It hurts. But it's cool!
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Friday, June 22, 2007
I survived!
So this week, after 5 weeks of 06:00 AM workouts, I finally finished bootcamp.
What a thrill! What an accomplishment! I feel über-cool!
You see, for the past five weeks, Bootcamp and I have had a love-hate relationship.
Here is how it evolved:
Every morning, Monday through Friday, my alarm rings loudly from across the room at 5:00 AM and I stumble groggily over to turn it off. Most mornings, (after I got into my bootcamp groove), I actually woke up two or three minutes before the alarm and let the early morning rays dance across my face as I slowly embraced the morning. As the alarm chimed (or blared, depending on the morning), I eagerly jumped out of bed anxious for the morning’s challenge. That’s how it started! With child-like anticipation. And then… much to my chagrin, I would often painfully discover as I opened the blinds and took B for a walk that 75% of these morning workouts would be tarnished with rain, rain, and more rain.
In case you were wondering: Doing pushups in the rain is not fun.
I was wet. I was sticky. My hands, legs, arms, everywhere were caked with grass and mud. Little gnatty bugs pestered me during reps. It was downright awful, actually. But I still went. Mostly because I wanted to prove to myself that I could do this. And, quite often, aside from the grassy imprints on my hands and my pants soaked through past the underwear and straight to the skin, I actually felt invigorated.
“You’re hardcore,” my coach said to me and two other devotees one black Wednesday morning when the rain was pelting down more like hail then drops of water.
And I felt vindicated.
Our schedule was rigorous:
MONDAY: Arms Day. This involved sets shoulder presses, chest flys, bicep curls, tricep kickbacks, chest presses, shoulder raises, etc. When we can’t possibly fathom lifting our arms for one more lift, we rest our arms and pump up our hearts with some intense cardio intervals: Football shuffles the length of the field and back, then sprints, then jumps, etc… This is how it persists. Arms then drills, arms then drills, arms then drills. For the last ten minutes (this is the time when your arms are absolutely incapable of even holding up your cereal spoon at breakfast), we go for a 15 minute run. “To cool down,” my coach says. Right.
TUESDAY: Core. This is abs day. All day. Although the cardio component in minimized to just a short warm up run and a few laps in between sets of ab work, this day is one of the hardest. We crunch our abs. We curl them. We reverse curl. We bridge. We plank. We work those little muscles to the point where sitting up in a chair at home becomes torturous. I love it. It’s killer.
WEDNESDAY: Legs Day. Like Arms Day, Legs Day is a series of intervals with weights (squats, plies, lunges, kickbacks, glute raises, etc,) and intense cardio (squat jumps, shuffles, knee jumps, one-legged hops, etc.) I usually have a hard time pressing the gas pedal in the car when I am heading home after this session. That’s how I gage the success of this day: whether or not I would be considered a threat on the road thereafter.
THURSDAY: The Gauntlet. This day IS as bad and as torturous as it sounds. It’s the most intense cardio day. Drills drills and more drills without reprieve. There are five pylons the length of a football field. We start at one end and, for example, run through our first drill like this: Run to the first pylon and back, do 20 pushups. Run to the second and back; 20 pushups. Run to the third and back. 20 pushups. And so it continues until you’ve run the length of the field and back, to each of the five pylons, and completed 100 pushups. Then you move on to doing situps in between each run. Then jumping jacks. Then squat jumps. Then shuffles. It goes on like this for an hour. By the end, I can barely walk but I feel like a million bucks. And my bum has started to jiggle less. Which I can’t say bothers me in the least.
FRIDAY: Total Body Day! This day is a culmination of everything we have done all week at a fierce intensity. It’s arms. It’s abs. It’s legs. It’s gauntlet cardio. It is both brutal and beautiful.
So I got this cool t-shirt as a reward for surviving (5 members of our little group failed to complete the course and dropped out a various stages throughout). I also got a lot of unexpected gifts from this experience (I love surprises!):
- Improved self-confidence (I do kick butt. And that’s cool!)
- A tighter ass (see you later Havarti bum!)
- An inch less around the middle, my thighs, and my calves (cool!)
- A half-inch bigger biceps (Strong arms! Woo!)
- 35 seconds off my per kilometer race time (I’m defying the slow-McMullen genes!)
- New friends (and running buddies)
- A sense of accomplishment (my favourite thing)
So, naturally, I signed up for another five weeks.
I start Monday. Can’t wait!
What a thrill! What an accomplishment! I feel über-cool!
You see, for the past five weeks, Bootcamp and I have had a love-hate relationship.
Here is how it evolved:
Every morning, Monday through Friday, my alarm rings loudly from across the room at 5:00 AM and I stumble groggily over to turn it off. Most mornings, (after I got into my bootcamp groove), I actually woke up two or three minutes before the alarm and let the early morning rays dance across my face as I slowly embraced the morning. As the alarm chimed (or blared, depending on the morning), I eagerly jumped out of bed anxious for the morning’s challenge. That’s how it started! With child-like anticipation. And then… much to my chagrin, I would often painfully discover as I opened the blinds and took B for a walk that 75% of these morning workouts would be tarnished with rain, rain, and more rain.
In case you were wondering: Doing pushups in the rain is not fun.
I was wet. I was sticky. My hands, legs, arms, everywhere were caked with grass and mud. Little gnatty bugs pestered me during reps. It was downright awful, actually. But I still went. Mostly because I wanted to prove to myself that I could do this. And, quite often, aside from the grassy imprints on my hands and my pants soaked through past the underwear and straight to the skin, I actually felt invigorated.
“You’re hardcore,” my coach said to me and two other devotees one black Wednesday morning when the rain was pelting down more like hail then drops of water.
And I felt vindicated.
Our schedule was rigorous:
MONDAY: Arms Day. This involved sets shoulder presses, chest flys, bicep curls, tricep kickbacks, chest presses, shoulder raises, etc. When we can’t possibly fathom lifting our arms for one more lift, we rest our arms and pump up our hearts with some intense cardio intervals: Football shuffles the length of the field and back, then sprints, then jumps, etc… This is how it persists. Arms then drills, arms then drills, arms then drills. For the last ten minutes (this is the time when your arms are absolutely incapable of even holding up your cereal spoon at breakfast), we go for a 15 minute run. “To cool down,” my coach says. Right.
TUESDAY: Core. This is abs day. All day. Although the cardio component in minimized to just a short warm up run and a few laps in between sets of ab work, this day is one of the hardest. We crunch our abs. We curl them. We reverse curl. We bridge. We plank. We work those little muscles to the point where sitting up in a chair at home becomes torturous. I love it. It’s killer.
WEDNESDAY: Legs Day. Like Arms Day, Legs Day is a series of intervals with weights (squats, plies, lunges, kickbacks, glute raises, etc,) and intense cardio (squat jumps, shuffles, knee jumps, one-legged hops, etc.) I usually have a hard time pressing the gas pedal in the car when I am heading home after this session. That’s how I gage the success of this day: whether or not I would be considered a threat on the road thereafter.
THURSDAY: The Gauntlet. This day IS as bad and as torturous as it sounds. It’s the most intense cardio day. Drills drills and more drills without reprieve. There are five pylons the length of a football field. We start at one end and, for example, run through our first drill like this: Run to the first pylon and back, do 20 pushups. Run to the second and back; 20 pushups. Run to the third and back. 20 pushups. And so it continues until you’ve run the length of the field and back, to each of the five pylons, and completed 100 pushups. Then you move on to doing situps in between each run. Then jumping jacks. Then squat jumps. Then shuffles. It goes on like this for an hour. By the end, I can barely walk but I feel like a million bucks. And my bum has started to jiggle less. Which I can’t say bothers me in the least.
FRIDAY: Total Body Day! This day is a culmination of everything we have done all week at a fierce intensity. It’s arms. It’s abs. It’s legs. It’s gauntlet cardio. It is both brutal and beautiful.
So I got this cool t-shirt as a reward for surviving (5 members of our little group failed to complete the course and dropped out a various stages throughout). I also got a lot of unexpected gifts from this experience (I love surprises!):
- Improved self-confidence (I do kick butt. And that’s cool!)
- A tighter ass (see you later Havarti bum!)
- An inch less around the middle, my thighs, and my calves (cool!)
- A half-inch bigger biceps (Strong arms! Woo!)
- 35 seconds off my per kilometer race time (I’m defying the slow-McMullen genes!)
- New friends (and running buddies)
- A sense of accomplishment (my favourite thing)
So, naturally, I signed up for another five weeks.
I start Monday. Can’t wait!
Monday, June 11, 2007
Pimpin'
People on the West Coast are just as interesting as the scenery.
For example:
In my four weeks here, I have been mercilessly pimped out.
One friend and her friend and her friends' friends have this unnatural fascination with an Ontario girl moving West.
"Fresh meat" they called me. (Oh, why thank you.)
Apparently, being fresh meat is a good thing.
--
Side note:
For those of you who know me and my staunch feminist ways, you'll understand the underlying sarcasm throughout this whole piece.
--
PIMPIN' OUT #1:
"You're SO west coast," one of them said. "I know the perfect guy for you."
(He turned out to be some rock n' roll wannabe guitarist who couldn't hold a conversation and was eager for me to be his groupie. I was dreadfully bored.)
PIMPIN' OUT #2
"Oh, this guy will TOTALLY love you. You're SO cute and naive," said one friend tickled with excitement.
"Do I have to?" I pleaded with a huge sigh and dramatics.
(Apparently, I did.)
He turned out to be having a love affair with money and was fiercely critical of my "work to live" policy and my passionate commitment to earning money to spend on the things that make me happy and fulfill my life. He was more of a "stuff" kind of guy. He liked to show it off. Apparently, owning a nice car makes you a good catch (who knew?).
Still, even after our obvious lack of connection over every single belief we each had, he says:
"Wanna see my Porsche?"
I raised an eyebrow in disgust.
"Girls love it." (oooh! ahhh! Well if "girls" love it...)
"I'd rather not," I said, chugging back my beer in hopes that an alcohol-induced coma would save me from this idiot and his fat wallet. I stumbled home unimpressed but full on a nice cedar plank grilled Salmon fillet.
PIMPIN' OUT #3:
"This guy is SO hot Kim. You'll just die!" shrieked one painfully annoying girl whom I hope never becomes my friend.
Sure, he was nice to look at. But he was, predictably, a Himbo. Dumb as a rock. In love with himself. Zero personality. And I get bored with chiseled features after a while. In fact, I get bored with them after 3 minutes and 54 seconds to be exact.
Lack of personality, heart, and humilty make people ugly in my mind.
He was dreadfully appauling after four minutes. I couldn't stand to look at him.
I made an excuse to leave and did. A record exit that I prided myself on because I was able to call up a friend and hit a few golf balls before the evening was out! Success!
--
And so this has gone on for four weeks. Bachelor after bachelor. All this time that I can't seem to get back. Seems like such a waste. I've been able to thwart off most of these suitors thanks to my general disinterest in the dating scene and in dating for the sake of dating just to say you're dating. Really now... I have much better things to do than sell strangers on why I'm prime dating material. Please. I'd rather grab a beer with someone that already thinks I'm cool and whom I already believe to be fantastic.
Of course, this attitude has dismayed my new friends who were keen to sell my assets all summer long.
"What a bore, you are." They've playfully said.
"You're too picky."
"I'm particular," I said coyly. "I have no interest at all in spending time with people whose qualities I don't admire."
To them, this means that I have instantaneously deteriorated my boy opportunities out here by nearly half. One even ventured to guestimate that I've eliminated 98% of the pool by my attitude alone (gasp!), and apparently that is a dating shame.
Personally, I'm not too worried about the odds.
I have more pressing things to think about, like what mountain I am going to climb tomorrow...
For example:
In my four weeks here, I have been mercilessly pimped out.
One friend and her friend and her friends' friends have this unnatural fascination with an Ontario girl moving West.
"Fresh meat" they called me. (Oh, why thank you.)
Apparently, being fresh meat is a good thing.
--
Side note:
For those of you who know me and my staunch feminist ways, you'll understand the underlying sarcasm throughout this whole piece.
--
PIMPIN' OUT #1:
"You're SO west coast," one of them said. "I know the perfect guy for you."
(He turned out to be some rock n' roll wannabe guitarist who couldn't hold a conversation and was eager for me to be his groupie. I was dreadfully bored.)
PIMPIN' OUT #2
"Oh, this guy will TOTALLY love you. You're SO cute and naive," said one friend tickled with excitement.
"Do I have to?" I pleaded with a huge sigh and dramatics.
(Apparently, I did.)
He turned out to be having a love affair with money and was fiercely critical of my "work to live" policy and my passionate commitment to earning money to spend on the things that make me happy and fulfill my life. He was more of a "stuff" kind of guy. He liked to show it off. Apparently, owning a nice car makes you a good catch (who knew?).
Still, even after our obvious lack of connection over every single belief we each had, he says:
"Wanna see my Porsche?"
I raised an eyebrow in disgust.
"Girls love it." (oooh! ahhh! Well if "girls" love it...)
"I'd rather not," I said, chugging back my beer in hopes that an alcohol-induced coma would save me from this idiot and his fat wallet. I stumbled home unimpressed but full on a nice cedar plank grilled Salmon fillet.
PIMPIN' OUT #3:
"This guy is SO hot Kim. You'll just die!" shrieked one painfully annoying girl whom I hope never becomes my friend.
Sure, he was nice to look at. But he was, predictably, a Himbo. Dumb as a rock. In love with himself. Zero personality. And I get bored with chiseled features after a while. In fact, I get bored with them after 3 minutes and 54 seconds to be exact.
Lack of personality, heart, and humilty make people ugly in my mind.
He was dreadfully appauling after four minutes. I couldn't stand to look at him.
I made an excuse to leave and did. A record exit that I prided myself on because I was able to call up a friend and hit a few golf balls before the evening was out! Success!
--
And so this has gone on for four weeks. Bachelor after bachelor. All this time that I can't seem to get back. Seems like such a waste. I've been able to thwart off most of these suitors thanks to my general disinterest in the dating scene and in dating for the sake of dating just to say you're dating. Really now... I have much better things to do than sell strangers on why I'm prime dating material. Please. I'd rather grab a beer with someone that already thinks I'm cool and whom I already believe to be fantastic.
Of course, this attitude has dismayed my new friends who were keen to sell my assets all summer long.
"What a bore, you are." They've playfully said.
"You're too picky."
"I'm particular," I said coyly. "I have no interest at all in spending time with people whose qualities I don't admire."
To them, this means that I have instantaneously deteriorated my boy opportunities out here by nearly half. One even ventured to guestimate that I've eliminated 98% of the pool by my attitude alone (gasp!), and apparently that is a dating shame.
Personally, I'm not too worried about the odds.
I have more pressing things to think about, like what mountain I am going to climb tomorrow...
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Running in the rain
I woke up this morning to a tiny ray of light making it's way through a crack in the blind and onto my face.
Sunshine! I thought with anticipation of all the day's adventures that would ensue from this small realization.
It has rained steadily for two days, with no reprieve, and I've been itching to get outside.
So I tardily got up, stretched, and opened the door to the backyard to let my anxious pooch out for a pee. Upon opening the door, we realized that this little ray of light had taunted us. It was cold and overcast. Still, I saw the sun trying to poke through and I knew, given some time, that it would be victorious.
So I puttered around a little. I got the paper. I made breakfast. I cleaned the apartment. I brushed Beamer. I went to the laundromat. I called some friends. I chatted with family. I procrastinated on the Internet.
Then, a bigger ray of light danced on the kitchen table. I said to a friend: I am going for a run today! The sun is shining! I can't wait!
I actually haven't been running as often as I'd like. Most in part to the after-effects of bootcamp every morning, which leaves me void of energy and working muscles for a good 24 hours before I do it again. So I savour the weekends when I can go for a jaunt, breathe in the fresh ocean air, do some sight-seeing along a new route, and think things through. Running has always been therapeutic for me.
So I put on my gear. Gleefully talking to myself and my dog (Yay! I'm going for a run!)
I felt strong!
By the time I finally made it outside it was a little after noon.
The sun was doing its best effort to push through the clouds. It was breezy. But nice.
I set forth, Lenny Kravitz on my iPod asking me: "Girl, where are you running to?"
I had a good pace. I felt strong and full of energy.
THIS is going to be a great run.
I took 6th Avenue to Alma so I could see some different scenery, then ran down to Point Grey where all the ritzy rich live to admire their homes and scoff at their gas-guzzling, enviro-killing hummers, locked gates, and manicured gardens. About 3 or 4k into this jaunt, I felt a drop of rain.
Then two drops.
Then, within three seconds, it was a full on downpour. My friend, the sun, had lost his battle. The dark clouds moved in full throttle with their onslaught.
The rain was hard but cool. So I decided to continue. After all, being a West Coaster now, I am going to have to learn to love the rain. And, as much as I'd like to believe that I'm made of sugar, sadly, I am not. And I won't melt.
So I carried forth with conviction!
Within a few minutes, however, I was so wet that my pants were starting to feel heavy, and I was tripping over my pant legs, which had grown a few inches with the onslaught of rain! Although I'm really not one to pay too much attention to what people think, I worried that the heavier my pants got, the more likely I would be to accidentally half-moon passersby! Every few paces, I pulled up my pants. It was hysterical, to the point where I just stopped running, laughed at myself and this silly situation, and walked home in the rain, sloshing through puddles and dragging my pants legs behind me.
Here I am post run.
Wet.
But happy.
(Those aren't beads of sweat. They are beads of rain clouds!)
Oh, Vancouver. How I love thee.
Sunshine! I thought with anticipation of all the day's adventures that would ensue from this small realization.
It has rained steadily for two days, with no reprieve, and I've been itching to get outside.
So I tardily got up, stretched, and opened the door to the backyard to let my anxious pooch out for a pee. Upon opening the door, we realized that this little ray of light had taunted us. It was cold and overcast. Still, I saw the sun trying to poke through and I knew, given some time, that it would be victorious.
So I puttered around a little. I got the paper. I made breakfast. I cleaned the apartment. I brushed Beamer. I went to the laundromat. I called some friends. I chatted with family. I procrastinated on the Internet.
Then, a bigger ray of light danced on the kitchen table. I said to a friend: I am going for a run today! The sun is shining! I can't wait!
I actually haven't been running as often as I'd like. Most in part to the after-effects of bootcamp every morning, which leaves me void of energy and working muscles for a good 24 hours before I do it again. So I savour the weekends when I can go for a jaunt, breathe in the fresh ocean air, do some sight-seeing along a new route, and think things through. Running has always been therapeutic for me.
So I put on my gear. Gleefully talking to myself and my dog (Yay! I'm going for a run!)
I felt strong!
By the time I finally made it outside it was a little after noon.
The sun was doing its best effort to push through the clouds. It was breezy. But nice.
I set forth, Lenny Kravitz on my iPod asking me: "Girl, where are you running to?"
I had a good pace. I felt strong and full of energy.
THIS is going to be a great run.
I took 6th Avenue to Alma so I could see some different scenery, then ran down to Point Grey where all the ritzy rich live to admire their homes and scoff at their gas-guzzling, enviro-killing hummers, locked gates, and manicured gardens. About 3 or 4k into this jaunt, I felt a drop of rain.
Then two drops.
Then, within three seconds, it was a full on downpour. My friend, the sun, had lost his battle. The dark clouds moved in full throttle with their onslaught.
The rain was hard but cool. So I decided to continue. After all, being a West Coaster now, I am going to have to learn to love the rain. And, as much as I'd like to believe that I'm made of sugar, sadly, I am not. And I won't melt.
So I carried forth with conviction!
Within a few minutes, however, I was so wet that my pants were starting to feel heavy, and I was tripping over my pant legs, which had grown a few inches with the onslaught of rain! Although I'm really not one to pay too much attention to what people think, I worried that the heavier my pants got, the more likely I would be to accidentally half-moon passersby! Every few paces, I pulled up my pants. It was hysterical, to the point where I just stopped running, laughed at myself and this silly situation, and walked home in the rain, sloshing through puddles and dragging my pants legs behind me.
Here I am post run.
Wet.
But happy.
(Those aren't beads of sweat. They are beads of rain clouds!)
Oh, Vancouver. How I love thee.
Friday, June 8, 2007
My life is brilliant
I'm feeling a bit pensive after a wonderful hike, so if you're not up to my philosophical malarky, feel free to skim the following! Otherwise, enjoy the rambling, indirect ride through my brain and my life!
--
So, right on schedule, I did my Friday afternoon hike up Grouse Mountain today. It was a sunny but chilly day, which actually made for nice conditions in the forest during the hike.
For those of you that don't know Grouse Mountain and, particularly, the "hike" that I do called the Grouse Grind, it is, by far, the most strenuous hiking I have done save for one summit over Glissade Pass in the Tombstone Mountain range in the Yukon with a 60lb pack. Otherwise, it's definitely the hardest.
The incline is tremendous. It's a very physically, and mentally, exhausting trek up.
That's why I love it. It is so difficult sometimes.
And every time I get to the top, the thrill is no less than the last time.
There's a sense of empowerment that comes with acheiving difficult tasks.
Plus, the view is stellar too.
I could live up there.
Three minutes in, as usual, I was huffing and puffing and planning my pace. The moment you step foot on the trail it is UP and it continues, steeper and steeper upward for three kilometers. I was hoping to beat a sour time I had done last week: 1 hour, 7 minutes. At the trailhead, right before I began, as I adjusted my bladder pack, stretched, and tested my double knots, a far superior athlete (I could tell by his build and his super-cool gear) started off. Anxious to beat my time from last week and come in under an hour, which would qualify me as being better than just so-so on this hike, I quickly started the steep ascent behind this guy.
Of course, his pace was way faster than mine. And although I proudly stayed with him for a good twenty minutes, I quickly faded by the half way point and ended up throwing up by a lovely cedar. (Mom, don't worry. That's just a sign that I pushed myself! And pushing yourself is a good thing! I swear! But then I learned my lesson and stopped pushing myself that hard. So you can rest assured that I still have my wits about me and that the mountain air isn't getting to me... too much!)
Anyhow, not feeling too fantastic post-throw-up, I lightened my pace and the über-athlete hiked up and into the distance.
At first, I was disappointed. Then I realized that (1) this is not a race and (2) I was here for the experience and the work out and the love of nature. It's not about an ordinate of time.
Still, I kept a pace I was proud of.
I had my iPod, which I find essential on this hike. Because it is so strenuous, everyone is huffing and puffing so loud that you're convinced that everyone's lungs will pop out of their chests at any minute! I don't like to hear myself breathe hard. It reminds me that I am tired. So, today, I blocked out the auditory exhaustion with Michael Jackson's Bad, Madonna's Material girl, Beyoncé's Independent Woman, and other powerfully-lyriced, fist-pumping good tunes. Pearl Jam helped me get past the three-quarter mark. Some Aimee Mann calmed me through some tricky acents. Depeche Mode gave my stride some groove. I even had a little Rush in there for good measure. (actually, I put on my iPod just last night to see what all a friend's fuss was about). It helped me keep it real.
Thank goodness for music. I came home and danced in the living room to Sunshine State, Ben Harper, and INXS. A nice after-hike stretch!
But back to the hike...
As I crested the final few rocks to the summit, which are covered in about an inch or two of flowing water from the melting snow cap, James Blunt's song "You're beautiful" came on my iPod. (To be more fitting, it should have been: "You're sweaty and disgusting" but "beautiful" works...)
I caught my breath and let the cool air reduce the redness in my freckly face. I made a snow angel in the snow.
"My life is brilliant" is the first line of that song.
And it was very fitting that he sang it out at the very moment I made it to the top.
Why?
Because my life *IS* brilliant.
And this moment atop a mountain in BC, with nothing but my own perserverence, my personal thoughts, and my ambitions in my company, is just one of the many reasons why things are so swell. Why life is a pretty great thing for me.
I smiled and mosied over to take in the fantastic view of Vancouver, the ocean, and the wild abyss beyond. It's really quite a lovely view. The world is a much more beautiful place than you realize sometimes. Moments like this make me feel like a little speck in a much bigger universe.
I started thinking:
I just hiked up the face of a mountain. I can do that. Life is swell. This mountain (and many others) are twenty minutes from my house. I can explore whenever I want. That's a gift.
But now I'm getting all philosophical, and that wasn't really the point.
The point is: James Blunt echoed what I've been thinking lately: Life is brilliant.
I've surely had a few ups and downs, most noteably the wrenching pangs of homesickness. I miss seeing my nephew grow up. I miss hugging my dad. I miss long talks with mom. I miss my brothers making fun of me (oh wait... they still do. I don't miss that at all!) I miss weekend visits at the farm. I miss seeing Trevor's garden grow. I miss my friends. I miss Friday nights at the Queens Head. I miss dinners at the Szimanskis. I miss Lake Ontario (it's true! Crazy, I know!). I miss the Starbucks guy with the British accent who always knew that I wanted a Tall non-fat extra-hot caramel macchiato and always prepared with a smile and a "cheers".
As much as I yearn for these things, I realize that life is so much bigger. And that I know I will have these things again. And I know that my family and friends are behind me 100%. they always have been. I'm a lucky girl.
So where am I going with all this? (I'm a tangent-taker, you all know this by now!)
Here's the thing: My grams, who is an athletic inspiration and who teaches water aerobics and walks and cycles at age 80, always believed and has told me many times that if you've got legs, you might as well use them. The idea, of course, is that one day they might not work so well... might as well take advantage now!
Of course, learning to take this advice to heart has taken me some time as I fought through years of chubbiness and anguish and believing myself incapable of things just because someone said that I couldn't do it.
And now? Why I hike mountains in the afternoon. I kick butt at bootcamp as the sun rises in the morning. I run along the ocean with the cool breeze in my face. I'm learning to kayak. I cycle 80k with ease (well, *relative* ease). I compete in races. I have my own company. I love my work and I do good work. I have a dog whose adoration I try every day to be worthy of. I have GREAT friends. I have a fantastic family. I've got oodles of support from everyone. And I have so many more things left to conquer. Shaving some time off summiting Grouse is just one small notch in my belt (by the way, I made it in 58:04. Woohoo!)
Big or small, an afternoon hike up Grouse Mountain or a Patagonian summit, I can't wait for what life has in store for me next!
Life is brilliant, isn't it?
Big time.
--
So, right on schedule, I did my Friday afternoon hike up Grouse Mountain today. It was a sunny but chilly day, which actually made for nice conditions in the forest during the hike.
For those of you that don't know Grouse Mountain and, particularly, the "hike" that I do called the Grouse Grind, it is, by far, the most strenuous hiking I have done save for one summit over Glissade Pass in the Tombstone Mountain range in the Yukon with a 60lb pack. Otherwise, it's definitely the hardest.
The incline is tremendous. It's a very physically, and mentally, exhausting trek up.
That's why I love it. It is so difficult sometimes.
And every time I get to the top, the thrill is no less than the last time.
There's a sense of empowerment that comes with acheiving difficult tasks.
Plus, the view is stellar too.
I could live up there.
Three minutes in, as usual, I was huffing and puffing and planning my pace. The moment you step foot on the trail it is UP and it continues, steeper and steeper upward for three kilometers. I was hoping to beat a sour time I had done last week: 1 hour, 7 minutes. At the trailhead, right before I began, as I adjusted my bladder pack, stretched, and tested my double knots, a far superior athlete (I could tell by his build and his super-cool gear) started off. Anxious to beat my time from last week and come in under an hour, which would qualify me as being better than just so-so on this hike, I quickly started the steep ascent behind this guy.
Of course, his pace was way faster than mine. And although I proudly stayed with him for a good twenty minutes, I quickly faded by the half way point and ended up throwing up by a lovely cedar. (Mom, don't worry. That's just a sign that I pushed myself! And pushing yourself is a good thing! I swear! But then I learned my lesson and stopped pushing myself that hard. So you can rest assured that I still have my wits about me and that the mountain air isn't getting to me... too much!)
Anyhow, not feeling too fantastic post-throw-up, I lightened my pace and the über-athlete hiked up and into the distance.
At first, I was disappointed. Then I realized that (1) this is not a race and (2) I was here for the experience and the work out and the love of nature. It's not about an ordinate of time.
Still, I kept a pace I was proud of.
I had my iPod, which I find essential on this hike. Because it is so strenuous, everyone is huffing and puffing so loud that you're convinced that everyone's lungs will pop out of their chests at any minute! I don't like to hear myself breathe hard. It reminds me that I am tired. So, today, I blocked out the auditory exhaustion with Michael Jackson's Bad, Madonna's Material girl, Beyoncé's Independent Woman, and other powerfully-lyriced, fist-pumping good tunes. Pearl Jam helped me get past the three-quarter mark. Some Aimee Mann calmed me through some tricky acents. Depeche Mode gave my stride some groove. I even had a little Rush in there for good measure. (actually, I put on my iPod just last night to see what all a friend's fuss was about). It helped me keep it real.
Thank goodness for music. I came home and danced in the living room to Sunshine State, Ben Harper, and INXS. A nice after-hike stretch!
But back to the hike...
As I crested the final few rocks to the summit, which are covered in about an inch or two of flowing water from the melting snow cap, James Blunt's song "You're beautiful" came on my iPod. (To be more fitting, it should have been: "You're sweaty and disgusting" but "beautiful" works...)
I caught my breath and let the cool air reduce the redness in my freckly face. I made a snow angel in the snow.
"My life is brilliant" is the first line of that song.
And it was very fitting that he sang it out at the very moment I made it to the top.
Why?
Because my life *IS* brilliant.
And this moment atop a mountain in BC, with nothing but my own perserverence, my personal thoughts, and my ambitions in my company, is just one of the many reasons why things are so swell. Why life is a pretty great thing for me.
I smiled and mosied over to take in the fantastic view of Vancouver, the ocean, and the wild abyss beyond. It's really quite a lovely view. The world is a much more beautiful place than you realize sometimes. Moments like this make me feel like a little speck in a much bigger universe.
I started thinking:
I just hiked up the face of a mountain. I can do that. Life is swell. This mountain (and many others) are twenty minutes from my house. I can explore whenever I want. That's a gift.
But now I'm getting all philosophical, and that wasn't really the point.
The point is: James Blunt echoed what I've been thinking lately: Life is brilliant.
I've surely had a few ups and downs, most noteably the wrenching pangs of homesickness. I miss seeing my nephew grow up. I miss hugging my dad. I miss long talks with mom. I miss my brothers making fun of me (oh wait... they still do. I don't miss that at all!) I miss weekend visits at the farm. I miss seeing Trevor's garden grow. I miss my friends. I miss Friday nights at the Queens Head. I miss dinners at the Szimanskis. I miss Lake Ontario (it's true! Crazy, I know!). I miss the Starbucks guy with the British accent who always knew that I wanted a Tall non-fat extra-hot caramel macchiato and always prepared with a smile and a "cheers".
As much as I yearn for these things, I realize that life is so much bigger. And that I know I will have these things again. And I know that my family and friends are behind me 100%. they always have been. I'm a lucky girl.
So where am I going with all this? (I'm a tangent-taker, you all know this by now!)
Here's the thing: My grams, who is an athletic inspiration and who teaches water aerobics and walks and cycles at age 80, always believed and has told me many times that if you've got legs, you might as well use them. The idea, of course, is that one day they might not work so well... might as well take advantage now!
Of course, learning to take this advice to heart has taken me some time as I fought through years of chubbiness and anguish and believing myself incapable of things just because someone said that I couldn't do it.
And now? Why I hike mountains in the afternoon. I kick butt at bootcamp as the sun rises in the morning. I run along the ocean with the cool breeze in my face. I'm learning to kayak. I cycle 80k with ease (well, *relative* ease). I compete in races. I have my own company. I love my work and I do good work. I have a dog whose adoration I try every day to be worthy of. I have GREAT friends. I have a fantastic family. I've got oodles of support from everyone. And I have so many more things left to conquer. Shaving some time off summiting Grouse is just one small notch in my belt (by the way, I made it in 58:04. Woohoo!)
Big or small, an afternoon hike up Grouse Mountain or a Patagonian summit, I can't wait for what life has in store for me next!
Life is brilliant, isn't it?
Big time.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
Save Algonquin Park!
One of my most favourite places on the planet – Algonquin Park – is due to be logged. 78% of it, as a matter of fact.
I've made a lot of memories in Algonquin Park:
- I took my mom on a four-day canoe portage on the coldest May long weekend to hit Ontario in years. We had frost on the tents in the morning. We froze at night. And we built a lot of character.
- I fell ass-up into a bog with a fifty-pound pack on my back after my friend Lisa tripped on a hornet's mud nest, Consequently, I was stung some 15 times in the butt before Lisa dared to pull me from the smelly muck. And of course eagerly showed off my war wounds on my keister for the camera (ah... memories!)
- I made great memories with Matt, Jen, and Lisa in 2006 on the never-ending portage.
- I tried my best to cross paths with my brother and his wife, who portage with their friends in the park every year
- I paddled to exhaustion in the middle of a windstorm
- I made a great fire!
- I slept under the stars
Although it is, unfortunately, impossible to stop all logging in Algonquin Park, it is NOT impossible to lessen the percentage which is logged. This petition will strive to reduce the logged land from 78% to 46%, protecting and preserving 54% (rather than 22%) of the park for good.
Go to: www.savealgonquin.ca to submit your petition to stop/reduce the logging in this rare and wonderful provincial park.
The letter on the website goes directly to your local MPP and pressures them to act to save the park from logging.
Queens Park will be holding an open debate on June 15th. By making some noise now, we can pressure our MPPs to take note and to do something worthwhile for the park, the environment, and the eco-system of birds, animals, plant life, lakes, and rivers all rare to Algonquin.
Logging in Algonquin has vastly altered the composition of the natural ecosystem. A report by the Ontario Parks Board recently released by the government recommends that more land can be protected within the park while maintaining jobs in the logging industry.
A poll conducted by McAllister Research in March of this year shows that 79% of Ontarians are opposed to logging in the park. Furthermore, 90% agree that Ontario should protect more forests as a shield against global warming.
Algonquin is near and dear to my heart.
If it is to yours, too, please click to save it.
www.savealgonquin.ca
I've made a lot of memories in Algonquin Park:
- I took my mom on a four-day canoe portage on the coldest May long weekend to hit Ontario in years. We had frost on the tents in the morning. We froze at night. And we built a lot of character.
- I fell ass-up into a bog with a fifty-pound pack on my back after my friend Lisa tripped on a hornet's mud nest, Consequently, I was stung some 15 times in the butt before Lisa dared to pull me from the smelly muck. And of course eagerly showed off my war wounds on my keister for the camera (ah... memories!)
- I made great memories with Matt, Jen, and Lisa in 2006 on the never-ending portage.
- I tried my best to cross paths with my brother and his wife, who portage with their friends in the park every year
- I paddled to exhaustion in the middle of a windstorm
- I made a great fire!
- I slept under the stars
Although it is, unfortunately, impossible to stop all logging in Algonquin Park, it is NOT impossible to lessen the percentage which is logged. This petition will strive to reduce the logged land from 78% to 46%, protecting and preserving 54% (rather than 22%) of the park for good.
Go to: www.savealgonquin.ca to submit your petition to stop/reduce the logging in this rare and wonderful provincial park.
The letter on the website goes directly to your local MPP and pressures them to act to save the park from logging.
Queens Park will be holding an open debate on June 15th. By making some noise now, we can pressure our MPPs to take note and to do something worthwhile for the park, the environment, and the eco-system of birds, animals, plant life, lakes, and rivers all rare to Algonquin.
Logging in Algonquin has vastly altered the composition of the natural ecosystem. A report by the Ontario Parks Board recently released by the government recommends that more land can be protected within the park while maintaining jobs in the logging industry.
A poll conducted by McAllister Research in March of this year shows that 79% of Ontarians are opposed to logging in the park. Furthermore, 90% agree that Ontario should protect more forests as a shield against global warming.
Algonquin is near and dear to my heart.
If it is to yours, too, please click to save it.
www.savealgonquin.ca
Sunday, June 3, 2007
A one-man tent, a dog, and trouble waiting to happen
Beamer and I set off to Vancouver Island this weekend to camp and then hike part of the Juan de Fuca trail.
BC FERRIES
Our journey of ensuing hilarity began at the ferry.
Being a naive West Coaster, I assumed (wrongly, in hindsight), that we could just drive to the Ferry, pay, and get on the next one. Although rushed, we managed to make it to the Tsawwassan ferry port (about 25 mins outside of Vancouver) with 15 minutes to spare before the 2:00 Ferry departed. At the window, I asked: "Am I on time for the 2:00?"
"Honey," the women replied condescendingly, but in a high school cafeteria kind of way that was also a bit sympathetic, "you're not even gonna make the 3:00. You'll be lucky if you make the 5:00."
You see, on weekends, there is usually a wait for the Ferry. (Who knew? Not I) And, this weekend in particular, I found out that there was some sort of provincial championship something on the Island and everyone wanted to be there, not just me. So the wait time was ridiculous.
So B and I parked in the pecking order, and waited three hours until the 5:00 Ferry departed.
"Why don't they just run more ferries when it's busy?" I asked a guy reading beside us on the grass where we lounged outside of the car for three hours. "That would be too easy," he said with a scoff.
As the cars were welcomed aboard, the parking guy stopped the line up TWO cars before ours!
If I missed the 5:00, I would be out of luck: the next ferry didn't sail until 7. It's a 1.5 hour sail. And another 1.5 hours to the campground. I would surely be setting up in the dark! Surely, having arrived at 1:45, I would be able to make the 5:00!!!
Luckily, the ferry parking gurus squeezed the cars in and were able to take the guy in front of me and me! woohoo! So we made the five o'clock. And things were starting to look up again!
PARTY IN VICTORIA
Before we went to Juan de Fuca Provincial Park, we had a party to stop by in Victoria. My web service provider invited us to a house warming party and we decided to pop in for a few hours to say hello. Of course this "few hours" was planned prior to our 3-hour wait at the Ferry. So it morphed into a "Hi. How are you? Congrats on the new house. Here's some wine. Hi I'm Kim. This is Beamer. We have to go."
So we high-tailed it out of there around 8:30, with advice from the party-goers that Sooke (the town closest to the park we were camping at) was 45 mins away max.
NEUROTIC GREYHOUND + ONE-MAN TENT = BAD SLEEP
They were right. It was only 45 mins away... assuming I didn't get lost first. But I did. And headed the wrong direction on HWY 14 until the highway turned to a one lane bendy backroad. I started to question my direction. Luckily for me and my poor navigational skills, fate interveened and three deer sidled up onto the highway and blocked me from going any further. While they grazed in front of my car and Beamer stared intently, I took the opportunity to review my map. Which confirmed that I was indeed going the wrong way. By the time I was back on track, the sun was setting, it was 9:15, and I was a long way from the camp site.
At 10:30 we rolled into the campground. Luckily, I had prebooked a site. Of course, I didn't know which site and the guard gate was closed. I got out of the car to look at the campground map and saw a note taped to the map: Kim McMullen go to site 68.
Ah... west coasters are so nice.
We pulled in. I set up the tent. Nearly strangled Beamer as I forced her into it. And spent the ensuing evening tossing and turning while my greyhound sat on me, whined, stood up and panted, and, eventually, climaxed her poor camping behaviour by barfing in the tent around 1:00.
This is a picture of Beamer pre-barf, hating the tent.
This strategy worked and I quickly booted her out of the tent, put on my headlamp, and got to work santizing our sleeping space. 20 minutes later, she was back in the tent humming and hawing about her rough luck. Lucky for me, she was unable to repeat the barfing incident and I had on-and-off sleep for a few hours.
JUAN DE FUCA
All of this toil and trouble, up to this point, turned out to be very much worthwhile.
We packed up camp at the crack of dawn and headed to the trail head. After a two-kilometre hike through dense jungle-like forest, big mud puddles (all of which Beamer tredded through with a "take that!" attitude), and a suspension bridge that gave Beamer anxiety and took her a good 2 minutes to cross as she gripped one paw and then the other and the other and the other over the steel grate-like planks, we arrived at our first destination: Mystic Beach. When you come out of the forest and see this beach, it is, for a lack of a better word, magical.
We saw only two other people who had camped on the beach and were heading to another part of the trail. The sand was smooth. The forest from which we had descended created big rock bluffs and cavernous creations at sea level. Waterfalls cascaded from the cliffs.
Beamer ran in circles. I snapped pictures. We napped on the beach briefly.
This beach should have been called "Mist Beach", as there was this eerie yet refresshingly beautiful mist that hung over the trees and gave everything an irridescent glow. It looked like something out of the Lord of the Rings. From a magical time.
We carried on to Bear Beach after another 4 or 5k in the forest. An equally beautiful beaech. The epitome of serenity, really. Not a soul in site.
By the time we got back to the car, our hike had been five hours. We were tired but happy. Beamer's tongue wagged loosely out of her mouth. She had forgiven me for the tent episode (I think).
HINDSIGHT IS 20/20
As we boarded the ferry home I thought:
(1) I wish I had left on Friday, rather than Saturday, and had more time to hike more of the Jaun de Fuca trail
(2) I wish I had purchased a Therma-Rest for my diva dog before forced her to camp with me
(3) I wish I had reserved a spot on the two o'clock ferry.
Regardless of these few blips, though. It was a wonderful trip and a fantastic weekend.
BC FERRIES
Our journey of ensuing hilarity began at the ferry.
Being a naive West Coaster, I assumed (wrongly, in hindsight), that we could just drive to the Ferry, pay, and get on the next one. Although rushed, we managed to make it to the Tsawwassan ferry port (about 25 mins outside of Vancouver) with 15 minutes to spare before the 2:00 Ferry departed. At the window, I asked: "Am I on time for the 2:00?"
"Honey," the women replied condescendingly, but in a high school cafeteria kind of way that was also a bit sympathetic, "you're not even gonna make the 3:00. You'll be lucky if you make the 5:00."
You see, on weekends, there is usually a wait for the Ferry. (Who knew? Not I) And, this weekend in particular, I found out that there was some sort of provincial championship something on the Island and everyone wanted to be there, not just me. So the wait time was ridiculous.
So B and I parked in the pecking order, and waited three hours until the 5:00 Ferry departed.
"Why don't they just run more ferries when it's busy?" I asked a guy reading beside us on the grass where we lounged outside of the car for three hours. "That would be too easy," he said with a scoff.
As the cars were welcomed aboard, the parking guy stopped the line up TWO cars before ours!
If I missed the 5:00, I would be out of luck: the next ferry didn't sail until 7. It's a 1.5 hour sail. And another 1.5 hours to the campground. I would surely be setting up in the dark! Surely, having arrived at 1:45, I would be able to make the 5:00!!!
Luckily, the ferry parking gurus squeezed the cars in and were able to take the guy in front of me and me! woohoo! So we made the five o'clock. And things were starting to look up again!
PARTY IN VICTORIA
Before we went to Juan de Fuca Provincial Park, we had a party to stop by in Victoria. My web service provider invited us to a house warming party and we decided to pop in for a few hours to say hello. Of course this "few hours" was planned prior to our 3-hour wait at the Ferry. So it morphed into a "Hi. How are you? Congrats on the new house. Here's some wine. Hi I'm Kim. This is Beamer. We have to go."
So we high-tailed it out of there around 8:30, with advice from the party-goers that Sooke (the town closest to the park we were camping at) was 45 mins away max.
NEUROTIC GREYHOUND + ONE-MAN TENT = BAD SLEEP
They were right. It was only 45 mins away... assuming I didn't get lost first. But I did. And headed the wrong direction on HWY 14 until the highway turned to a one lane bendy backroad. I started to question my direction. Luckily for me and my poor navigational skills, fate interveened and three deer sidled up onto the highway and blocked me from going any further. While they grazed in front of my car and Beamer stared intently, I took the opportunity to review my map. Which confirmed that I was indeed going the wrong way. By the time I was back on track, the sun was setting, it was 9:15, and I was a long way from the camp site.
At 10:30 we rolled into the campground. Luckily, I had prebooked a site. Of course, I didn't know which site and the guard gate was closed. I got out of the car to look at the campground map and saw a note taped to the map: Kim McMullen go to site 68.
Ah... west coasters are so nice.
We pulled in. I set up the tent. Nearly strangled Beamer as I forced her into it. And spent the ensuing evening tossing and turning while my greyhound sat on me, whined, stood up and panted, and, eventually, climaxed her poor camping behaviour by barfing in the tent around 1:00.
This is a picture of Beamer pre-barf, hating the tent.
This strategy worked and I quickly booted her out of the tent, put on my headlamp, and got to work santizing our sleeping space. 20 minutes later, she was back in the tent humming and hawing about her rough luck. Lucky for me, she was unable to repeat the barfing incident and I had on-and-off sleep for a few hours.
JUAN DE FUCA
All of this toil and trouble, up to this point, turned out to be very much worthwhile.
We packed up camp at the crack of dawn and headed to the trail head. After a two-kilometre hike through dense jungle-like forest, big mud puddles (all of which Beamer tredded through with a "take that!" attitude), and a suspension bridge that gave Beamer anxiety and took her a good 2 minutes to cross as she gripped one paw and then the other and the other and the other over the steel grate-like planks, we arrived at our first destination: Mystic Beach. When you come out of the forest and see this beach, it is, for a lack of a better word, magical.
We saw only two other people who had camped on the beach and were heading to another part of the trail. The sand was smooth. The forest from which we had descended created big rock bluffs and cavernous creations at sea level. Waterfalls cascaded from the cliffs.
Beamer ran in circles. I snapped pictures. We napped on the beach briefly.
This beach should have been called "Mist Beach", as there was this eerie yet refresshingly beautiful mist that hung over the trees and gave everything an irridescent glow. It looked like something out of the Lord of the Rings. From a magical time.
We carried on to Bear Beach after another 4 or 5k in the forest. An equally beautiful beaech. The epitome of serenity, really. Not a soul in site.
By the time we got back to the car, our hike had been five hours. We were tired but happy. Beamer's tongue wagged loosely out of her mouth. She had forgiven me for the tent episode (I think).
HINDSIGHT IS 20/20
As we boarded the ferry home I thought:
(1) I wish I had left on Friday, rather than Saturday, and had more time to hike more of the Jaun de Fuca trail
(2) I wish I had purchased a Therma-Rest for my diva dog before forced her to camp with me
(3) I wish I had reserved a spot on the two o'clock ferry.
Regardless of these few blips, though. It was a wonderful trip and a fantastic weekend.
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