America?
We have had some awesome adventures, eaten some amazing food and we continue to laugh out loud together! And yes…we also cycle in between the food, drinks and shopping. None of us can be considered an ‘athlete’ in any way, shape or form – but we make it work. Our most recent cycling trip was a Bike/Barge adventure from Bruges to Amsterdam. It was easily the least stressful of the many trips we have taken – long flat pathways along canals and quiet rivers, courteous car drivers who, at times, would stop to let all 19 of us cross the road, quirky mini ferry rides – some just passenger and bikes, lots of cheese, chocolate and beer. The luxury of staying on a barge without unpacking, having all your meals provided and a well informed guide to take us through the lovely villages and towns was an unexpected pleasure. In fact, it was relaxing and a wonderful way to reconnect with our little group of friends in a post Covid world. These trips have been an excellent break from our busy careers and lives and truly are therapy for all of us!
If you have been following my fitness journey, procrastination is an evident theme. Fitness as a habit is a concept that still evades me. As I’ve been searching for ways to make fitness less of a chore, I have discovered a fitness-related activity that I can absolutely get behind. It involves another person, a bed, and maybe some Enya. Any guesses?
Massage therapy. That’s what you were thinking of, right? Massage therapy may not be an active exercise, but it can benefit your fitness journey.
A candle and a book on a small table
I started getting massages a few years ago to combat my migraines. I discovered that if I have a massage at least once every two months, my migraine rate reduces drastically. I have gone from having two or three migraines a month to rarely having one. Not only have massages lowered their frequency, but they have also reduced their duration. I went from having migraines lasting 48 hours each to ones I could quell within six hours. One of my favourite benefits of this is my reduced intake of painkillers. I went from taking the maximum dose of extra-strength ibuprofen each day to only needing a single dose at the start of my symptoms. Therapeutic massages have been vital in increasing my quality of life.
While I started my massage journey because of my migraines, I have found another wonderfully beneficial use for them: post-workout relief. Since I have yet to make fitness part of my daily routine, each time I engage in a heart-pumping, sweat-inducing session, I feel it in my entire body the next day—and the next day, and the next day, and the next day. Whether I swim, run, lift weights, clean, or even lift my kids up more frequently in a day, I become very sore. Lactic acid crowds my muscles, and I am left regretting pouring my self-care time into something that hurts my physical body.
This is not to say that massages don’t have some painful moments. If I go too long between sessions, or if I cheat on proper body positioning, my trouble spots put up a fight to remain tight. My massage therapist, a lovely Mexican woman who works out of her home, does not lose the fight. Ever. She is a muscle whisperer. I’m sure her previous experience as a physiotherapist adds to her anatomical knowledge, but it’s her intuitiveness with the body that makes her stand apart from other massage therapists that I’ve experienced.
Does she hurt me sometimes? Yes. However, the relief from her oscillating thumbs proves the experience worth it. Soon the pain follows her hands as they knead the tension into submission. My lymphatic system breathes relief as the tension is pushed away from its source. My immune system makes note of the restored balance to my body’s fluids. Everything flows healthily again.
Even after I make intentional fitness a regular habit, I fully intend to keep up with my massages. The health benefits from working out plus the health benefits from massages equal a physically and psychologically healthy me. It’s too good to pass up.
Massage allows my tight muscles to loosen and release the pent-up lactic acid, making my metabolism more efficient. The opportunity to be silent and abandon my stresses is life-giving. Massage is post-workout care, and it’s self-care. For a busy mom, it is one of the best hours of my month.
So do yourself a favour and add a massage routine to your life. When you add it, be intentional in your search for a great massage therapist. When you find them, visit them regularly. When you visit them, leave your mental load at the door, and enjoy a relaxing and healing hour.
Do you have a massage therapist that you adore? Brag away in the comments below.
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.
On a March evening in 2020, I stood in front of a mirror and inspected my outfit. The shiny faux leather pants and ruby red, sequin-covered asymmetrical top was not part of my usual wardrobe, but I had to admit that I loved the spicy vibe of my reflection. My hair was slicked back in a half-updo, and my makeup was begging for a night out. While I wasn’t about to go out to the club, I was going to satisfy my efforts by taking my ruby lips to the dance studio for some professional photos.
My outfit from the 2020 dance class. A red sequined sleeveless top is draped over a folded pair of black faux leather pants. A pair of black jazz shoes are crossed and are positioned on top of the draped top.
Six months earlier, my sister and I had enrolled in an adult jazz dance class. Both of us had danced when we were younger, and, even though I was 12 the last time that I performed a jazz routine, at 29 I found myself anxiously excited to be hitting the dance floor again. Thankfully, the other ladies, all of whom were wives and mothers, were of similar expertise. And, thankfully, my jazz shoes from 17 years prior still fit.
The photography session signified the beginning of dance festival season. Our group was working hard at getting our routine down for our first performance. We were slotted for Saturday, March 21 at 7:40 PM—the last slot of the evening. This is notable because this meant that the only people left in the audience to watch us would be the dance teams that made it to the Showcase. If you are a stranger to the dance world, the Showcase is the portion of the show where high-ranking dance teams get to perform an extra time. Our slot was right before the Showcase, so the theatre would be filled with the most passionate and skilled dancers of the festival.
For a group of adult ladies whose days were filled with prioritizing the well-being and success of our family members, being the center of attention on a stage in front of a passionate audience was a daunting concept. It would have been easy for one of us, or even all of us, to back down from the opportunity. We didn’t need to be on display or to prove our worth to a crowd of strangers. We could keep our private dance class as our escape-from-domestic-duties success story.
I don’t know what it was that drove us all to accept the festival invitation. Perhaps it was an internal desire to be more than what our lives as moms and wives were dictating for us. Perhaps it was the song that our dance instructor chose for us. Perhaps it was both.
The song? Jennifer Lopez’s “Ain’t Your Mama.” I don’t think our instructor knew the significance of her song choice, though perhaps she was more perceptive than what I gave her credit for. The lyrics portray a woman expressing to her spouse that she will no longer be the sole-carrier of their domestic and relational responsibilities—she would no longer act as his mother.
It was relatable subject matter. Even if our husbands weren’t helpless like the man in the lyrics, we could all relate to the mental exhaustion that comes from mothering. Not only do women have the societal pressure to be the perfect wife and mother, but they also have the pressure of bearing it all without complaining. The perfect wife and mother is someone who absorbs the mental load of her family and carries the responsibilities of being a household manager with the ease of a business woman carrying a briefcase into a high-rise. Unfortunately, as we mamas frequently discussed at dance class, reality makes this perfection unattainable.
And that’s okay. The writers of J-Lo’s song offer another option for women. We don’t have to carry the weight ourselves. We can carry the briefcase while our husbands carry the grocery bags and our children carry their own backpacks. Perhaps performing at the festival meant that we could normalize that type of reality for ourselves and the audience, most of whom were bound to be mothers.
But it was not to be.
Based on the date mentioned at the beginning, you can conjecture what happened to our festival plans.
“Effective immediately The Arden Theatre is postponing and/or cancelling all shows and events in the theatre until April 29…Thank you for your patience and cooperation as we all navigate this unexpected and unfortunate situation.”
Facebook post by the Arden Theatre, March 13, 2020.
That was it. The show would not go on.
While part of me was relieved to not perform in front of a dance-loving audience, another part of me mourned. The months of learning choreography and honing each dance move with countless across-the-floor exercises had been enjoyable. There was delight in knowing us women chose to spend our precious time with each other among mirrored walls and ballet bars. At the end of every class, we stretched in silence, feeling too exhausted to talk. Yet, when it was time to leave, we all departed with notes of assurance that we would see each other the following week. Performing with these ladies to “Ain’t Your Mama” would have been a empowering experience. I would have loved envisioning myself as a spectator watching a group of women own their independence and worth. I would have danced like I was proudly watching myself.
While my short time in that dance class had ended in a less-than-ideal way, I don’t regret it. I am proud of myself for taking the time to step out of my day-to-day, spend time with my sister, and participate in a group activity that offered fitness and fellowship.
So, if the opportunity to join an adult dance class presents itself, may I encourage you to extend a jazz hand and seize it. Even if you don’t end up performing or dancing to J-Lo, it can be a richly rewarding experience.
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.
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.
An early morning walk with Atlas. Welland Canal Trail, Ontario Canada
by Leela MadhavaRau
I have rheumatoid arthritis. It’s an insidious, often agonizing, auto-immune disease that attacks your body’s joints and can make even simple movements like walking a deeply painful trial. Having RA means I have a disability.
Today, I see myself as part of the disability community. But for a long time, because RA isn’t necessarily visible to the casual observer, because those with the disease aren’t necessarily in a wheelchair or using a walker at all times, I wasn’t sure I belonged.
As a long-time professional working in the area of equity, inclusion and human rights, disability had always been a part of the dialogues that I was having, although it was a subject too often ignored in the EDI industrial complex. But because my own disability was often “invisible,” it took me some time and patient education from disability rights activists to understand that, yes, I am a part of that community.
Through my university years, I didn’t think too deeply about “keeping fit.” I walked or cycled everywhere while at McGill and Cambridge, and had occasional bouts of swimming lengths or taking aerobics classes.
Moving back to Canada, I kept up with walking and for nigh on 30 years, that has remained my primary form of exercise. I walked really fast all the time. People would comment on it at the campus in southern California where I worked for 16 years – I think because many people there didn’t use their body as their main form of locomotion.
Then I developed RA. The diagnosis came after the joints in my hands seized up, although that turned out to be just the canary in the coalmine. It was my feet that began to degenerate first. I kept up with my rapid pace in spite of increasing pain until my hallux (big toes) were so bent as to make it hard to get shoes to fit. I went for a double bunionectomy (never one to do things by halves) and after a six-month period of frustrating recovery, I could suddenly walk at my old pace.
But after a few years, the hallux on my right foot became so painful I was basically walking on the side of my foot. This exacerbated other RA symptoms – notably degenerative disc disease, particularly in the sacroiliac joints. So, I had the toe fused and went through another period of recovery – during which, I discovered later, I actually broke the toe, which lengthened the healing time.
Walking became easier once again, even as I worked through other RA-related issues necessitating a hysterectomy, as well as a move to infusions of biologic medications and an additional diagnosis of fibromyalgia (common with RA). In a six-month period in 2017 and 2018, I lived through two dramatic episodes – a bleeding ulcer resulting in the lowest hemoglobin levels the hospital had seen in someone still alive, followed by (and caused by the ulcers) peritonitis and emergency abdominal surgery.
Initially it became a victory just to be upright again, then I began to creep along the ward with my IV pole and the pump attached to a naso-gastric tube. I eventually progressed to a walker, and finally I was able to inch along unaided.
Over the years, I have become used to the comments: “But you look so good” or “You still seem to get around” etc. But when I was using an apparatus – a kneeling walker, walker or wheelchair – the difference was palpable. Then I could be treated as someone with a deficit – and that was how so many people automatically treat those with obvious disabilities. The old medical model versus social model of disability brought to life.
But having my disabilities made visible also made me realize that I had, in fact, been living with disabilities since I was a child. Decades ago, though, there was little discussion about “invisible,” “unseen” disabilities.
A single incident in high school made this very clear to me. I was diagnosed with migraines when I was 10. I discovered early on that I could usually cope when one came on by focusing intently until whatever needed doing was done and then I could collapse in a dark room. I started to develop migraine with aura which was frightening but gave the opportunity to take medication. One day in high school, I ignored the aura and, par for the course, the migraine developed 30 minutes later. Teachers and friends couldn’t understand why I needed to get home – “it’s just a headache,” “I get headaches all the time.” I was in no state to try and explain pain so severe that even when lying down, moving an eyelash felt like a knife going through my brain.
Thanks to my work in EDI, I was fortunate to be able to deepen my understanding about the disability movement from a superstar, Dr. Victoria Lewis. Vicki, a post-polio survivor, is a pioneer in theatre and disability, working since the 1980s in a variety of theatrical models—grassroots, community-based, regional not-for-profit, and television and film. Her developmental work reshaped the depiction of disability on the stage and nurtured a generation of disabled playwrights and actors, now at work throughout the US.
We spent hours discussing issues of disability, finagling ways to get disability into various parts of curriculum and into students’ minds. Vicki made sure I knew the ancestors who fought for rights and for space in the conversation. Those activist pioneers who rejected in the strongest terms the tropes and cliches about disability as a tragic experience or, perhaps worse, as the basis for “inspiration porn.”
“Disability only becomes a tragedy for me when society fails to provide the things we need to lead our lives––job opportunities or barrier-free buildings, for example.” said Judy Heumann. “It is not a tragedy to me that I’m living in a wheelchair.”
Australian comedian Stella Young puts it even more bluntly in one of her shows.
“Well, ladies and gentlemen, I’m afraid I’m going to disappoint you dramatically,” she said. “I am not here to inspire you. I am here to tell you that we have been lied to about disability. Yeah, we’ve been sold the lie that disability is a Bad Thing, capital B, capital T. It’s a bad thing, and to live with a disability makes you exceptional. It’s not a bad thing, and it doesn’t make you exceptional… And in the past few years, we’ve been able to propagate this lie even further via social media. You may have seen [slogans] like this one: ‘The only disability in life is a bad attitude.’ Or this one: ‘Your excuse is invalid.’ Indeed. Or this one: ‘Before you quit, try!’ These are just a couple of examples, but there are a lot of these images out there. You know, you might have seen the one, the little girl with no hands drawing a picture with a pencil held in her mouth. You might have seen a child running on carbon-fiber prosthetic legs. And these images, there are lots of them out there, they are what we call inspiration porn. And I use the term porn deliberately, because they objectify one group of people for the benefit of another group of people. So in this case, we’re objectifying disabled people for the benefit of non-disabled people. The purpose of these images is to inspire you, to motivate you, so that we can look at them and think, ‘Well, however bad my life is, it could be worse. I could be that person.'”
As I was becoming a more and more passionate advocate for disability issues, I was slowly accepting myself as a member of this broad and diverse community, a member with a number of privileges, but a member nonetheless. In moving to that understanding, I had to accept that I was never going to be whole again. Living my daily life was always going to be that much more difficult. Pain would be a constant nagging companion.
But I also learned that pain and disability did not mean having to shut myself off from simple pleasures, pleasures of the body as well as the mind. And I found that my mind and my body, even with the latter’s limitations, could work together.
In 2021, I got a dog. There were many reasons for this but the fact that it would force me to get out and walk was certainly one of them. Atlas, a 2.5-year-old Siberian Husky rescue, came into my life, and walking took on a sudden, and very insistent, urgency. Atlas is only happy when he walks at least 10km a day and has little patience for dilly-dallying (except on his part when investigating blades of grass, dog poo, fleeing creatures, etc.). Suddenly, I was a real walker – out on the Canal Trail every morning around 6am! Pain be damned!
I also discovered that this regularly scheduled walking gave me 90 minutes (on weekdays) and nearly three hours (on weekends) to think. To think about all sort of topics particularly as dawn breaks and the sun rises. I came across a New Yorker piece entitled “Why Walking Makes Us Think” and realized I was not alone in indulging in this wondrous pastime and there were physiological reasons behind it:
What is it about walking, in particular, that makes it so amenable to thinking and writing? The answer begins with changes to our chemistry. When we go for a walk, the heart pumps faster, circulating more blood and oxygen not just to the muscles but to all the organs—including the brain. Many experiments have shown that after or during exercise, even very mild exertion, people perform better on tests of memory and attention. Walking on a regular basis also promotes new connections between brain cells, staves off the usual withering of brain tissue that comes with age, increases the volume of the hippocampus (a brain region crucial for memory), and elevates levels of molecules that both stimulate the growth of new neurons and transmit messages between them.
I have found that my walking thinking has become more profound since the onset of another RA-related symptom, tinnitus. While people often describe a ringing in the ears, mine is a more unclassifiable buzzing. When it first became pronounced, I had a similar feeling to the claustrophobia I experience in confined spaces – what would it mean to never again experience silence? To avoid dealing with that, I started listening to the radio as I walked (yay for CBC) and their discussions would lead me down pathways of thought that took me away from my own concerns.
I “write” pieces as I walk (some of this was done that way), wishing I had the power to get messages out about the opportunities to work with Mother Earth if only we would heed advice. This is almost a meditative practice – “almost” because I have to remain alert to cyclists, other dogs and their owners, and animals Atlas will regard as prey. But that has become part of the meditation over this past two years.
Then, about two months ago, I realized I was finding it harder to block out the pain in my feet, heels and ankles. Objectively, this isn’t surprising – I have RA, most of my toes would now be called “hammer toes” and the hallux are both tilted away from the straight. To alleviate the pain, I was walking in that strange manner that exacerbates the pain in my sacroiliac joint, hips and knees.
Action was called for – a visit to the podiatrist followed a regular visit to my rheumatologist. And this down-to-earth woman gave me hope. She intuitively understood that the goal was to keep moving, preferably walking long distances. She was blunt in her assessment that my right foot with its fused hallux, other toes with tendons cut and arthritis-riddled ankle didn’t give a lot of scope but there was more hope for the left. She said,“Get shoes that address these issues and we can work to modify them, constantly wear whatever device works to keep the hallux toes away from the next toe, no more sandals without backs, and do these exercises daily.” She didn’t pretend there would be any return to my younger days with fully functional feet but she was clear there would be a future for walking within certain limitations.
I left the office feeling seen, heard and believed. I sat down and wrote this because I rarely feel hopeful and that day I did. And then the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that, when Atlas jumped on the bed to remind me it was time for his walk, that hope has persisted.
Black and white photo of Atlas, a very handsome dog!
Leela MadhavaRau is the owner of LMR Human Rights and Equity Consulting. She has spent her working life in the field of equity and inclusion, working at universities in both Canada and the United States. Her academic background is in Social Anthropology, with a specific focus on the transmission of culture across time and space. Her degrees are from McGill and the University of Cambridge. She has lived a life between cultures and countries, one of the few multiracial children born in 1960’s London (UK). Leela immigrated with her family to Canada in the 1970’s when “Where are you from” was one of the most common questions. Her career has been one of working to create dialogue; wanting all of us to be able to maintain curiosity and be independent thinkers. This responsibility has been inculcated in her four children, now ages 23 through 30. She adopted her Siberian Husky, Atlas, in May 2021 and her life hasn’t been the same since!
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.
description: red text in the style of the movie “10 Things I Hate About You” re-written to read “3 Things I Hate(d) About Running”, next to a cartoon of a woman running
Last week I posted about my running journey since last fall, going from a stalwart non-runner — one might even say an anti-runner (both in the sense of being staunchly against the very idea of running, and in the sense of being the inverse of a runner, like the anti-Christ) – to a person who finished the Burlington Butter Tart 5K a few weeks ago by doing intervals of slow-running and walking.
In that post, I noted how much I used to hate running, which makes it extra remarkable that I tried it again at all and that I’ve continued to do it. The funny thing is though, I still kind of hate running. Although I look forward to going out for a run, I feel good after a run, and I like the rituals I’ve built around running, while I am actually doing the running I can hardly wait for it to be OVER.
Even now that I have built a lot more stamina and cardiovascular capacity than I had when I started, the running itself still feels hard. I think I had assumed, or hoped, that at some point it would start to feel easy, and it hasn’t. It still feels hard. But I have figured out some ways that are helpful to me in dealing with that hardness.
Early on when reflecting on my experience of running, I realized there are 3 distinct types of discomfort that make me hate exercise: (1) I hate feeling winded and breathless; (2) I hate feeling hot and sweaty; and (3) I struggle with the sheer physical effort of putting one foot in front of the other. However! The good news is, even though I still hate running, understanding more clearly what exactly it is I hate about running has actually been very useful. It’s helped me figure out how to cope with those things, alleviate or respond to them, motivate myself through them, and in some cases just accept them. Here is what I have been finding helpful so far in dealing with those 3 types of discomfort:
Feeling Winded and Breathless: This might be easiest one. I realized that if I’m breathing so hard that I’m uncomfortable, I can simply slow the fuck down and take a walking break, LOL. And this became a lot easier to do when I let go of any particular expectations of what I think I should be able to do – that I should be able to run without breaks, that I should be running at any particular pace. Since I let go of that kind of achievement-oriented sensibility, it’s a lot easier to just ease up the pace when I need to so that my breathing and heart rate stay in a range that feels okay.
Feeling Hot and Sweaty: I’ve found 3 things that have helped me deal with this:
I started running last November, and initially I had thought that it was silly to start running just as winter was starting because of the weather. In hindsight I realize that it was probably a smart move. By starting to run during a cooler time of year, external heat and humidity weren’t part of the equation in the earliest days of running. It meant that I was only having to tolerate the heat and dampness generated by my own body, and the colder weather and wintry winds helped to moderate even those sensations. It allowed me to build an initial foundation of improved cardiovascular fitness during cold and cool weather, so that by the time the more oppressive summer conditions arrived the habit of running regularly had already been well established, and I was able to ease into being hot and sweaty. If you already don’t like hot and humid weather, starting out as a beginner runner in the cooler months might be easier.
I realized that fabrics really matter. Cotton fabrics absorb a lot of sweat and hold it there: gross. I avoid cotton as much as possible in my running clothes, and choose synthetics or lightweight merino wool (particularly in winter).
I started carrying water, not for hydration per se, but for physical relief and cooling. I don’t run long or hard enough to need to actually re-hydrate during the run, but on a hot day, having a small squeeze bottle of water in my hand is great for shooting a little in my mouth to alleviate the yucky dry lips and mouth from heavier breathing, and squeezing more down my shirt to cool me off (in the summer, that is – I don’t think I’ll be shooting water down my shirt once winter comes!). Far more goes down my shirt than in my mouth.
Sheer Physical Effort: This is the hardest one for me to describe, as well as the one I find most challenging to manage. It’s that sensation of heaviness in my legs (especially my calves) that comes on after running for more than a minute or so. It’s not pain – it’s just my muscles going UGH I DON’T WANNA. It’s just the UGH sensation of WHY exertion itself PLEASE CAN WE JUST WALK. It’s the toughest mind game for me about running, the argument between my legs and my brain about when we can stop, and my legs put up a very convincing argument most of the time. The thing is, running is exertion, I don’t know if there will be any getting around that. At this point, I’ve got a few mental strategies that seem to be at least somewhat helpful once the UGHs start:
Explicitly reminding myself that what I’m feeling is discomfort but not pain. I don’t like the way it feels, but it doesn’t hurt and it’s not a sign that anything is wrong.
Being attentive to my form and trying to make sure that I’m keeping my core somewhat engaged but otherwise being as relaxed as possible. Those UGHs are even harder to deal with when my whole body becomes tense or I’m slouching.
Deliberately evoking positive feelings by smiling or reciting little upbeat mantras to myself. I make myself smile by being proud of myself for getting out there and just doing it, appreciating the view over Hamilton Harbour or the plants and birds along the trail, thinking of my cat wearing a shirt, or any number of other things that bring me a bit of joy. Some of the little mantras I go to most often are things like “I can, I am, I will,” “settle in to it,” “it’s just yes,” and “keep showing up.”
Remind myself that this discomfort is temporary. I only have to tolerate this for a little while, and then I get to go and have a nice iced coffee and a lovely shower and do whatever else I want to do. Tolerating 20 or 30 or 40 minutes of fairly minor discomfort is very well within my abilities (especially since I usually do run/walk intervals, so I get breaks from the discomfort). I don’t have to do it forever, and soon, I will get to stop. Sometimes I even think of it as asking fierce me to stay in charge for just a few more minutes until we’re done the run and then couch potato me can take the helm again.
I try to remember to put some kind of easily digestible carbohydrates in my system about 30-60 minutes before I go out for a run so that there is readily available fuel for my muscles. I don’t honestly know if this actually makes a real difference or not, but it seems biologically plausible to me, and whether it’s a real biological effect or a placebo effect probably doesn’t matter…to my way of thinking it’s a can’t-hurt-might-help kind of a situation.
description: Blue and green stylized text that reads “Running always reminds me of how much I hate running.”
So! That’s how I’ve become a runner who still kind of hates running. I’d love to hear what works for you!
Stacey Ritz is an associate professor at McMaster University, a vegetarian who uses lard to make pie dough because that’s how her grandma did it, and the owner of a bossy cranky cat who is currently wearing a shirt.
If you had told me one year ago that I would run a 5K race this summer, I would have laughed in your face. But on Saturday, I ran the Burlington Butter Tart 5K.
Got my race bib on, waiting by the lake for the start. (alt-text: a woman wearing a blue hat and a black “Slow AF Run Club” tank top with a red numbered running bib pinned to it, with Lake Ontario in the background)
I have never been a natural athlete. As a kid, I remember resenting the Canada Fitness Award Program, where I don’t think I was ever able to meet the Bronze standard for anything; in fact, the Program was discontinued in 1992 because it was viewed as “discouraging to those who needed the most encouragement,” which reflects my experience of it to a tee. The worst part was when we’d be sent outside to run a lap around the school perimeter. I always seemed to get a stitch in my side, and was always one of the very slowest ones (and sometimes dead last). All of my memories about running as a kid involve shame, embarrassment, physical discomfort, and envy of the kids who seemed to lope effortlessly around the school.
I tried running again during grad school, when many people in my lab were running. I found a training plan in a magazine for non-runners to get to a 30-minute sustained run in 10 weeks and decided to give it a try, absolutely determined that I would not quit before completing the plan. My friends assured me that by then I’d love it, but that didn’t happen. In week 10 I went out 3 times and ran for 30m as scheduled, but hated every bloody second of it, and I got home, took my running shoes off, and never put them on again. I figured I had given running a fair shot, and it just wasn’t for me.
So what on earth made me take it up again 25 years later? In early October 2022, I met a friend for dinner at a conference, and she told me that she had recently started running using the Peloton app, and was really loving it. Now, my sisters-in-law had been singing the praises of the Peloton app for quite some time, but they are both exercise lovers by nature, so their endorsement didn’t do much to convince me. But when my friend told me that she, too, had previously hated running, and using the Peloton app and springing for a good pair of running shoes had changed her mind, I decided to give it a try. She sent me a 60-day free trial for the app, and I went home and I bought a pair of Hoka running shoes.
I started by going out once a week, Saturday mornings, using the Peloton Outdoor walk/run workouts. I think part of my ultimate success was the pure dumb luck of having selected exactly the right workout for someone who was a true beginner. One of the things I find frustrating about the Peloton app is that it doesn’t provide much info about the detailed structure of their outdoor running workouts, so I was fortunate to have chosen one that had short running intervals (30 to 60s) separated by a couple of minutes walking. If I had chosen one marked “beginner” that had 3- or 4-minute running intervals, I think I likely would have quit; it was a few months before I could sustain 3 minutes of slow running comfortably.
By February, I had been going out consistently every week, and one day, to my great surprise, I discovered I was actually looking forward to my next run. In March, once the days had started to get longer and it was still light out when I got home from work, I started going out a couple of additional times on weeknights as well. In April, I happened across an advertisement for the Burlington Butter Tart 5K (where you get a butter tart at the end), and the idea amused me so much that I signed up for it.
Running this time around has been an interesting and thought-provoking journey for me. I had a particularly significant a-ha moment in February when I was out for a run and thought “I wonder how long it will be before I can just run continuously without taking walking breaks,” and then, my next thought: “it literally doesn’t matter if I never get any better at this. Even if I do walk/run intervals forever, even if I don’t extend the length of my running intervals, even if I never get any faster, it doesn’t matter at all.” That was an utterly transformative moment for me, and I’m still feeling the reverberations of it.
We are often such an achievement-oriented culture that it’s easy to fall into a pattern of thinking that we have to always be moving toward a goal of some kind to make our efforts worthwhile: to run faster, run longer, lose weight, whatever the achievement is that is supposed to motivate us. For me, rejecting that achievement mindset was paradoxically motivating: just getting out there and moving at any pace is worthwhile. I like the way I feel after a run; although I’ve never experienced the classic ‘runner’s high’ (even many elite athletes don’t, and there may even be a link between depression and not getting a runner’s high), I do get a diffuse sensation of a sort of spaciousness in my body for up to a day or so afterward that feels really good. I also enjoy the little ritual I’ve built around my runs. And I feel positive about making a good investment in my health: I don’t give a rat’s ass about losing weight anymore, but I know that building stronger bones and muscles will be a valuable asset to me as I age (I turn 50 next year).One of the things that was helpful to me was following some non-archetypal runners on Instagram (I’m a particularly big fan of Sandra at @bigfit_i_run and Martinus at @300poundsandrunning), who helped affirm that there is nothing wrong with being a slow runner, and that running with walking breaks (also sometimes called jeffing) is a totally legit way of being a runner. In fact, a growing amount of research shows that running slower has some specific benefits that aren’t associated with more intense workouts.
During the race on Saturday, I completed most of it by alternating between 90s of slow running and 30s of walking. I can run for longer intervals than that now, but I tend to run a lot more slowly when I’m tackling longer stretches, so that 90s/30s strategy actually improves my overall pace. However, when I came around the final corner and could see the balloon arch finishing line in the distance, I pushed myself to run as hard as I could for the last 600m or so. In my head I felt like Usain Bolt, but the video my son took proves that I was really moving at what can only be generously called a hurried jog. I finished the race in 42m 53s. There are plenty of people who would not be even remotely impressed with that time (the winner of the race finished in 16m and change), but I didn’t do it to impress anyone.
Although I’m glad to have done it, I don’t think I’m going to run another 5K any time soon. One of the things I realized while preparing for this 5K race was that I don’t actually like running for more than 25 or 30 minutes at a stretch; I persisted with the 5K distance because I was determined not to back out of the race, but now that it’s done, I think I’ll go back to doing 20 or 30 minute outings. I also found that when I was preparing for this specific event, I tended to slip back into the goal-oriented mindset (maybe I can finish in under 40 minutes, if I train more maybe I can do the whole thing without taking any walking breaks) that my February insight had helped me escape from. Now that the race is done, I’m really looking forward to going back to that headspace where getting ‘better’ doesn’t matter.
Crossing the finish line at the Burlington Butter Tart 5K. In my head, I felt like I was sprinting at top speed, but video footage proves that it is more of a sort-of-hurried jog.
(alt-text: 4 runners approaching the finish line of a race, marked by a yellow, beige and brown balloon arch. 3 of the runners are blurred out to protect their privacy; the author is wearing black shorts, a black “Slow AF Run Club” tank top, and a blue hat.)
Stacey Ritz is a faculty member at McMaster University in Hamilton, crossword fan, and is a strong contender as the Canadian record-holder for most repeated viewings of Brooklyn Nine-Nine.
post-5K.jpg: Sinking my teeth into the race’s namesake after the finish. (alt-text: a woman wearing a blue hat taking the first bite of a butter tart)
If you had told me one year ago that I would run a 5K race this summer, I would have laughed in your face. But on Saturday, I ran the Burlington Butter Tart 5K.
I have never been a natural athlete. As a kid, I remember bitterly resenting the Canada Fitness Award Program, where I don’t think I was ever able to meet even the minimum standard for anything; in fact, the Program was discontinued in 1992 because it was deemed “discouraging to those who needed the most encouragement”, which reflects my experience of it to a tee. The worst was when we’d be sent outside to run a lap around the school perimeter. I always seemed to get a stitch in my side, and was always one of the very slowest ones (and sometimes dead last). All of my memories about running as a child involve shame, embarrassment, physical discomfort, and envying the kids who seemed to lope seemingly effortlessly around the school.
I tried running again during grad school, when many people in my lab were doing it. I found a training plan in a magazine for non-runners to get to a 30-minute sustained run in 10 weeks and decided to give it a try, absolutely determined that I would not quit before completing the plan. My friends assured me that by then I’d love it, but that didn’t happen. In week 10 I went out the requisite 3 times and indeed ran for 30m, but hated every bloody second of it. I got home after that 30m run, took my running shoes off, and never put them on again. I figured I had given running a fair shot, and it just wasn’t for me.
So what on earth made me take it up again 25 years later? In early October 2022, I met a friend for dinner at a conference, and she told me that she had recently started running using the Peloton app, and was really loving it. Now, my sisters-in-law had been singing the praises of the Peloton app for quite some time, but they are both exercise lovers by nature, so their endorsement didn’t do much to convince me. But when my friend told me that she, too, had previously hated running, and using the Peloton app and springing for a good pair of running shoes had changed her mind, I decided to give it a try. She sent me a 60-day free trial for the app, and I went home and I bought a pair of Hoka running shoes.
I started by going out once a week, Saturday mornings, using the Peloton Outdoor walk/run workouts. I think part of my ultimate success was the pure dumb luck of having selected exactly the right workout for someone who was a true beginner. One of the things I find frustrating about the Peloton app is that it doesn’t provide much info about the detailed structure of their outdoor running workouts, so I was fortunate to have chosen one that had short running intervals (30 to 60s) separated by a couple of minutes walking; if I had chosen one of the many marked “beginner” that had 3- or 4-minute running intervals, I think I probably would have quit. It took me several months before I could comfortably sustain a 3- or 4-minute stretch of slow running.
By February, I had been going out consistently every week, and one day, to my great surprise, I discovered I was actually looking forward to my next run. In March, once the days had started to get longer and it was still light out when I got home from work, I started going out a couple of additional times on weeknights as well. In April, I happened across an advertisement for the Burlington Butter Tart 5K (where you get a butter tart at the end), and the idea amused me so much that I signed up for it.
Running this time around has been an interesting and thought-provoking journey for me. I had a particularly important a-ha moment in February when I was out for a run and thought “I wonder how long it will be before I can just run continuously without taking walking breaks,” and then, my next thought: “it literally doesn’t matter if I never get any better at this. Even if I do walk/run intervals forever, even if I don’t extend the length of my running intervals, even if I never get any faster, it doesn’t matter at all.” That was an utterly transformative moment for me, and I’m still feeling the reverberations of it.
I think we are often such an achievement-oriented culture that it’s easy to fall into a pattern of thinking that we have to always be moving toward a goal of some kind to make our efforts worthwhile: to run faster, run longer, lose weight, whatever the goal is that is supposed to motivate us. For me, rejecting that achievement mindset was paradoxically motivating, and has allowed me to recognize that just getting out there and moving at any pace is worthwhile. I like the way I feel after a run, and I enjoy the little ritual I’ve built around my outings. Plus I feel like I’m making a good investment in my long-term health: I don’t give a rat’s ass about losing weight anymore, but I know that building stronger bones and muscles will be a valuable asset to me as I age (I turn 50 next year).
One of the things I found helpful was following some non-archetypal runners on Instagram (I’m a particularly big fan of Sandra at @bigfit_i_run and Martinus at @300poundsandrunning), who helped affirm that there is nothing wrong with being a slow runner, and that running with walking breaks (sometimes called “jeffing“) is a totally legit way of being a runner. In fact, a growing amount of research shows that running slower has some specific benefits that aren’t associated with more intense workouts.
I completed the 5K race on Saturday by alternating between 90s of slow running and 30s of walking for the majority of the race (except for the final 600m or so where I could see that beautiful balloon arch at the finish line and just pushed through to get there). My final time was 42m 53s, I am damn proud of that.
Although I’m very pleased to have completed the race, I don’t think I’m going to run another 5K any time soon. One of the things I realized while preparing for it was that I don’t actually like running for more than 25 or 30 minutes at a stretch, and because I’m slow, 5K takes me nearly 45 minutes. I persisted with it because I was determined not to back out of the race, but now that it’s done I think I’ll go back to 20 or 30 minute outings. And I also don’t really like “preparing” for something — it tends to puts my head back into the goal-oriented space (“maybe I can finish in under 40 minutes”, “maybe I can run for the whole distance without any walking breaks”) that my February insight helped me escape from. I’m going to go back to just running for its own sake where it literally doesn’t matter if I never get any better
Stacey Ritz is a faculty member at McMaster University in Hamilton, crossword fan, and is a strong contender as the Canadian record-holder for most repeated viewings of Brooklyn Nine-Nine.
Last weekend, I participated in IRONMAN Lake Placid. It was my third IRONMAN and I went into the weekend feeling strong but also keeping in mind the course was hard and in long races, nothing feels guaranteed.
A sea of swim caps just before the swim start with Mirror Lake looking calm.
There are a few things that reliably help me through a long swim, one of them being a reminder that when I was a kid you could not get me out of the water! I know lots of triathletes just aim to survive the swim, but I’m usually able to enjoy it at least a little. Mirror Lake was a beautiful spot to swim 3.8km, and while I wasn’t able to use the cable much and found myself butting up against lots of (at the time, annoying) swimmers despite the rolling start, I found a decent rhythm in the swim. Later, I was pleased to see I took a little bit of time off my last IRONMAN swim time. Regular swimming with Balance Point Triathlon has given me a lot more confidence in the swim over the past few years and other than some super painful chafing on my neck (there’s a first for everything!), I’ll look back on the swim with fond memories of a solid warmup (1:11:34) for the long day ahead.
Enjoying the bike course on both laps 1 and 2 even though it got rainy.
After going on a few trips to train in the big hills/mountains, riding portions of the bike course, driving the bike course, listening to podcasts and watching videos about the terrain, asking anyone who’d offer advice, and purchasing ~a bajillion dollars in upgrades to my bike set-up, I felt as ready as I could be for the bike portion of IRONMAN Lake Placid. Turns out, the challenge was “just right” and I loved watching people fade on the second lap. I faded too, but when it started pouring rain on the climb back in, I remembered the rides I’d done in the similarly pouring rain at home and hoped any 35-39-year-old women out there (stayed safe but) slowed down.
The climbs weren’t the only thing that were absolutely breathtaking–the scenery was postcard beautiful nearly the whole time and the descent into Keene I’d worried about for weeks was scary but as I hit 76km/hr on my skinny (but tubeless and new!) tires I was so grateful for plenty of space from my fellow racers, my new bike and the experiences I’ve had on bikes in hilly places over the last decade or so. I hated watching my average speed drop on the backside of the course, but I felt so strong on the flats and was warned about that dropoff! The backdrop of towering Whiteface Mountain and knowing that Brent climbed it just for training a few days before inspired me, too, and gave me some perspective that while the course was tough, it was in the realm of appropriately challenging. I got to see my non 35-39-year-old women friends (mostly as they passed me–way to go!) and other than some blatant drafting that set the obsessive rule-follower in me off, I had the kind of bike I could only hope for. I assumed I’d gone slower (6:13:26) here than last year on the also-challenging-but-maybe-not-quite-as-challenging IRONMAN Mont Tremblant bike course, but turns out that was a PR. Amazing what hard work and about ~$10,000 in upgrades can get you!
Heading out on the first lap, smiling about the downhill start.
In any race, I worry (a lot) about (a lot of) things–from losing my goggles or drowning in the swim to getting a flat tire or crashing on the bike–so I’m always a bit relieved to get to the run and only have to worry about moving forward on my own two feet. With that in mind, I started the run happy to be off the bike. Even though I knew I might fade later, I went with the good feeling and let it rip. Between spectators hitting the nail on the head with their Goggins-inspired encouragement and fellow runners I chatted with on the first loop, it was easy to smile for the cameras! In the back of my mind, I knew I had some work ahead of me and if I’m being honest, the hill I was dreading on the way back into town was every bit as hard as I thought it would be–yowzer!
Looking a little bit more tired but giving the thumbs up heading uphill on lap 2.
On lap 2, I felt the twinge of cramps. I held them off by slowing, doing the math on how slow I could go and still hit my (arbitrary, ambitious, motivating) goal of averaging <6:00/km. At one point, I rubbed some of my base salts on a nasty wetsuit burn on my neck to distract myself from the cramps. Boy, did that remind me that things could get worse! The scenery, especially the ski jumps in the distance, and the shared suffering with other racers got me through the long out and back, as did thinking on purpose about friends and family–and drinking coke at every aid station. Seeing my friends, telling strangers they looked good, and reminding myself out loud that “it’s not supposed to be easy!” helped, too. My coach Ang’s reminder that “suffering is a privilege” helped me push myself instead of shying away from the challenge. I spent a while imagining my dog Walter pulling me by his leash before tackling that darn hill one more time! Luckily, the love of my life and total hunk Brent was stationed mid-ascent with one of my favourite songs in the world playing for me. Better yet, he let me know that I was fairly firmly setting myself up to finish 10th in my AG–good enough (in the Women for Tri era, but more to explore and unpack there!) for a Kona qualifier. From there, I felt lighter in my step and had to remind myself to enjoy the last mile, taking some time to let it all soak in.
In the finisher chute.
As a girl who cited period cramps and walked off the track the day we ran the mile in 9th grade gym class, I always draw strength from looking back on my journey to the point where I’ll pay lots of money to run lots of miles. As cheesy as it sounds, as I ran to the finish line, I thought on purpose about how proud of that young girl I am for the progress she’s made and the woman I’ve become. I somehow held it together at the finish line (4:09:13 marathon, which works out to 5:56/km) and almost argued with Brent (sorry, honey–you’re the best!) when he told me my finishing time and that I’d PR’d across the board and overall (11:42:19).
Tired but happy to finish, get a medal and sit down!
I am so grateful for the way that my person (Brent), my coach, my tri club, my friends, coworkers and family have supported and encouraged me and for the opportunity to choose to suffer in this sport. As I’ve said before, I love to see what I can get out of myself and racing helps me do that. Can’t wait to do it again (after some recovery and some heat-training) in just under 12 weeks.
If IMLP is on your maybe list, move it to your must-do and get training–it’s no joke!
Cheryl MacLachlan is an endurance athlete, teacher and coach living in London, ON. She is always looking for another bike and loves her dog Walter, books and writing.
