XTERRA 2016 and completion of the Double-Double

XTERRA was his idea. I had convinced Andrew that we needed to complete Ironman in Hawaii together, to wrap up 15 years of our IM experience properly, as we had both DNF’d from Ironman Wisconsin 2014. It was his idea to do XTERRA as well, two weeks later, known as the Double. The goal was to go from a double DNF to completion of IM and XTERRA at world championships in 2016 as a couple…with the cheesy moniker Double-Double. I said no, but here I found myself, two weeks after IM on a beach in Maui, with 800 other athletes from 46 countries.

The winds in Maui had been high all week, with regular intervals of torrential rain. I stood on the beach with helicopters overhead, waves crashing, media everywhere, and people excited to see the pros sprint into the surf. I had already said goodbye to Andrew, as there were four wave starts. I was standing with a friend from home, who was supportive, positive and fun. I appreciated her energy, but felt envious of her strong and lithe swimmer's body, knowing she would be a top amateur out of the water. After the 30 second warning was announced, a massive set of rollers pounded the beach, and 3000 people on shore all whooped and cheered at the enormity of it all. The gun exploded and we watched the pros run and dive through the waves. Some of them timed it perfectly, and others were lifted up and spat back out on the sand. As each wave start set off, my anxiety got louder as some swimmers didn't enter the water at all. They approached the start, tried to summon the courage, but turned away. It kind of broke my heart to know they would not complete their goal on that day. And then it was my turn, and I ran into the water like everyone else, dove under a few waves, and before I knew it, I was beyond the shore break. The swell felt enormous, and sightings of the turn buoys were brief, but I was turning it over ok. The course was an M shape with a return to shore, and a short beach run in the middle. While it was bigger swell than I'd ever experienced, I found myself approaching shore with half the swim almost complete. Breathing to my left I saw a massive curling wave behind me. I tried to stretch out my arms and body surf as Andrew had shown me, but in an instant I was thrown into a Scorpion bend, snapping backward, over and over not knowing which way was up. Fear filled my body, and then I hit other bodies. A foot came down on my head, and a toe pulled through my goggle strap, stripping my cap from my head. I grabbed it off the foot as I was pulled back with the tow. I got a breath, and had one more lesser wave tumble me onto sand, before I could scramble and hop my way to shore through the powerful receding water. Running along the sand, I did not want to head back in to complete the swim. Attempting to calm my ragged breathing, I stopped to walk and settle down. I put my cap and goggles back on, and watched the water to decide when to re-enter the fierce ocean. I got through the surf unharmed, and swam toward the next buoy. On that side of the bay, the swell was coming across our route, and rolled over my head not allowing a downwind breath. The wind whipped off the top of the waves, making it feel like hail on my head. Eventually I found myself approaching the beach again, and I felt a sense of panic. I looked back to the lifeguards on Jet Skis, briefly considering an escape from this situation.  As it happens, I made it to the beach with some tumble and scramble, but no drama. The path to transition was lined with people cheering, but I couldn't look up. I was shell shocked, and not ready to celebrate.

A pro getting tossed

I went through the motions in transition and got on my bike. Once I was rolling on two wheels, and had a sip of eLoad to replace the salt and sand in my mouth, I felt normal again pretty quickly. The bike course fires up a steep hill leaving Kapalua resort. Within the first mile I had passed about 30 people before we hit the single track. The terrain is mostly smooth path, with a mud base, and roughly cut Hawaiian thick grasses. There are sections that wind through trees, and some steep climbs. I felt a little stuck behind slower riders, but passed whenever I saw a small widening. I tried to relax and refuel from my camelback when I couldn't pass. The smooth sailing didn't continue for long. Over the next 10 miles the trails were either super slick and greasy, or deep condensed muddy glue. It became a game of pulling and pushing handfuls of gunk from between the frame and the back wheel, or hauling a forty pound mud-covered dead weight up slick climbs when the back wheel could not be released. At times I was at a complete stand still as riders were bunched in groups trying to negotiate sharp ascents or descents. I got a little frustrated as some people had completely given up, and were not moving briskly on or off the bike. I still wanted to race, even though it seemed a little ridiculous as we hauled our mud-laden bikes up the climbs. Eventually I reached the top of the primary climb, and I got the wheels turning for the long descent. It got kind of fun. I passed many more people that either couldn't free their wheels, or had broken derailleurs and chains. Part way down I was reminded to keep it safe as a guy yelled that there was a medical emergency below. I heard afterward that a fellow was medevacced off the mountain, and they had an all-time high of broken bones that day. Closer to the end of the course it got super fun. The slick mud was replaced with soft needles and roots through the trees, and it began to feel like my favourite Beowulf trail at Silver Star. Bombing down the hill into transition, I was finally ready to celebrate the joy of it all, and hooted and hollered with a few others through the final tunnel. Running my bike to the rack dedicated to my age group category, I was surprised to see virtually no other bikes there. Knowing how slow going it had been for me, I wondered where the heck everyone was. Had I missed part of the course? Despite my confusion I was ready to slip on my runners. Running is so darn safe! The only issue was that I couldn't release the buckles on my bike shoes. They were glued shut with Hawaiian mud. I grabbed a tire lever from my pack to scrape and bang at the mud, and tried to drip the fluid from my hydration pack on the buckles. Finally free, I clipped on my race number belt, and ran back up the hill to the trails.

A photo from a friend's pre-ride...it got worse!

The run is basically a two mile climb through the grassy paths, a mile of fairly flat single track in the trees, then a long descent back to the ocean, with some short up hill kickers to keep us honest. I tried to keep up some intensity, and repeat the mantra to race right to the finish line. My breathing dictated the pace though, and I kept it at the threshold of rhythmical. I was a little disappointed to keep getting reduced to a walk on the climbs, but just kept checking that I was working as hard as I could. I continued to pass runners, and was only passed by one brilliant descender. After the last steep grind,  down and down we went, ducking under and over fallen trees, through a tiny ravine and funnelled out onto the beach where it all began. A couple hundred meters on the sand sucked any remaining energy from the legs, but at last I found myself in the final stretch leading towards the infamous flag-lined finish chute. Andrew cheered from the side of the chute, and suddenly I was finished...we were finished...the cheesy Double-Double. To make it even sweeter, we both finished fourth in our respective categories, and I was the 15th amateur woman. The Double is actually a real thing, and I was the first female of the small number that took it on, so received a gift certificate for accommodation in Maui. And in case you are wondering…no, I'm not going to use it for another race.

The long awaited finishing chute

Ironman Wisconsin 2015

and it started like this....

A Brash Decision
In early July, I came home from Trans Alp. My partner Jen and I had ridden our brains out for 7 days in the Alps, after 6 months of great training. We shared an amazing adventure, but racing turned into survival after a case of Giardia. The buzz of riding in the Alps was wearing off, and I needed my next fix. Enter Facebook. My friends Alanna and Laura had just finished IM CDA, and in a brash moment decided to chase that race with IM Whistler. They had been frustrated with 42 degrees in Coeur D'Alene, and wanted one more crack at it. With three weeks until race day, I wanted in on that adventure. I called our friends in Whistler hoping to crash at their place, and Kristian and Charlotte had a good laugh at my plan. Well, as it happens Kristian is a coach. A good one. And he's friends with my husband. They talked, and I received an intervention...aka no, don't do it. Apparently cycling in the Alps is not ideal training for an Ironman. Three days later I was registered for IM Wisconsin with an 8 week timeline...much more reasonable, but still exciting.

Bubbling confidence
I got on my tri bike, and the aero position felt strong almost immediately. My bike is incredibly light, electronic shifting at my finger tips, new snug drinking system, and I felt invincible on the bike. I shifted my training to consistency over distance.

Andrew and started running in the trails, and although it was a mix of walk and jog, we both felt fantastic, gradually going longer and longer.

I always talk about that swim with a wry smile. At my best, I swim with the goal of getting out of the water with some juice left in the tank for the rest of the race. With 8 weeks to prep, that's all I did...got in the water 4 days a week, and ensured that I did the full distance at least once a week. My confidence in the water was where it should be...cautiously optimistic.

Misgivings and doubts
What's an Ironman without sickening doubt a few weeks out? Andrew and I decided to get on the road, and make the legs absorb the tarmac for the last long run. Sounds genius right? Except that it was our only long run...and our only run on tarmac...and we let the pace escalate as we confidently chatted about the race. Until we weren't. Then we walked, and I might have groaned and sobbed a bit, very sore, but also very scared that a marathon is no joke, and deserved more respect than I gave it. We went down to the coast for family time on the Island, and the doubts escalated. My knee was zinging at a walk, I felt disconnected from the training, and wasn't quite sure how the wine and pizza were going to help me come race day.

Smooth and Strong
Home again to take Madeline to school for her first day and set her up with Nana, I swam twice in the lake...relieved that I remembered how. Setting off to meet Andrew in Madison as he flew out of Vancouver, I had both bike boxes. I didn't sleep a wink, so nervous that I'd have trouble getting both our bikes there. It was smooth as butter. No issue on any flight, or with immigration. I had time to reflect on a conversation I had with Kara, who has known me since this IM passion began. I flipped through a book she made for me a decade ago, with input from Vernon tri friends. It was inspiration to give my best effort at IM Western Australia, with an 8 month old in tow. I had written out every preparation including my doubts, leading up to the strongest IM I've done. Granted I am a decade older, but knowing that I wasn't dealing with a teething, jet lagged, hungry baby in the night, gave me a wee boost. I finished that conversation with Kara full of love and confidence again. I replaced my doubts with the mantra "smooth and strong" and set out to have one hell of a date with my husband in Madison.

Race Day
Smooth as Butter. I had the smoothest, simplest, most pleasant Ironman day I've ever had. Maybe it has a soft glow now that it's all over, but that's how I remember it. Breakfast went down easily. We had a short walk to the start from our hotel. Body marking was quick. There was a short line at the portapotty. I got into the lake easily, and could see Andrew floating in front of me waiting for the gun. It was just so darn smooth.

For the swim I dreamed of 1:10, expected 1:12, but prepared for 1:20, so that I wouldn't freak out if I saw a slower time than expected. The swim was fine...but lengthy. I wish I had worn a GPS, as I saw every buoy from every angle. The sun was low, and I was in the midst of 2600 people, and couldn't sight the buoys for the life of me. I was 1:16. Whatever. What's 5 minutes.

This was first event where I had no trouble in verbalizing my real goal. I wanted to SMASH the ride. I wanted to ride out of my skin, and just live with the consequences on the run. The start of the IMWI ride has no flow, especially if you exit the water with the maximum flow of swimmers. There is a series of bike paths and underpasses to get out of town, and I was itching to leave the 'no pass zone'. It wasn't long until I got to light it up, and ride my heart out. I tracked down 672 riders, 190 of those being women. Given that I'd trained to climb in standing in the Alps, I followed Andrew's suggestion. I stood on every hill, and recovered on every descent. As expected, the Madison spectators didn't disappoint. I saw the Devil, the Creepy Clown, the Undertaker, the Angels, the 20 year old boys in banana hammocks, the rude signs, then kids cheering on Daddy. I revelled in the man beating his drum to my cadence up the hill, and the women screaming my virtues over the crest of the hill. When else does a middle-aged woman, taking part in an amateur sporting event have fans? I felt grateful, and joyful, and supported to give it my all. I drank the eLoad that was on my bike, then water for the rest of the day. I ate a bar in the first half,  a Red Bull at 90km, and gels every 20-30 minutes for the home stretch. Again, smooth as butter. My back was aching from being in aero at intensity, my hamstring was getting very loud by the last 30km, but my stomach felt great, and my energy was high. I checked my watch, did the math, and knew I could be under 5:40 if I stayed focussed in that last few km where people are beginning to coast, slow down, and prep for the run. I was stoked to finish is 5:38, good for 3rd fastest female, and scoot me from 205th woman in the swim to 15th woman off the bike. I didn't know that of course, but was stoked to know that I rode my brains out for 180km and loved it.

I love the run course in Madison. Picture 15,000 college students with nothing to do on a Sunday but drink beer and cheer. The run weaves through town, does a lap of the famous football stadium, through the college campus, along the lake, and you do it all twice. The run was not magic for me, but I felt proud of keeping the wheels on. Within a km, I knew that I had no push off my toes. I was breathing steady, but knew that I needed to keep an easy steady rhythm to avoid cramping. I could see very early on that it was going to be just fine, if I kept it boring and steady. So that's what I did. The highlight was seeing Andrew on course twice. We stopped for our kiss, and I knew his day was not magic, but he was getting it done. As it turns out he finished first in his category, despite a crash and racing without his usual shine. Rock star. I had people on route giving me all kinds of conflicting information...I was 7th woman, no 12th, no 8th. I shut all that out, determined to keep my run 'boring', shooting Red Bull and water at virtually every aid station. There was no action until the last mile, when a 43 year old streak of lighting passed me. Thank goodness she did it quickly, because I truly didn't have it in me to challenge her, despite my Red Bull fuel. As it turns out, she passed me for first place in our category. I finished less than 2 minutes behind her, in second at 10 hours and 50 minutes. I was pretty darn stoked to have met my goals. Number one: to finish happy and healthy. Number two: to get a spot to Kona, and finish this 15 year IM adventure with wind in my hair and salt on my skin.

Choose your words carefully

Like a cork on a wave, as I rise out of the trough, ready to ride the peak, I seem to be cruelly pulled back down, eventually getting spat into the shallows, wallowing in my own self-pity. OK, totally melodramatic, but it does seem that as I finally seem to be overcoming an injury, I am immediately facing a new one. Torn hamstring and hip rotators 95% mended from the unfortunate cartwheel incident in the spring, I went for a run-hike in the woods for the first time seven months later. I was ecstatic to be breathing in the mossy smells, and feeling the soft earth beneath my feet. My husband and I wove through the familiar trails like I hadn't missed three seasons. Then I started crashing...hitting the deck...8 times! Though my fitness felt great, I didn't seem to have the coordination to negotiate the rocky trails. I recovered awkwardly from 7 of those falls, and we chuckled at my new clumsy form.  On the last one, I unconsciously brought my arm over my chest to shield myself from a big rock, and my knuckle punched through my ribs. Pulled back down into the trough of the wave, I looked ahead to another 8-12 weeks of tentative training and exercise. Familiar words swam in my head, as I wallowed in the shallows. I heard them leave my mouth and I believed them to be true.

Broken
Fragile
Old
Useless

I'm on the other side of that injury, I once again see the peak of the wave. This time I have no doubt that I'll be riding that wave. At 42 years of age, something has finally clicked in my understanding of the world. There are no short cuts. Having done hard athletic events in your past does not let you skip the building blocks. Most importantly, words are very powerful.

These words began to create my self-image, and began to erode my intentions to heal. The fact is that it DOES take a long time to heal once you are no longer in your twenties, but I am sure as heck not going to heal sitting on a couch. It's all about tiny consistent steps, and being comfortable with being uncomfortable. At some point I had to learn that tiny movements, done consistently, lead to enormous change over time. I was NOT broken. I was not old, fragile, or useless. I was simply greedy and spoilt, thinking that multiple endurance feats gave me a 'get out of jail free' card. Consistent, dedicated strength sessions were not optional. Eventually 30 second intervals of running evolved to 40 minutes of slow jogging, and my hard intervals on the bike are now my recovery watts. It's happening, and now my words have changed.

Capable
Patient
Grateful
Determined
Strong

Trans Alp 2014 Mittenwald Germany to Arco Italy in Seven Days

I’m sitting on a plane with a glass of wine enroute to Munich, from which I’ll take a van to Mittenwald in Bavaria. Well, I think it’s Bavaria. That’s the funny part. As I fly across the world to spend two weeks in the Alps, I haven’t researched the towns, booked any lodging, or checked out the tourism websites. In fact, I don’t even know how many days I’ll spend in each country or the names of the mountain villages that we’ll sleep in. What I do know, is that I’m riding my bike from Germany to Italy over 7 days. I know the distances for each day, and I’ve looked at the percent grade for the key climbs. I’ve thought about the intensity and the decisions that will be made about how much to suffer on Day One to make the cut to the faster group. What I do know is that I will be met in Munich by Joerg and Toby of Magic Places, and it’s they who have the task of getting us to the race start, navigating the mountain roads to set up a feed-zone, and meeting 15 Canadian teams at the end of each stage in another glorious mountain village. While I haven’t learned a spot of German, Austrian, or Italian, I can be certain that talk will turn to the gearing chosen for the climbs, the luck of the draw for which corral each team of riders will find themselves in on race morning, and a team plan for pacing and communicating. From that unexpected phone call in the fall of 2013 inviting me to team up with the formidable Emanuela Bandol, it’s finally here...Trans Alp 2014, starting in Mittenwald Germany and finishing 950km later in Arco Italy.

It’s day 3 in Germany. We have been comfortably settled in the Post Hotel, in the picturesque town of Mittenwald....without bags, and without bike boxes. Apparently our luggage went amiss in London. It’s only Thursday, and we ride on Sunday. No need to panic...yet. In the meanwhile, we’ve been walking the streets of this lovely town, and taking in the local sights. We took a trip up the spectacular Karwendel cable car 7360 feet. Luck has not been on our side, for after paying the 60 euro, we waited just long enough for a storm to move in and ascended into a white out with torrential rain and hail. We looked at the pictures of what it should have been, and imagined the breathtaking view.

An evening stroll after dinner with my TA partner Emma Bandol. 

The boys check out the start of the climb for race day.

Some of Team Canada heading out for a ride. 

The descent from Karwendal after a white out at the top.

A most beautiful sight in this town is the Parish Church of St. Peter and Paul. Our hotel window gives us a framed view of it's beauty. We have complicated feelings about the finest church in the Bavarian Alps. It took 15 years to build this masterpiece, completed in 1749. It's wonderful to day dream about that era, and how the church's role has evolved over the centuries. I'm also finding the steeple helpful for navigating the town, and finding my hotel in the evening. Somewhat less enchanting is the bell ringing….on every half hour….throughout the night, and randomly, for random durations. The 6am bell ringing is particularly interesting with a 10 minute frantic chime, which we have now interpreted to mean "Get the F out of bed and get to work!". Somehow it still holds a fond place in my heart, like a difficult relative.

Day 4 Mittenwald

I find it kind of interesting that wherever we find ourselves, we seem to look for a bit of constancy, or a bit of home. It didn't take us long to find a place for 5am tea for Andrew and coffee for Ginny. OK, full transparency….tea, coffee, and CHOCOLATE FILLED CROISSANTS. Oh my God, Is there a better way to start a day?

Still waiting for news on our bikes and bags lost in transit, we set out for a hike. The joy of Bavaria is that the hikes start right from the edge of town. It was a true feast for the eyes. Meadows and mountain peaks, ice blue river with steep rock walls. It was good to move a little and distract us from missing our bikes.

The bike boxes arrived last night! Andrew will be riding naked as his case is still lost in transit…but I'm OK with that. We built up the bikes asap and got in a quick ride before a storm moved in. Heading out of town, we were into Austria within moments. The roads were smooth, quiet, and stunningly beautiful. Hearts full and stress down a notch, we shared a picnic dinner with great friends in our room, watching Germany win a World Cup soccer game.

And now I’m flying home. 850km and 19 mountain passes later. Here are some impressions of the experience. Point form.

Stimulating

• flying along in a stretched peloton, absolutely comfortable with rain water driving against my glasses spitting up from my partner’s wheel, specks of gravel in my teeth
• descending on dry road behind a Canadian woman driving the pace on the switch backs, learning to take a tighter line, trusting the lean of the bike, and lifting off the seat to power back up to speed.
• loving the predictable features on each climb such as the skinny German wearing short-shorts, 90s rock pumping from his van...or knowing the speeding Audi spilling out um-si-um-si-um-si would lead to a shirtless Korean passing the same bottle of coke to anyone willing to take a swig.
• switching up racing partners for the day and sharing the adventure with Andrew
• daily healing by the magic hands of our dynamic massage therapist Lesley

Uncomfortable

• the morning of the first day, waiting under the eaves of the train station with my partner Emma, Andrew and his partner Dalton, as the strength of the rain began to build. 
• Showing my partner how to teepee our bikes in the starting corral, and wishing I was wearing the the extra layers that were still sitting in my luggage.
• feeling my jaw tighten in the cold to the point of pain and fear build as my bike began to wobble when my shivers escalated shaking on a 20km descent, soaked through to the skin 4 degrees and raining.
• grinding up a climb for two hours with a head cold, going backwards...legs not responding to sugar or will power.
• racing to the line on an uphill finish, following my partner making a super-human surge
• feeling nauseous after seeing a crumpled bike frame jammed under a car trailer, with the rider on a spine board

Visually stunning

• climbing from the valley floor up toward snow line, green merging to white and meadows evolving into majestic rock spires
• rising into the rain clouds themselves, the whiteout gobbling up all but the cyclists immediately around us.
• looking down on a mountain hamlet consisting of a church and a dozen stone houses just as the bell begins to toll and school children walk home via steep rocky paths
• passing old Italian farmers taking a break from their work to watch the cyclists grind up the hills past their land
• time slowing down as enormous cows wander across the road completely un-phased by cyclists passing in front or behind them

Thank you to Joerg and Toby of Magic Places for taking care of our every need for two weeks. Thank you to Squirt for inviting me on this adventure, and being patient with my roller coaster of emotions for over 6 months! Here are some photos of moments on and off the bike. Arrivederci TransAlp!

God and the MRI

As a child, I spent considerable time pondering the existence of God. We didn't talk about God at home. I knew that my parents went to the Church of England regularly until they married, and immigrated to Canada. That's all I remember. It was a non-topic at home. So from about the age of seven, I thought I ought to do my own research.

I went to Catholic church with my best friend Carie. I remember sitting in Sunday school, desperately hoping that I wouldn't be called upon to read. The words were unfamiliar and stuck in my throat. I felt inexplicable shame as the children went up to receive bread, while I remained conspicuously in the pew. I also felt some fear of what I didn't understand. What did the bread have to do with the body of Christ? I felt my heart quicken if I let my eyes rest on the man hanging from the cross. My only sense was that I should somehow be apologizing for being bad, but I didn't know how.

I took care of two ponies when I was young, Dusty and Pokey. Their names suited them. As a Shetland/Welsh mix, they were as tall as they were wide. They were so lazy that they wouldn't flinch when I would leap frog from a box to jump on. I spent hours lying on their backs staring at the sky as they grazed. In my young mind, I imagined myself as a great show jumper, and set up a jumps course for these ponies. I shortened the western stirrups to mimic the English riders, and thought my will was stronger than that of my ponies. Dusty was the tallest, and hence my prize jumper. I'm not sure that we made it around my jumps course even once over an entire summer. He teased me into thinking he would jump by cantering toward my homemade log jump, then would throw on the brakes to toss me over his neck. He would look right into my watering eyes, as I got off the ground determined not to let him see my pain. Eventually, he took to grabbing the bit in his teeth and bolting, leaving me to hold on to his mane for dear life. This is where I get back to God. My make-shift jumping ring was across the street from Twyla's house. I knew this family was different from mine, but I wasn't sure quite how. The kids didn't go to school. The girls aways wore long skirts, and a little bonnet. Twyla and I somehow became friends of sorts. She would sit on the fence as I fought with my ponies, and she helped me brush them sometimes. I can't remember how it happened, but I managed to invite myself to their church. Once. In my vague recollection, I remember a church leader on stage calling out questions to the congregation. They got more and more excited as their leader inspired them to respond louder and louder to his calls. Peoples hands were in the air, many had their eyes closed, then as the fervour peaked, a woman was lifted up to the stage with the leader. She looked as though she had epilepsy. She shook, and drooled, and called out gibberish words. The whole congregation cheered for her. I held my friend's hand as she pushed toward the stage, terrified to be left alone. I spoke into Twyla's ear over the noise of the crowd to ask what was happening. I learned the woman was speaking the word of God. Speaking in tongues.

Not having found a church to ease my confusion over God, I began to speak to him myself. I began making deals. They started with sacrifice. "If I don't eat desert for 3 nights, You need to show yourself to me." The deals escalated. I can't remember how long this process took, but it peaked with me doing the scariest thing I could possibly imagine. My end of the deal was to jump out my bedroom window once it was dark, and walk all the way to the cemetery, a mile from my house. I began by touching the first post at the edge of the cemetery, and worked my way up to walking through the centre, where there was a little path between decorative bushes. Most of the time I would walk as quietly as possible, listening for danger. When I got spooked I would sprint for a moment, but then knew I hadn't kept up my end of the deal. I don't really remember how it petered out, just that I stopped making deals once my journey to the cemetery was unsuccessful.

These quirky childhood memories came flooding back this week, as I joked with my physio that I was starting to make deals with the Powers that Be. I would sacrifice all forms of racing, if only the Powers that Be would allow me to run pain-free in the trails, and join in fun family sports. I joked with the physio, but it wasn't far from the truth. Feeling very short of sleep from knee pain at night, desperately missing my 'life' of running and sport, I was ready to make deals.

In that same visit, my physio was giving me permission to run, bike, jump...anything that would inflame the knee so that the cause of the injury would be more obvious by MRI. He concurred with the surgeon. They think they know what's going on in there, but want to see it. That was last Thursday. I had a mix of excitement, thinking of what activity I would do to bash the knees, and also a fear of more sleepless nights and daily distraction with knee pain. The weekend rolled on, and I got more and more nervous about it. What if I was halfway around Kal Park, and couldn't make it back? What if I bashed them up, and they still couldn't see any injury to the tissues? As it turns out, I spent the weekend taking care of a sick little girl. She couldn't go to school on Monday, so my planned run session disappeared. Then I got sick too. Just a rotten cold, but the excitement to run had passed. Further to that, my knees had been feeling so much better over the weekend, after the physio had taped them up, that I felt I was making progress! Tuesday morning came, and I knew that I was supposed to have really sore knees by now, but I didn't. A background issue was needing to get a car to the airport for my family, as I wouldn't be able to pick them up late at night. The solution was to drive down, and ride my bike home, hopefully hammering a couple of hills to bash up the knees.

The plan was set. I pulled out my bike, and pumped up tires for the first time in 6 months. It took me much longer than I hoped to find clothing, a patch kit, bike shoes, helmet, gloves. It was like the first day of ski season, feeling like a beginner again. I took two more daytime Tylenol cold capsules, hoping my head wouldn't explode. I drove down to the airport, feeling like I was doing something really stupid, but was already committed. I parked next to the letter G, tucked the key under the wheel, and rolled away on my bike.

Easing in, I felt a little nervous next to the traffic. I thought the roads would be quieter mid-day. Within a few minutes I settled in and felt surprisingly good on the bike. I was spinning nicely, breathing fine, and moving forward. All good. I was trying not to over-analyze the knee comfort, and just ride for a bit. It was a stunning day. The sun was brilliant, and spring was clearly present on the hills around me. And that's it. Nothing happened. My knees didn't hurt more than twinges, I loved the ride, took photos of the incredible vistas, made it home, picked up my daughter to drop her with friends, so that I could drive to Kamloops for the MRI. Feeling like a big fraud. I hate to waste people's time and money. I hesitated all along for this MRI, but was encouraged by sport med doctor, the surgeon, the physio, all explaining that we needed to make sure that there wasn't an obvious reason that I wasn't seeing the progress that we all expected. Well it's done, and tomorrow I will just continue on with rehab exercises, hoping it will all be old news in a few months, and occasionally making a deal with the Powers that Be.

If you ride a little slower, you see amazing things. Check out this tree house!

I've ridden these routes a thousand times, but it was all new today.

Waiting, feeling like a fraud.

My two favourite things....small spaces, and being still.

Flow in the water

I've been waiting for this all winter; that moment where your focus narrows, you feel immersed in the moment, you feel flow in your movement, and a feeling of joy and confidence swells in your heart. I can be assured of that feeling of flow when my feet are pounding down a trail, or I'm standing on my pedals climbing switchbacks to a summit. I can't say that I've ever had that experience following a black line in a 25m pool...until today.

My friends know that I only swim so that I can get to T1. Sure, the lake is inviting in the summer, and I love the accomplishment of swimming to 'that dock' with the turn-around flag. Otherwise, the joys of swimming generally allude me. I have even cut out of a swim session early to get a jump start on my taxes.

Lately I've spent a whole lot more time in the pool. I have committed to staying off my feet to kick the inflammation in my knee. That means no running, hiking, biking, snowshoeing, skiing...or anything remotely fun! Sooooo, more pool time.

I got to the Vernon pool deck with my goal in mind. 400, 500, 600, 700, 800m alternating swim and pull/paddles. I've been swimming that exact same workout four days a week, no details, no pace clock, no negotiating. I perused the lanes, looking for consistent swimmers, avoiding the man with flippers doing some sort of adapted back stroke, and avoiding the whipper snapper with her swim club cap banging out 200s of IM. I hopped in with two men who looked pretty steady, and near my pace. I just wanted to get into my groove and complete my ritual without too much passing and dodging. Well it turns out that these two very agreeable fellows lacked a little in pool etiquette. They stood at the wall to chat and their large bellies almost touched at the black line, leaving little room to flip. The older one seemed to wait until the moment I turned, to push off the wall in front of me, leaving me to wait for a chance to pass. That's when things changed. Instead of my cruisey pace, I had to pick it up to beat the on-coming swimmer. Spurred on by a little irritation I kept up the stronger pace, and began to flip faster, reach further, push harder, breath more frequently. I felt the intensity rise. When I got to the wall, I saw men's bellies part as they made way for me. They scooted off to the side when they felt the water move on their feet. I felt that focus, that flow, being in the moment....hold on now.....joy? confidence? ME? IN THE WATER? YES, that was me. Feeling JOY in the water! When I stopped at the wall between the last two sets, the guys were getting out and one said "Wow, you're some swimmer." Usually I would have said something self-depricating, knowing that I'm mediocre at best, lining up next to triathletes and swimmers. Today I just said "Thanks! Have a great day!" and went on to finish the session feeling like "some swimmer".

Pink Poodles in Paris

Have you ever put your daughter's hair in a bun? Not just any bun...a rhythmic gymnastics bun. There is, in fact, a class to be attended by every parent in the fall to ensure such a bun is done correctly. It must be high on the head, directly above the ears. If your child should fail to have long, beautifully behaving hair that creates a luscious snug bun, you must resort to accessories. It is ingeniously called a "bun maker". You can buy them online, and there are multiple websites to demonstrate it's implementation. Having been gently scolded in front of the other mothers for my sloppy buns that would explode after the first summersault, I was grateful for this aid, and can now drop off my daughter for her class with my head held high, proud of her snug and plump bun.

Rhythmic gymnastics is the last sport I'd have thought my daughter would be doing. When the Olympics arrive every four years, I pause to briefly admire the freakish flexibility of these primarily Eastern european beauties, before switching channels to watch a 'real' sport. These strange and beautiful creatures were not an inspiration to me in sport as they seem other worldly, disconnected from mortal women achieving a level of excellence in a sport. But it's Vernon and it's winter. It's dark at four o'clock, and either wet or icy for months. I was looking for an indoor activity, where my daughter isn't standing in line waiting for her turn to move. This activity was meeting my criteria to make sure that Madeline was constantly moving, learning new skills, having fun, and best of all, she got to 'get her girl on' with a leotard and ribbons. Who knew that I would spawn a girly girl? I've got to admit, I was attracted to the fact that her session is 75 minutes long; long enough to get in a real run!

A few weeks after the season started, I was informed that the girls would be participating in the production of Anastasia. It began with requests to raise funds and raise awareness to sell tickets. I was then supplied with three schedules to collate on my calendar; one for extra practices, one for volunteer hours, and one for the performance schedule. Hold on now....I paid good money for this program. There is no way I would solicit my neighbours to financially support my six year old newly initiated into this elaborate world of rhythmic gymnastics. The mothers were meant to gather on a series of Saturday mornings for a sewing bee and whip together some costumes. Once again my glaring lack of all domestic skills was exposed for all to witness. As the expectations for this production escalated I finally cracked when I saw the performance times. My six year old was meant to prance on stage at nine o'clock in the evening, after five performances in two days, with a 5 hour dress rehearsal to kick it all off. This was beyond ridiculous! I wrote a letter to the coaches questioning this, and was informed that year after year the young children rise to the challenge, and perform beautifully. Reaaaaalllly...alright then, let the games begin.

As this process unfolded, and I complained bitterly to my husband as I set off for the sewing bee on a rainy Saturday morning, something strange happened. I came into the room with Camille Martens, former Olympian and the dreamer and producer behind Anastasia, sharing with the mothers her vision for the costumes. She had found incredible materials to combine and make royalty, servants, minions, gypsies, and prancing pink poodles come to life. I was sucked in by her enthusiasm, and found myself cutting and creating in a room buzzing with interesting women, coming together for their children and the concept of creating something special. Returning home, I maintained my air of altruism and didn't admit to any enjoyment to my husband.

As the production neared, I received an email. Along with four other mothers, I was selected for the honour of guiding fourteen Pink Poodles in Paris, aged four to eight, backstage throughout the weekend. As I attempted to rustle up a plethora of other commitments I drew a blank. My husband would be out of town for five days, I didn't have work commitments, I hadn't been called for jury duty, and I didn't have a terminal illness. This resulted in a fourteen hour commitment to keeping these little pink poodles occupied, clean, fed, and happy, all for their six minutes of glory.

I arrived at the theatre with a large box. It was full of paper, crayons, scissors, wool, pipe cleaners, stickers. We would make pom poms, crowns, masks, forts, do word searches, play telephone...I was armed and ready for these rabid poodles. There were nearly a hundred performers backstage. The vocalist was warming her voice, the cellist was tuning her instrument, the gymnasts were stretching on mats, the russian dancers were doing deep knee bends, the poodles' faces were transformed by the makeup artist. All one hundred performers were then called on stage with Camille and her coaches for warm up. Every performer silenced in her presence. They listened to every word as she went through a list of specific details to make things run smoothly. The warm up then built like a wave, as their movement and voices rose with building energy. Music then filled the auditorium and erupted in a dance party with parents and backstage hands joining in. I was sucked in! I was part of it!! Let's get this show rolling!!! LET'S NAIL IT!!!!!!

From there the show just rolled. Performers swept on and off the stage, the music played in the halls so we could listen for the musical cues of when our group was needed on stage. We primped and primed the poodles. We got them fed, we rushed more than one to the bathroom, we kept them quiet with crafts, and had them lined up right on time for their few moments on stage. The little poodles vibrated in the hall excited for their moment on stage. When we ushered them back off the stage, they glowed with satisfaction and pride. Mission accomplished! The only problem was that I had absolutely no idea of what was really happening on stage. I had not seen a single scene from the performance. My ticket to enjoy the performance from the audience was for Friday night.

 I sat in the third row of a packed house, with nothing obscuring my view of the stage. The lights went down and the story of Anastasia began. I had read the synopsis, knew the general plot, but was not terribly interested as I thought is was more the opportunity to show the skill of the rhythmic gymnasts. I was somewhat surprised by the fact that Camille had named her only daughter Anastasia, thus was likely more invested in the story.  Over the next 100 minutes I was transported to another place. Set pieces that looked like wood and paint back stage, looked like marble and gold under the lights. The costumes that were sewn by amateurs looked authentic. The children turned into royalty, soldiers, orphans, gypsies, statues, french painters, and of course poodles. I was absolutely shocked that a production consisting primarily of children could move me. I felt the resentment of the poor residents of Moscow in contrast to the royal extravagance. The little faces of the orphans moved a mother's heart. I felt his cry of pain as a father watched his beautiful gypsy girls leave for Paris. Fortunately my mascara didn't run as Camille made us roar with laughter as the orphans toyed with their guardian, the gypsy mother sported a moustache and hairy legs, and the Pink Poodles in Paris were ridiculously cute. At the crescendo of the finale, the curtain dropped, and the past weeks came back to me. It comes down to this. It is a privilege to be a part of something bigger than oneself. Led by a woman with vision and a drop of genius, more than a hundred people created something quite remarkable...all here in small town Vernon. Thank you for including me and my little pink poodle.