An infectious 30-seconds of pure joy

Whenever I feel doubtful, anxious, down, or dreary, I watch this video.
Nephews make my heart melt. And there's something about kids laughing from the gut with the purest joy that makes it impossible to start the day with a frown.
Screw doctors and drugs; this is the best medicine I've ever had.

An 8k kind of day

I woke up Sunday morning with an affliction that I lovingly call "Nervous Tongue". It's the tingly fat tongue I get when I'm anxious about something that excites me – like meeting a new client, presenting a marketing plan, and, of course, running a race.

After a weekend of disappointment, I was keen to run the Harry Rosen 8k Spring Run-off.

I haven't exactly been training.

I mean, I've been running. a 4k here. A 6k there. All leisurely. None by the book.
That said, I was fairly confident that I could eke out an 8k with relative ease and feel great for getting that distance back under my belt again.

The day was .... WOW. What a day.
Blue sky.
Glassy ocean.
Slight breeze.


A Vancouver spring at it's very finest.
Better yet, the race was around the Stanley Park seawall, which mean mountain views, ocean vistas, and a cool salty sea breeze.

I met M at the start line among 1200 other eager runners.
I love the buzz of a race. Everyone with their routine. Some running. Some jogging. Some pacing. Some sitting. Some singing. Some laughing nervously. Lots peeing. Some still.

Aiming for a "leisurely pace" and no record-setting, M and I planted ourselves 3/4 way back in the back.
The gun went off, and our mob descended on Stanley Park.

Our pace was quick and slightly uncomfortable for the first 2k.
"This pace good?" M asked huffing and clearly stressed.
"Oh yah. Fine," I said totally lying.

We kept it up for another 4 k and then scaled back to really enjoy our time, the breeze, the sunshine, and the race.
I started to pay attention to things: like how the sun caught my eye every 6 steps and a little tear formed, like how M and I had an identical stride for the last 3 k. Total harmonious running. Like how one 60+ runner in a blue shirt and grey joggers totally kicked our asses and I felt bad for judging a book by it's cover. That little firecracker could run!

The kilometer signs came and went. 4k. 5k. 6k.

When we saw 7, we high-fived.
M said: "hey, wanna do a 1k run?"
"1k? That's nothing. Let's do it!" I said and we trudged forth over the last kilometer, up and into the park, over a bridge, around the pend.

We finished strong. A few minutes off our goal but invigorated.
Then hopped on our bikes, grabbed some avocado sushi, and watched the sun dance on the ocean.

I pedalled home (on the Granny Gear of course) and fell into bed with a smile and stiff quads.
Man, it's nice to run again.

Cut

It happened. I saw it coming. There was no surprise attack.
I was cut from the football team.

My play last weekend was horrendous.
Bad snaps. Fumbles. Misunderstandings.
I was the worst player on the team last week and I knew it.
So they cut me. And it was a good decision.

I don't like it, mind you. But if I was the coach of a competitive A team, I wouldn't waste my time on a rookie who can't catch either.

It hurts to write it.
It stings, really.
The ego I didn't think I had is bruised and pulsating.

The "you have so much potential but..." email came this morning.
The "but..." lingered in the air. Hot and repugnant.
Nothing good ever comes after at "but..."

I knew when I saw the coach's name in the From line that my great run was over.

I opened it.
I skimmed.
I smiled and wrote a lovely reply full of thanks and good wishes – all true.
But in my gut, it hurt.
And I left the office to have a little Poor Me cry in the corner of a cafe over an herbal tea and a table of crumbs.
It didn't help.
In fact, it was kinda pathetic.

Getting cut is never fun.
I know this because I have spent a lifetime being cut.
I don't say that with a need for sympathy, but rather as a truth.
I've been on the sidelines for a while.

When the basketball team recruited me in highs chool because of my height, I sourly let them down with my sheer inability to lay up. Volleyball: I couldn't nail the overhand serve. Dead in the water by grade nine. Ice skating: over before it even began. Ultimate Frisbee: took three or four passes all year because no one wants to throw to me (I'm 50/50 at catching)

The list goes on.

I'm the Good Effort girl.
The one who gives it her all. Really pours herself into every sport.
But comes up empty handed.
The one who high fives and praises and laughs in the face of both victory and defeat, but never has a chance in hell of winning MVP.

I'm the girl with heart and no talent.
And it's a bitter pill to swallow for a girl who loves sports passionately and from the core and who has desperately wanted to excel in athletics for the past 20 years, to play alongside and keep pace with my throng of sporty, talented, spry brothers, and be "that" girl who amazes you when she throws a spiral 40 yards or dives to make the save or crosses the finish line first.

Man, what I would give to be great at sports.
But I'm a mediocre athlete on all accounts. Which isn't self-degradation; merely truth.
Just like I love to sing, but know I'm a terrible singer.
Sometimes love and talent don't jive.
It's not fair, but I didn't make up the rulebook so...

I wallowed a little bit (clearly).
I sulked.
I cried a bit.
I was silent.
My stomach churned.
My legs felt weak.

And then I remembered something a mentor once said to me:
"Kim, your dignity depends on your will."

So, as I see it, I have two choices:
1. admit defeat, hang up my cleats, and forget the fire that football fuels in my belly
2. hold my head up high and take the Michael Jordan route. Try try again. Give it my all and then some. And find a different route to the same end. I mean, heck, I have bruises, a bloody nose, and a split lip from all my effort over the last three weeks. Two quarterback sacks and a righteously cool interception.

I may have taken a ball or two to the face, and fumbled through many a pass, but I left my heart on the field each time.
And I'm proud of that.

So I joined the B team.
And I'll be playing footy after all.
Not as competitive, but a great opportunity to learn the game, grow my talent, and give it "good effort" and then some this season.

Sometimes, you just have to ride the wave and see where it takes you.
There is no dignity in quitting.

Onwards!

Falling and flying

For the past three weeks I've been playing football – well, trying to. Doing drills, running patterns, playing difference positions, and trying to get a feel for the game.
I've been LOVING it.
It's challenging. It's sweaty. It's hilarious fun.
It makes me feel alive, really. It's spontaneous and clever.

This week was our last practice and scrimmage before our big game next weekend.
This was the week for me to shine, to show that I'm a rookie with potential, to show that I have heart and grit and that I lay it all out there on the field. It was my week to prove that I brought value to this seasoned team. And that there would be absolutely no reason to cut me.

I showed up with confidence and gut-wrenching nervous nausea too.

The very first play: I took a ball to the face. Like really hard to the face. Bloody nose. Fat lip. Pride destroyed.
I tried to shake it off.
But the downward spiral had begun.

4 hours after that first play, I'd manage to fumble three times, fall on a defensive play that was all mine, snap the ball poorly twice, skin my knees, and pretty much play the most horrific game of footy ever.

And I knew it.

To top it all off, another girl who's never played football before, showed up, made two great catches, one touch down, and ran probably 100 yards all game. She was incredible. And I was fumbling...

As someone who grew up with athletically inclined brothers, I loathe playing sports poorly. It makes me feel "like a girl". That same wimpy girl on the sidelines when I was a kid. It gets under my skin. I want to be better, faster, more aggressive than every other person on that field. I never am... I'm a fairly mediocre athlete all around, but when I give it my all I can usually hold my own.

Today, I was hands down the worst player on the field.
I was epically terrible.
And it hurt.

"Want to run a few more drills?" my friend and last year's MVP asked after our scrimmage?
"I think I'm done." I said, defeated.
"Come one..."
"No, I'm done."
I felt like I needed either a good cry or a wall to punch.

My attitude stunk.
I was so mad at myself.
Disappointed.
Sure I was going to be cut or demoted to B league.

When I got home, I grabbed my snowshoes and Harley hastily. And decided to head up the mountain to do something I'm good at – snowshoeing – and to burn off my disappointment.

The day was the kind of Vancouver day you only see in postcards.
I'd forgotten, on the field, how truly beautiful it was. The first real taste of a West Coast spring.

I wrestled with the morning's events as Harley and I trudged through heaps of melting snow. It was warm enough to just wear a vest and toque. Harley played like a puppy in the snow banks. And I started to warm up to the idea that coaches don't always pick the team based on one day, but on potential. And, man alive, I really feel like I've got potential!

An hour in and the mountain air had worked its magic. I was at peace with what happened on the field. I resolved to forgive myself and come back next week guns a'blazing! (If the coach calls me back - gulp!) And I gave myself permission to laugh a little at my tragic performance. In hindsight, it was a performance worthy of slapstick comedy gold.

When Harley and I reached the top, i took off my vest, used it as a cushion, and we sat for an hour on the peak and watched the sun set over Pacific and the snow capped mountains morph from white to blue to pink. It was silent. And breezy. And it I took a moment to just breathe.

Sometimes, I forget that falling is part of the journey. And that every fall I have ever experienced has, in some way, has made me into the person I am today.


So I'll embrace this misstep today.
And I'll probably have another tomorrow.

But in the end, things are going to be alright.
And I'm going to have fun no matter what.

Living La Vida Veggie

After years of eating a vegetarian diet – no red meat, no poultry, a splash of fish here and there, eggs, and cheers – I committed to eating and living a vegan lifestyle on January first of this year.
For me, it was a natural and easy step. A transition that just felt right.
I've been researching it for years. Studying pH levels of food. Uncovering what my body truly needs to survive, feel good, and carry on.
I've been reading books and VegNews articles. Watching documentaries. Attending seminars, meetups, talks.
Experimenting.
Learning the science.
I've been quite dedicated, actually.

I didn't take the decision lightly.

With my decision came a lot of questions and a little ignorance – "What do you eat now? Cardboard?"
No actually, i eat vegetables, fruits, nuts, and seeds. And they are delicious, filling, and I've never felt more energized, thank you very much.

"What are you drinking? Liquid dirt?"
Actually, it's beets, kale, cucumbers, and apples. (fruit of the earth!) And it does the body good.
(It looks like mud but it tastes like health)

"Aren't you taking this a little too far?"
I don't think so. I don't need to exploit animals to survive. I feel better than I have ever in my life. My palette has changed and I really appreciate the taste of things.

"Where do you get your protein?"
There's no such thing as a protein deficiency. So don't worry. I'm totally fine. Lentils and spinach get me by.

"Don't you miss cheese?"
Yes. All the time.
Especially on pizza
But they pump cows full of hormones to make them generate milk for humans and, personally, I think that's kinda mean and I don't really want to consume hormones in my cheese.
So I'll enjoy my cashew "cheese", thank you.
And you can make fun. I'm cool with that.

the thing is: I'd love an ice cream cone, a slab of lasagna, turkey on the farm, and mom's french toast.
But something switched in the last few months. In my brain. Upstairs.
A lasting switch.
The way I look at food has changed completely.
And I think it's kinda cool.
It's not about taste and cravings and filling myself to the brim.
It's not about chocolate cookies to satiate my loneliness or grilled cheese sandwiches to quell my nerves before the next big pitch. It's about choosing the right fuel to help me achieve my goals on a daily basis.

The moment I started looking at food as fuel vs fun, was the moment that being vegan felt so right, easy, and perfect.
And my body sighed relief.

A mentor of mine said: If you were a Formula One race car driver, you wouldn't take your million dollar car to Petro Canada and fill it up with 89 octane fuel, would you?

Exactly.

I feel really passionate about the way I eat now.
But I feel equally passionate about not judging others.
It's hard not to seem elitist when you're a vegan. Or to come across as preachy.
Sometimes, I feel I've been lucky enough to be "enlightened" and I want to share share share. I want everyone to know what I know. Because it has changed my life. Literally!
But I also believe in my heart that what you eat is your own damn business.
And if you want to eat a slab of meat in front of me while I dine of red cabbage and kale, I am actually, totally 100% cool with that. You've gotta follow your heart.

So I'm passionate, but I'm not judging (I swear).
I've cooked a steak for many a boyfriend.
I've baked cakes with rich milk chocolate icing for my friends.
I texted my sister-in-law to bring home pepperoni for the pizza.
I stand behind my big brother and his farm with every ounce of love that I have in this little heart.
I believe in him and what he does.

Who am I to judge?
Nothing is a for sure thing in this crazy world except that you have to do what's right for you.

So I'm going to each vegetables, fruits, nuts, and seeds.
Because it feels right to me.
Because my skin glows and my stride is strong.
Because I wake up with a fire in my belly and energy bursting at the seams.
Because there's something so nourishing and gratifying about green juice in the morning.
Because it works for me. Like really works for me.

And I feel like I found what was missing.

Dirty cleats

I have a pair of cleats that have seen me through 2 baseball seasons, 3 ultimate frisbee seasons, a year of a.m. drills on a wet, muddy field, and, now, football practice. They are well worn, slightly coming apart at the seams, and all heart. Whenever I pull them out of the closet, I know something big and exhilirating and challenging is about to happen. Cleats make me feel strong and powerful. When I lace them up, I have a sense of purpose. And a desire to conquer obstacles.

Today was my first official flag football practice. I am vying for a spot on a A-league team. I'm the rookie. The one who asks "What's a hook?" and "How much is five yards" and "What does the rusher do?" It's all fairly embarrassing next to a dozen strong women who have torn up the field and won championships together for 12 years. Still, I persevered. Mastering a new sport is the best new challenge.

And so I laced up my cleats, high-fived the girls, and practice began.

Being the newbie, initiation was first. Which meant, while the team did drills, I was off with two of the coaches running patterns, learning terms, getting it right.

Hooks, 5 and In, 10 and Post, 5 and Corner, Slant In, 5 end... they taught, they threw, and I ran my heart out. I caught some. I missed more. When I missed, they critiqued. "Shorten your stride after the cut!" the coach yelled. "Make a bastket!" another piped in when I took a ball to the face. On and on. Drill after drill.

"You're not joining the others until you catch 10 in a row."

So they called the play. I ran the pattern. And I went in for the catch. 5 in a row. 3 in a row. 9 in a row. Then, inevitably, a fumble.
And I started at scratch.
When I huffed and puffed, they had no mercy: "Get back out there!"

When I finally made 10 in a row, i did a little dance worthy of an NFL touchdown.
Then the coach said: "3 more in a row!" and then bellowed to the QB: "Make them tough!"

Eventually, I held my own, joined the team, rushed, hooked, slanted, yard after yard.
It was mad fun.

at the end of practice, the coach said "Kim, come out next week. I want to see you in a game. Then we'll see if we offer you a contract to play." (Ouch! Scary! So big leagues.)

Two and a half hours from the first stretch to the last drill, I took off my cleats – cakes with wet grass and mud and wet through the sole.

When I look at them, they tell a story.
And I love what I'm hearing.

Back in the saddle

2 years, 10 months, 4 days... that's how long it had been since I last raced. 1034 long days of zapping leg pain, extraordinary unbearable back pain, long, arduous physiotherapy sessions, uncontrollable tears, nearly $17000 in chiropractic bills, and one very strong will to ignore my first doctor's plight – "Sorry kiddo. You're not going to run again." – and get back to doing what I love best. Running.

I am not a good runner. I'm neither fast nor consistent. My stride is weird. My feet are gnarly. But man, do I love to run.
I used to run up to 10 races a year. For the hell of it. Because it's fun. And it's a challenge. And I like to challenge myself to be better, faster, healthier. And for the last 12 years, it's been my go to – to sort things out, to push my limits, to exceed barriers, to feel alive. It has been my religion.

Then I hurt my back.

And for a while there – a long while – i felt like crossing a finish line again was a distant dream. I could see it, but not touch it. And it was fading. I ached for it. I never appreciated it when I had it. When it was gone, I wanted nothing more than to feel the crisp wind in my face and rhythm of my runners pounding the pavement like a heartbeat.

But in all those dark days, I never lost the will to run. When doctors, chiropractors, physiotherapists, massage therapists, personal trainers, and other specialists asked: "What's your goal?" – I consistently said "To run again."
So I gave everything I had – all my money, all my energy, all my time, all my heart – and I poured it into the dream.

For 2 years, 10 months, and 4 days, one of my half-marathon race pictures has been taped to my mirror – right in my line of vision. "You can't really see yourself", a friend said once mocking its positioning. "Oh yes, I can." I said. I have looked at that image, arms thrust in the air, rosy cheeks, a face that's equal parts exhausted and elated, every morning and every night for 1034 days. I saw her and knew I would be her again.

I am rarely happier than I am at a finish line. It moves me.

Progress has been slow but positive. Six months ago I was finally able to lace up and run again. Like really run. I started small, running slow, trying to stay positive while grannies passed me on the sea wall. Finally, in December, I felt confident enough to sign up for a race again.

The race: a 5k – a distance I used to consider piddly, but one that I now am grateful to be able to run. It wasn't too long ago that I couldn't even walk more than two blocks without pain. I spent a lot of time crouched on curbs wishing for a friend with a car to drive by.

An added joy: I competed with my brother and my dad. A highlight of my life, to tell you the truth. Who would of thought we'd share a love of running after all these years?

29 minutes and 2 seconds from the start, I arrived at the finish line, exhausted, dry heaving, and triumphant. My fastest time ever on a 5k – even before I hurt my back. I surprised myself. And it felt good.

My brother, sis-in-law, nephew, niece, step-mom, and friend were on the sidelines cheering – big smiles, high fives. It was glorious. My dad put his arm around me as he blazed into the finishing shute only seconds after me.

For me, personally, this race was may more than a time. It was a victory over all the naysayers who told me it would be impossible to run again. It was a slap in the face to the doctor who told me to "find a new hobby". It was a triumph over an injury that sidelined me and tried its darndest to control my life and keep me down. It was a moment of personal joy, achievement, and pride – far bigger and more emotional than I ever expected.

I have crossed over a hundred finish lines in my life. But this one was the one I earned the most.