34

I'm not someone who remembers things.
I'm not forgetful, really. I just don't remember.

I have memories. I just don't remember the feeling or the meaning or the building of being me.

I dont find this sad or silly or odd at all. It just is. 

I prefer to live forward, I guess.

Maybe it's some kind of self-preservation tactic – so i don't have to be plagued by bad memories or self-examination.
Maybe it's just a kink in my brain's chemistry.
Maybe it's genetic makeup.
Maybe things just aren't worthy of remembering.

I'm not really one who looks back and sees clearly.

An ex-boyfriend once called me out on it.
"You're so cold," he said. "You don't care about the past. You forget it the second it's gone."
It burned me at the time. Made me squeamish and hurt my heart.
I felt like throwing up. Who wants to be cold? Not me. Never me.

But he may have had something there.
I can be a bit chilly.

I really don't harp on things. On good or bad or in between.
I just gaze at the horizon and move my feet forward and my heart upward and look forward to new days and new deeds.

I'm the typical action star in PG-13 movies. When the car blows up 10 feet behind him,  he walks into the sun without ever looking back and tosses the keys backward over his shoulder into the flames.
Onwards.
To the future.
Screw yesterday.

I'm not sure if this is a good way or a bad way or an interesting way to have lived my last 34 years.
But it's me. It's the way I've done.

So now, all of a sudden, I find myself 34.
Wondering what got me here, to this moment, who I was and how I came to be. And are there pieces of me that I've let loose or slip or shrivel up from inattention?
What was in that burning car and should I have doused the flames?

I wonder if my parents can see in me today little pieces of a sweet little blonde girl who cut the hair of all her china dolls even though she wasn't allowed to, crossed her arms, and talked back with conviction. And did that girl make me who I am today?
In a good way?

I wonder if my brothers can see in me today the strength I didn't have when we fought, screamed, hit, and tortured each other mercilessly in the 80s and 90s.
(Note: I was the torturee 100% of the time)
I wonder if the girl they picked on is now a woman they admire or appreciate or like, even a little.
I wonder if a pansy grew into a mighty oak.
I wonder if those moments in playgrounds and basements and bedrooms helped me get to here.
Gave me the good things that have built me.

34.

I wonder if there was a moment in time, a TSN-turning-point, a millisecond where I chose a path, a  direction, an opportunity and it made me me.

I wonder if those times I wavered and came so close to choosing Option B or Plan C – did they make me? Break me? Free me?

I wonder if I became who my parents had hoped?
Did I become more?
Less?
Something different?

I have 34 years of history in this body, this soul, this heart.
I can't quite recall with any degree of clarity what all those 34 years have been save for tiny moments, keyhole-views into something familiar.
I cherish those bits of cosiness.

I kind of expected more at 34 to tell you the truth.
A few more notches in my belt.
A little more love.
A bigger brood.
An easier road.
A bigger dent.
A more impactful existence.
A bit more wisdom and a little less flippancy.

But I also expected, I think, to have no idea what to expect.

At 34, I can rhyme off all the things I don't like about me in 32 seconds flat.
And I don't think that's a good thing.

The bump on my nose, the mole on my right cheek, the size of my thighs, the way I string words into mumbles and people have to say "pardon?" twice, the way I look in a bathing suit, my height, the colour of my skin, the size of my forehead, the gumminess of my smile, my rash decision-making, my posture, my introvertedness, the way I can't look strangers in the eye, the way I latch on and suffocate the things and people I love, my incessant worrying, my long list of regrets... and so it goes on.

I was thinking about this list (obviously).
All of the things that 34 years of me have produced.
Could be worse, I said out loud. Honestly.
I laughed, out loud again.
(My neighbours are going to think I'm certifiably nuts).
But really, it could be. And I get that. And I'm starting to like the bump on my nose...
My thighs, though. That's a tougher road to acceptance. But I'm working on it.

So I'm trying to look at 34 as an opportunity.

Another year to be better.
To leave the negative in the past.
To gain perspective.
To lose weaknesses.
To look forward and leap forward and breathe forward and love forward.
Another year to look in the mirror and try to accept
all that is me.
I'm not sure why it's taken this long to be okay with it.
After all, I'm equal parts of two of the most incredible people I've ever known.
I was gifted with great things.

I'm sitting here, lamp to the left, dog to the right, glasses falling to the edge of my knobby nose.
It is quiet.
The street is asleep.
And I'm wistful, of course.
I'm curious (am I who I was meant to be?)
I'm amazed (34!! Crazy!!)
I'm anxious (to do more, achieve more, and be more in the years ahead. Time is a'wastin!!)

34.
It has a nice ring to it.
It feels established and regal.
Like it's setting the stage for a future that wows.
And it's building the foundation for a history that's memorable.

34.
I have a feeling I will remember you.

5 Peaks Trail Race – Cypress

In April I signed up for the 5 Peaks trail running series. Five trail races in five months on five mountains. I've always wanted to do it – since I moved to the West Coast. It was a bucket list kind of dream.

So when i woke up in April feeling healthy and spry and my inbox dinned with an "Early Registration" email, I decided to do it.

The first race, a 6+ km at Golden Ears Provincial Park in May set the pace. I climbed, ran, trekked, breathed heavily, crossed streams, tripped, and sweat. I was hooked.

I joined a trail running clinic, changed into dirty runners and luon in a washroom stall at work, and battled traffic across the Lions Gate to meet my group for a 6 o'clock run.

Things were hoppin'.

The next week, still on a high from having one peak under my belt and feeling strong enough to start competing again, I tore my MCL, bruised my tibia, and was fairly certain that my dream of completing the 5 Peaks Racing Series had all but vanished.

One fall. One twisted knee. Two eyes welled up with tears.
That's all it took to crush a dream.

The second race, in June, was in Squamish.
As it approached, I was determined to do it.
I'd go for walks with Harley and try to jog a little. My knee hurt. It swelled up. I sat back down.
This went on for weeks.
The Squamish race came – and went – without me at the start or the finish line.
My heart sank as I did slow, methodical movements with my physiotherapist, trying to regain strength.

"I'm going to run Cypress," I said to to my trainer.
"Yes, you will," she replied.

On July 20th I went to bed with a nervous gut and a racing mind.
Yes! I thought. Racing jitters!
It was a sign that I was on a comeback.

I woke up at 5. an hour before my alarm.
I juiced a pre-race elixir of cucumber, celery, parsley, and ginger.
I did a micro-jog with Harley around the block to warm up.
It was raining and cool.
I was happy yet petrified.

15 minutes before the race!

I had a race plan and it was simple: Just finish.

I promised my chiropractor I would be patient and listen to my body. I promised my trainer that I would suss it out and let my knee guide me and tell me how fast to go. I promised my mom I would not hurt myself again. I promised my travel buddy I would not be on crutches in Iceland. I promised myself I would be okay with just being out there.

At the top of Cypress Mountain, the rain came down in droves. Thicker and harder than it usually does in Vancouver. It was nearly snow. The fog was thick and the start line looked mystical. A race in the clouds.

I stretched. I paced. I started to be doubtful.
Can I do this?
Will I get hurt?
Am I ready?

One of the race officials made an announcement:
It's slippery out there. Watch for rocks, roots, mud. Conditions are very slippery. Be careful.

Gulp.

I had a brief moment of wanting to back out.

But I'm not in the habit of letting my mind prevent me from having a good time.
So I sloughed off the doubt, welcomed the jitters, and relished in this feeling I've missed for 10 long weeks.

I started in the last wave on purpose – so I could pass people.
Hopefully.

We ran 100 meters down a road to the trail head. It was thick and mossy. Muddy and wet. Instantly, a hundred runners panted wildly. I was one of them. My heart keeping beat to rap songs and poetic staccatos.

I was alive!

The thing I love most about trail running is that I forget I'm running. It's a mindful sport. You have to watch your footing below and the trail ahead simultaneously. You have to make instant decisions on footing. It's a brain game.

We went through mud-puddles so deep that my shins seemed painted brown and my steps were stuck for micro-seconds as the mud suction-cupped me to the earth.
There was a steep embankment of scree – tiny rocks and uneasy footing that  saw an entire fleet of athletes huffing and puffing (and no longer running) one big step after another to the top.
There were webs of roots and banana slugs.
There were grassy knolls and fern-lined routes.
There was hill after hill after hill. So many ups.

And then a volunteer with a cowbell and a smile at the top of the last big climb.
"You're amazing!" she said "It's downhill from here. The nice kind of downhill. Enjoy it!"

And I pressed on into the foggy mist and the last kilometre of downhill running.

I crossed the finish line feeling tired but happy. My shoes were caked in mud. The hairs on my arms stood at attention. My knee was okay. Not great, but okay.
It had been precarious. There were a few moments when it didn't seem to like holding me up, but like a real trooper and the official joint of a stubborn girl, it carried on with conviction.

"How'd you do?" asked one of the volunteers as I loaded up on bananas and Gatorade.

Muddy shoes = fun times!

I paused. I actually had no clue how I did.
In fact, for the first time ever, I didn't even look at the time.
And even after she asked, I really didn't care.
I was so happy to have finished.
Actually genuinely happy to be on my feet again.

I checked my results at home.
Bottom half (closer to bottom than half).
17 out of 32 in my age group.
An "okay" performance.

Normally, I'd pick apart where I screwed up, where I faltered, where I could have run faster.
But, you know what, this race wasn't about the time, it was about the journey.
Sure, a cheesy cliche perhaps. But it was.

I ran 6.6 km in a muddy, slick forest on the top of a mountain on a dark,dank, foggy afternoon 10 weeks after a knee injury sidelined me and only two weeks after lacing up again.

Screw the results.
I'm pretty proud of me.

Just thinking about you

Hey Uncle Phil:

I totally nailed a marketing presentation this morning with you on my blazer lapel.
Thanks for having my back.
You would've been proud, I think.

Finding home away from home.

After 3 weeks away from home, 9 weeks away from running, and 2 weeks of steadfast grieving, I laced up my trail runners on Monday night, filled my iPod with some good 90s rock n roll, and headed to Deep Cove. I needed to burn off some steam, aggression, sadness, stress, indifference.
I also needed to feel alive again.
I needed to feel like me.
I needed to process what the hell just happened.
I needed to hold on to something.
I needed to let go.
I needed to remember why I'm out here, why I'm 5,000 km from family, and why that's okay.

When tragedy strikes, so does home sickness I discovered.
Hard. Fast.
A Jackie Chan fist to the face kind of strike.
And another to the gut for good measure.

I've been feeling lost and separate and really far away lately.
I want to be able to pop by.
I want to show up on a door step with two bricks and a pane of glass and break shit with my Aunt.
I want to wrap myself in nephews and trains and cars and simple play.
I want to snuggle with my niece, her head tucked in between my neck and my chin. And just breathe.
I want to have a beer with my brother on a Tuesday night.
I want to go for dinner with mom.
I want to hang out at the farm and see the stars shine at night and hear the wind rustle through the crops and just be still.

"My heart is here."
That's what I tell people and have told people for the past 5 years of Vancouver.
I live here because my heart is here.
I belong here.
The west coast is an extension of my own soul.

It's absolutely, unequivocally true -- 99% of the time.

But today, yesterday, last week, last month, the other 1% crept in.
I want to be anywhere else but here.
I want to be cosy with the people who share my DNA.

I'm certifiably homesick.
Utterly wistful.
I miss Uncle Phil.
I don't want to ever lose any one again – especially without telling them that they matter.
I don't want to be far away when I need to be close.

I'm struggling with it.
Really struggling.
Like throw-in-the-towel kind of struggling.
Ready to quit kind of struggling.
The ugly kind.
The weak kind.
The "I'm so going to regret this" kind.

My moment of weakness is now.

So I laced up.
Because for the last 15 or so years, I've always found that clarity is just a pair of beaten runners and an elevated heartbeat away.

I brought Harley with me.
A loyal sidekick who's too old to run consistently now but who is never unhappy for an opportunity to follow a trail with me.

Immediately upon opening the car door, Harley knew we were in Deep Cove.
Her eyes lit up. Her tail wagged.
She had thought we were heading home from work.
She knows that Deep Cover means running, sniffing, playing – oh my!
And probably a dog treat from the cashier at Honey's too.

Her sweet surprise and instant happiness immediately set my spirits soaring.

We hit the trail with fires in our bellies.
Our routine has been anything but routine for the past two months.
The first step up over roots and dirt and low-lying ferns provided a warm deja vu of life pre-chaos.

We've missed this.

I've missed it.

It felt familiar. And I let out a huge sigh.

And the anvil on my chest rose. And my eyes opened wide. And my heart bled. And I was sad and relieved and mad and happy all at the same time. I felt it all. And I felt alive because of it.

This trail is relatively easy. It's short. Nice and windy. Easy to follow. Lovely to run. Nice to saunter in.

At almost ten, Harley's days of running this trail full tilt are over. But, boy, does she give it her all.
We hit the ground hard for the first 20 minutes – over bridges, around tree trunks, through mud. Her tongue wagged wildly. My heart beat proudly. My mind quieted with every step.

It felt good.
Like home.

The 30-degree weather beneath the canopy eventually got the best of my big brown pal and she spent the remainder of the hike/run stopping and lying down in every bit of water she could find.

It made for a choppy but blissful run/walk/experience.

"She's got the right idea!" said fellow hikers as I sat on the sidelines waiting for her to cool off and be ready to run again.
I smiled and nodded. She DID have the right idea.


Sometimes, no matter how much you want to go full speed ahead, it's better to stop and take a breather.
I don't do that enough, I thought.
Actually, I don't do it ever.

Soak it all in. Stay cool. And come back swinging.
Yes, Harley has had it right all along.

We eventually hit Quarry Rock and the lookout.
I've been here a hundred times. I've sat on this cliff and had conversations with friends, listened to Kate Nash on iTunes, picnicked on sliced apples and peanut butter, snapped pictures of strangers, and stroked Harley methodically.

It's a good little jaunt for us and one of my favourite trails to run. The view defines peace and freedom and tranquility and all om-ish things.

But it was a little different this time.
Harley and I panted.
Walked to the edge of the rock.
And sat.
And I tried to think but I thought of nothing.
I really should think, I thought (how's that for irony?).
But my mind was blank. It was clear. It was on hiatus.
I just was.
And everything was right in the world.
Not good and happy and perfect. Not at all.
But it was right.
Things were in order.
Even the things I've been mad about and sad about and fretting about. Everything was in order.

I sent pictures to Mom, Dad, Trev.

I felt close to home again.
And at home.

When the mosquitos started biting away at our bliss, Harley and I took off back toward the car.
Her Run-Walk-Drink-LieDown relay continued all the way back.

Normally, I'd be rushing her to run faster. Keep up! Let's go!
But this time, it felt right just to take our time, enjoy the trail and the sunshine and the texture of bark on poplars and the oddity of banana slugs crossing the path. It felt right to just be there with no agenda.

Be present.
Breathe a little.
Forget about going back to work, meeting deadlines, mending hearts, easing pain, memorizing the presentation, cash flow, etc... and just be.

{b-r-e-a-t-h-e}

The weight was lifting.

[b-r-e-a-t-h-e}

It will be okay.

{b-r-e-a-t-h-e)

It's nice to have mother nature underfoot again.
She's always got my back.

100 things I am grateful for

I lost a person who owned a large percentage of my heart last week. And it hurt. And I was mad. I still am. The world seemed cold and bitter. And I wanted to punch someone in the face.

"Who dies?" I asked my brother with welled-up tears and anger in my heart. "That's so lame."

Then, I realized that Uncle Phil wouldn't want me to press on with anger and resentment. No, he'd tell me to find a bright side. Because, man alive, in even the most dire circumstances, there is ALWAYS a bright side.

Sometimes a girl has to quit her whining, dull the drama, throw caution to the wind, and realize that life is pretty damn spectacular. And that those she's lost are never far from her head and heart.

So, in honour of Uncle Phil, I tasked myself with listing 100 things I am grateful for.
Surprisingly easy. Life is g-o-o-o-o-o-d. And it's nice to be reminded of it. Thanks Uncle Phil!

These are the things that make my life shine:

1. My mama bear. Mom. Ma.

2. My papa bear. Dad. Pops.

3. My three incredible brothers – Geoff, Trevor, Patrick.

4. My brothers' cool wives (aka sisters of the heart) – Sally and Jennifer.

5. My friends – the new ones, the old ones, the everyday ones, the work ones, the play ones, the gay ones, the straight ones, the married ones, the single ones, all the ones that were and are and that will continue to be.

6. Boys who are brave enough to say hello and try to get my number.

7. Girls who tell me to stop giving boys my number. (Good advice. Thank you.)

8. Family. All of them and all that comes with it.

9. Harley.

10. Dogs in general. If only people were as loyal.

11. Mountain tops.

12. Trails that lead to mountain tops.

13. Running. And trying to run. And wanting to run. And being able to run.

14. Sunset.

15. Sunrise.

16. Kale.

17. BBM.

18. U-Pick berry farms.

19. My nephews. Handsome, insane, gloriously fantastic human beings.

20. My niece. A sweeter soul will never grace this planet.

21. Mizuno.

22. Races.

23. Mud and muddy shoes and muddy pants and muddy skin.

24. Finish lines.

25. Fans with bristol board signs.

26. Motivational quotes.

27. Goals.

28. Books.

29. Love and the thumpity thump thump of a heart in love.

30. Trevor's hugs.

31. Geoff's quiet wisdom.

32. Patrick's heart.

33. Risks.

34. Birthdays. Mine especially.

35. Cake-baking.

36. The juicer.

37. Infra-red saunas.

38. Cold beer.

39. Bad jokes. You know, groaners.

40. These four words: "I'm proud of you".

41. Schools and learning.

42. Yoga.

43. Old growth rainforest.

44. Travel.

45. Dreams and bucket lists and aspirations of wild kinds.

46. Mail – handwritten, from the heart. (Thank you Gram, Kristi, Jo...)

47. New running clothes.

48. Naps.

49. Personal bests.

50. Words and sentences.

51. Scrabble.

52. Ideas.

53. Fresh veggies.

54. Chiropractic care.

55. Wellies.

56. Shoulders to cry on.

57. Green juice.

58. A fresh perspective.

59. Tofino.

60. The Yukon.

61. The organic facial at J-Spa.

62. My hair straightener.

63. Curly hair.

64. Freckles.

65. Blankets.

66. Camping.

67. Moonlight.

68. Generosity. The kind you don't even ask for. You just get.

69. Rock and roll.

70. iTunes.

71. Race day jitters.

72. An audience.

73. Sports.

74. Frisbees.

75. Cleaning companies.

76. David Suzuki.

78. Paul Watson and the Sea Shepherd Society.

79. RainCity Housing.

80. "Just because" texts, emails, notes.

81. Thank yous.

82. Pearl Jam.

83. Homemade applesauce.

84. Skype.

85. Pants with 34" inseams.

86. Synonyms.

87. Sunshine when it rains.

88. Opposing viewpoints.

89. Jammies.

90. Kids' logic.

91. Adrenalin rushes.

92. The UN.

93. Time.

94. Airplanes.

95. Fireplaces.

96. Good conversation.

97. Yellow peppers.

98. My Sigg Water Bottle.

99. Compost.

100. This crazy, mixed up life.