Feminist reflections on fitness, sport, and health
By the time you read this, I will be in recovery following my heart valve replacement.
I’m grateful I was able to go into surgery relatively fit. It will help my recovery.
I’m even more grateful that we finally had some good weather and I was able to go for a bike ride on Friday.
And I’m especially grateful to this amazing group of women, my swim club lane-mates. I couldn’t ask for better pals and can’t wait to be back in the water with them.
The swimming pool where I was hired as a lifeguard closed in June 2025 for renovations. Tuesday we opened for the first time.
It was a bit chaotic as our head guard couldn’t make it in, and our Aquafit instructor had sent an email saying they couldn’t come, but it was on the long weekend so no-one saw the message and arranged for a replacement. Kudos to my boss, who became head guard plus Aquafit instructor for two classes, on top of her day job. All the equipment that had been put away months ago needed to be set up again. But we made it.
Being back is wonderful. There were so many people joyfully catching up with each other. So many huge smiles, hugs and “welcome back!” greetings.
There were people I have seen at other pools where I work; they had been anxiously checking in on when we would reopen. There were people I had missed and wondered how they were doing. And there were people I had completely forgotten about until they walked through the door. It felt like a big family reunion.
Welcome back everyone! I’m so happy you’re here.
Nobody is looking at you. Everyone is too busy figuring out their own stroke.
And the water genuinely does not care.
The people who have said something about your body are not in the pool doing the work. You are.
That automatically makes you the athlete in the room. Not them.
Get in the water. You belong there.
These words of wisdom come from Aishwarya Jagdish, an Indian triathlete on Threads.
I came across her post shortly after a particularly busy shift at work. All three pools were packed because it’s March Break in Ontario.
I was scanning for safety but couldn’t help but notice how relaxed people were about wearing what made them happy, instead of what media tells you is “right”. I admired the huge variety of people wearing everything from tiny bikinis to swim dresses, T-shirts and leggings on all different bodies.
Most were there to play with their kids rather than swimming in the lap pool, but the principle holds whether you are training for a race or building sandcastles at the beach.
Forget those images of lifeguards and swimmers with teeth sparkling white in their tanned faces. Apparently, swimmer’s teeth is a thing.
What is it and how does it happen? Apparently the chlorine and other pool chemicals can change the ph in your mouth, leading the discolouration, tartar, and even softened, cracked teeth. A swimmer friend brought it to my attention, and the consensus in our little group is that it can be a real issue.
All three of us have more than normal tartar at every dental check-up, and one has issues with discolouration and cracking. I’m curious about how many members of our respective swim clubs also suffer from it.
I have written about cycling and dental health before. A quick search shows that it appears to be an issue for runners, and athletes more generally, as well.
The advice to manage it all seems to boil down to: brush your teeth, especially before exercising; drink plenty of water; avoid sugary drinks and snacks; get to the dentist regularly.
This is good advice for everyone, so I’ll tuck this information away, keep up with my dental hygiene, and swim as often as possible in lakes or rivers.
A woman in a grey bathing cap and goggles shows off her smile from a pool with dark blue water.
Today I turn 65. I already belong to a Facebook group called Senior Lifeguards.
I just finished my skills of the month which are basically the same as the fitness tests for my National Lifeguard certification. I redid that qualification a month ago.
It sometimes seems like a crazy thing to do this job, but I love it. Happy birthday though me!
I recently needed to do the recertification exam for my lifeguard qualifications. It’s mandatory every two years and not really a big deal since I practice the skills regularly at work.
As usual, I was much older than almost everyone else there. Again, no big deal. I’m used to being – by far – the oldest lifeguard wherever I work. But apparently that is weird to some of the other lifeguards.
Following the fitness portion of our exam, one of the youngsters asked how old I was. When I told him, his response was “you’re in really good shape!”. I could almost see the thought bubble over his head “compared to my grandma.”
Kiddo, I have to do the exact same tests as you to hold the exact same job. I’m not unusually fit. I’m merely someone who has chosen to be visibly active in a way that you happened to notice.
The incident amused me because there were no real consequences. When I was trying to get hired, it was more of an issue. Same when I’m dealing with medical questions. I’m going to try and ignore them for the moment and enjoy my little giggle about the thought bubble. And remember that women far fitter than me have been called “grandmother” without acknowledging their remarkable achievements. Amy Apelhans Gubser I’m looking at you!
And for good measure, here’s a picture of me (a grandmother) with a group of my grandmother friends.
My beloved and I are both cajoling our middle aged bodies these days. Our physiotherapist, Emily, recommended rock climbing or swimming for our upper body mobility and strength.
Monday morning we sat drinking coffee and looked at our options. Family membership at the Y runs $180 a month. Goodlife pools are not for doing lengths.
Membership at Western for both of us ran about $1000. Yikes!
Thankfully for people looking for once a week lane swim the City of London has 10 visit pool passes and a convenient location just a couple clicks from our house which runs about $5 a week.
Monday night we got goggles, cap and suits. Wednesday night we were doing laps. Easy peasy.
I love swimming and I feel at home there. It may be almost 10 years since I last did a lap. My body remembers.
Warm up of kicking and pulls. Easy front crawl. Breast stroke. Pulls. Front crawl. Breast stroke. I didn’t focus on speed or distance, just form and breathing.
I cooled down with sidestroke, sculls and a quick stretch. Michel had more structure to his workout. We left satisfied and committed to going back next week. Yay!
Lots of people start the new year with some sort of physical activity, signalling their intention to be active. This year, I decided to signal my intention to make time for rest.
I spent two glorious days lounging in bed: napping, cuddling cats, and watching old movies.
I think it did me some good. I went to swim practice on January 3 and did more distance than usual I even did some full stroke instead of babying my sore ankle by doing arms only with a pull buoy.
Wish me luck remembering to rest for at least some of the next 355 days!
No this is not a rant about my provincial government and its overreach into municipal affairs, especially in ways that make it less safe for people using active transport such as walking or cycling. Sam Covered that on Monday.
It’s a rant about the fact that far too many men* assume they should be in faster swim lanes and the women** who are obviously much faster assume their place is in a slower lane.
To be clear, I don’t mean the people who miscalculate their speed and move quickly to the correct lane. I’m also not talking about the people who take advantage of empty lanes but move when faster or slower people arrive.
It’s also important to note that most public pools, at least, have signage for fast, medium, slow and leisure lanes. Many also provide instructions on which direction to swim when sharing a lane, how to pass safely, and a reminder to assess your speed against other swimmers and move up or down a lane if you are passing (or being passed) regularly.
It’s not hard to figure out whether you are where you should be, if you are willing to be honest about your abilities.
Occasionally lifeguards will even intervene to sort it out; in my training, this was considered one of the most unpleasant public relations activities because of the egos involved.
Intervention can be necessary because being in the wrong lane makes swimming more dangerous and prone to crashes as faster swimmers try to navigate around the slower ones.
At best, it sometimes minimizes conflicts between the people who are there for a steady workout and those who like to sprint past, only to stand at the end of the lane, blocking space so other swimmers can’t do efficient turns. Or those that see no need to move to a slower lane when working on drills or slower strokes.
This seems to be a common phenomenon. I see it regularly while lifeguarding or lane swimming, and it often arises as a concern in large swimming forums I belong to.
Interestingly, it is much less of an issue in swim club practices – probably because coaches are ruthless about sorting swimmers into the correct lanes. The women I know who refuse to cede the lane to slower men are almost always club swimmers.
My plea to women swimmers is to acknowledge your power and claim your lane. And to those who seem to think those swimmers don’t deserve the space: stay in your lane.
*not all men, but almost always men
**not all women, but almost always women
I knew my 16-day trip to Egypt with 3 midlife friends would be a fun, budget-friendly adventure, but it also became a test of stamina and strength for me.
We had no tour big bus providing a comfy, air-conditioned bubble. Rather, our ambitious travel schedule took us through half the country, hauling our backpacks up modest hotel staircases and navigating every natural and human-made obstacle in our path. Although we had quiet evenings, including a few days by a rooftop pool, by day our bodies were moving in lots of ways.
In the desert near the Baharia Oasis we climbed up (then surfed down) sand dunes. In downtown Cairo, the honking cars, uneven pavement, and throngs of moving people in the street demanded constant physical manouvering. We toured ancient sites out in the hot sun, including Luxor’s Avenue of Sphinxes and Aswan’s Forgotten Obelisk. We also used steep ramps and narrow tunnels inside multiple tombs and pyramids, crouching under low ceilings carved over three and four thousand years ago!
As well, we hiked three silent, stunning canyons in the South Sinai region that shimmered white, red, and multi-coloured in the sunshine. The next day, after a caravan of camels and their handlers got us most of the way up Mt Sinai, we used 750 steep steps to get up to its peak.
Later, it was a relief to float face down in the salty water of the Red Sea over the most beautiful coral and schools of fish I have seen. We snorkelled twice: off the beach in Sharm El Sheik and off a glass-bottom boat in Hurghada. But even in and near the water, I had to be thinking about dehydration and sunburn.
Getting hurt could mean getting stuck. I nearly did a few times, once when I mildly rolled an ankle in the Coloured Canyon and when I jammed a finger on a tomb doorway at the Saqqara necropolis. But it felt good to keep moving. At least twice we saw a tourist who seemed unprepared or was having great difficulty getting through the tomb shafts.
We covered thousands of steps per day, even on our 2- to 7-hour travel days. At the last minute I decided to leave my fitness tracker at home, and I’m glad I did. It helped me to make sense of how I was feeling in my body rather than by stats on a screen.
And my body did feel many things, as I was under the weather for a good part of the trip: first menstrual cramps, a head cold that turned to cough, then mild heatstroke after the first time snorkeling, and finally a stomach bug. On my worst night, I laid awake shaking with chills, sipping tepid tablet-purified water, and waiting for dawn (or death, I had thought self-piteously).
But I survived. As a white, English-speaking tourist with a credit card and travel insurance on a holiday, I was never really in serious danger. I saw many Egyptians who may have been facing economic hardships and health risks I will never have to deal with as a middle-class Canadian.
Nevertheless, I am so grateful for my three travel buddies, who showed each other constant care throughout our journey. We divided snacks, each bought rounds of water, shared everything from tissues to electrolytes, and carried the mood for each other until someone sick (usually me) recovered.
Kim, who had planned the travel and booked the local guides and drivers, happily made last-minute arrangements to help me join later when an early morning tour of Isis Temple in Aswan wasn’t possible for me. This caring company was the heart of my trip.
I believe that our greater exertions paid off in greater fun. In exchange for living out of packs and in our sore, dust-covered bodies, we got to see and sleep in neat places, including under the desert stars, where we felt extremely lucky to be there, together and alive.
There’s a certain idea of midlife that says to slow down, be careful, rest more. This trip refused that. It demanded and invited all kinds of motion, reminding me how much the body can still do when it must. It turns out that I was strong enough for Egypt.
And by the end of the trip, I used nearly every pill I’d packed and every muscle I had. But getting over everything became part of my adventure story. I came home with a mildly sprained finger, hardwon but still overpriced souvenirs, and a feeling that my flawed and frustrating body could still bring me much, much joy.
