Life is Like a Bike Ride

I love the sport of cycling, I love watching races, I love riding my bike, and I love teaching spin classes and hooking the “I just want to burn a lot of calories” crowd on to my favourite sport. What I love most about cycling are the climbs. Years ago, a friend of mine (I wish I knew where he was now) told me that I made life intentionally difficult for myself. I am sure I am not alone in doing so; I believe many of us live this way.

When I think about going out for a ride, images of long stretches of flat, smooth road are not what spring to mind. That kind of ride sounds mind-numbingly boring to me. I imagine a hot, sunny day, lots of rolling hills and ideally at least one brutal climb that makes me question my worth as a bike rider. That, to me, is an awesome day on the bike. I have not yet gotten off my bike and walked it up a climb, nor turned around and avoided one. I’m not saying it will never happen, but I hope it doesn’t. It is no surprise that my “bucket list” includes riding up two mountains (Ventoux and Alp d’ Huez, in case you are wondering).

 

I regularly do an experiment with my karate students. It’s not new and I certainly didn’t invent it. I pick a small student and ask them to raise their arms to the side. I instruct the student not to let me push their arms down, and then I do so with complete ease. Next I have the student close his or her eyes and visualize steel beams coming from the wall, through one arm, through the chest and out the other arm. I ask them to focus on how sold and strong that steel support is. Then I hang off their arms, lifting all my weight off the floor – every time, without fail.

I don’t think I am a drama queen, despite my days in the theatre and the protestations to the contrary of my last boyfriend (he should talk!). The reason I love the climbs is the test of my mettle. I probably approach most aspects of my life the same way. I wouldn’t call myself an adrenalin junkie, by any means. Yes, I like to challenge myself, but I don’t know if I do so more than the average person. I don’t know a lot of average people. I do know a lot of people who literally get a light in their eyes when they speak of overcoming something very difficult. It’s not about bragging rights and it is not about pride. It’s about seeing what really is possible instead of listening to what is impossible. I was going to end this entry with, “try it, you just might like it”, but if you are a regular reader, you don’t need to be told that, you already live it.

Left for Dead – The Family Edition or Why My Rotting Corpse Won’t Be Found Until the Neighbours Complain About the Smell

For several weeks I had been planning and favorably anticipating attending the Canadian National Cycling Championships with a friend and meeting some other friends on course. I was a little let down when my friend told me, just before the event, that he had other obligations. I was a little more concerned when, already on the GO Train, none of my messages to the other friends had elicited a response. Ah well, being out alone isn’t new to me and it doesn’t generally prevent me from venturing forth. I met the obliged friend at the train station and he very generously brought me coffee and drove me to the ideal course vantage point, the brute of a climb Rattlesnake Point. In under a minute of being dropped off I heard my name called. There were my friends, fortune was smiling on me. Little did I realize this would be the last fortuitous event for several hours.

The race kicked off and the action got crazy right away, with a crash on lap one. Riders settled down a little and attacks were made. It was good racing. My friends left after about 4 laps. I was a little concerned, but had assurance that, if I really needed a ride back, I should just phone.  My mobile phone battery has the lifespan of a mayfly, so I turned the phone off to be safe and happily soaked up the National Cycling scene, watched the podium presentations and pulled out my phone. I discovered, to my horror, that it had somehow turned on in my bag. I had enough battery to send two texts and then it died. I was stuck, atop possibly the worst climb in Ontario (let the arguments begin!), with no option but to start the long trek down into town and public transit. Why didn’t she just ride to the course? You may well be asking yourself. Well, here’s the punch line, I had been ordered off the bike due to a foot injury.

So I walked, and I walked, and I walked, on an unlit side road. Down, down, down into town, with support vehicles blowing past me well above posted speed limits.  Rising from a steep drop somewhere in the darkness I could hear the sounds of the riders, somehow having restored their energy, partying to thumping beats and digital sirens. I marched on. Two young men did drive down and offer to take me back to the party. I politely declined but suggested they might be helpful in, say, calling me a taxi. The laughed and drove off in the direction they had come from. My white Pearl Izumi rain jacket must have caught their attention in the dark (and prevented me from being hit by other racing motorists). I began to feel a little sorry for myself, but then I watched the fireflys float through the fields and realized it wasn’t that bad. In fact, it was a nice night for a walk. Probably not the best thing for my injury, but we don’t have to tell my doctor about it.

Finally I came upon street lights, traffic lights, sidewalks; all the trappings of a civilized world. When I hit the first gas station I broke down and called a taxi out of concern for making the last train. The taxi took 20 minutes; I missed the last train by 12. With nowhere else to turn, I hesitated and then called my father collect from a pay phone. He promised to come collect me from the station. He never showed up. So I waited, and waited. Walked to the 24 coffee shop, walked back. Repeat. Finally, at 7:17 am I was on the first train heading home. Two hours fifteen minutes later I walked in the door to find a message from my father, left at 8:30 am. After hanging up the phone he decided that his headache (an issue he never mentioned while we were speaking) was too great for him to drive.

The moral of the story? Even the Canadian cyclists like bad Eurobeats….


(Please, before you think I am blaming my father, read the tags on this blog. I realize MY sole culpability in the outcome of these events)

Rollin mixing it at the front before his frame cracked

Team Ontario hanging in

A treble for Team Spidertech in the Elite Men's Road

and top spot on the podium for U23 (nice to see Ontario on the  podium)

Felt sorry for those prairie boys

If You Wanna Be Happy

I have joked for years that if I ever got married, my first dance with my husband would be to the Kid Creole version of If You Wanna Be Happy (for the rest of your life, never make a pretty woman your wife). I love that song, it makes me giggle and it raises an interesting hypothesis about attractiveness and happiness. (Side Note:  gentlemen, we can be feminist and have a sense of humour). I have spent the last 24 hrs or so fairly immobilized by yet another injury and amusing myself with countless hours of Margaret Cho stand up. Margaret Cho is fabulous and I wonder how anyone could watch her and NOT instantly fall in love with her.

I absolutely relate to Margaret Cho about not fitting in, wanting to be accepted, having trouble finding love. For those of you who do not know me personally, I am about as petite as an adult woman gets without requiring hospitalization. I am tiny. My abdominal muscles are visible and so are my ribs. Being thin and being fit has never brought me instant acceptance, friendship, love, or a better standard of living. I have been just as screwed over by friends, co-workers and lovers as any of my chubby counterparts. I’ve probably spent more Saturday nights alone than them. 

Ladies and Gentlemen, I do not want pity, nor am I fishing for compliments. I want to tell the world that your weight, whatever side of the scale you fall on, is not the key to either your happiness or unhappiness. Strange words coming from someone who works in the fitness industry, I know, but it’s true. Men let doors drop on me, just like everybody else. They shout at me to get the %*@& off the road when I am riding my bike, lyrca clad. Boyfriends cheat on me with heavier, less fit women. It’s all the same. When you get treated badly, it usually has nothing to do with you. Bad behavior toward you says more about the person behaving badly than it does whom they are behaving towards. Stop torturing yourself trying to find out why he or she “did this to me” and instead wonder why you let them. Shun the people who treat you poorly and lavish attention on those who lavish it on you. Sounds like common sense, but too often we do the exact opposite.

Life really is what you make of it, it’s not a cliché. The world is one big self-fulfilling prophecy and you will have returned to you the attitude you project. So don’t worry that other’s can see through you and realize that you are really a pathetic loser. They can’t, they are too busy trying to hide their own pathetic loser from everyone else.  Having thighs the size of tree trunks or a gut that has its own postal code is not as unattractive as the huge chip on your shoulder.  So let’s all decide right now that whatever self-improvements we decide on are self-motivated. Let’s stop trying to appear to be what other’s want us to be and start spending more time with those who want us because of who we are.  In the words of my girl, Margaret, “our revolution is long overdue”.

Post-it Traumatic Stress

I found this Post-it note in an equipment storage area at my work. I am awaiting to hear from a psychotherapist friend of mine if she thinks this would qualify me for a stress leave.

Sticking It To The Man

“Life in a box is better than no life at all. I expect.”

Tom Stoppard wrote those words in his play “Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead”. I wonder at its truth. Do we expect that life in a box is better than no life at all? The North American Ideal, built on the American Dream, the Wild West and the Gold Rush tell us no, we’d rather be dead than boxed. However, especially in North America, we work long hours in cubicles, offices, and even at home turning our very living spaces into boxes of toil…for what? in order to buy a bigger box to live in and a fancier box to drive around in so that our neighbours and so-called friends will envy us? But we have no friends; who has the time? All we have are colleagues and acquaintances and a perhaps a family we don’t spend enough time with.

I find it interesting that our society disparages all addictions save workaholism. It is just as destructive to the individual, the family and community as any other addiction, yet it is encouraged and rewarded. I am beginning to believe that the current trendiness of zombies is because we identify strongly with the creatures. Sleep deprived, culture deprived, we shuffle, shambolic, through our own lives, over-worked so that we can buy more comforts and entertainments to ensure the anesthetizing of our minds is complete. “I am dissatisfied with my lot in life, quick turn on the HiDef television before I think about quitting my job and boycotting consumerism.” Perhaps there is more to the rise of the big box stores than we realized…

...Or maybe I Just don't feel like going to work today.