When Getting Through the Holidays is Challenge Enough

“When do you want to run this week? Does Wednesday work?”

It’s Sunday morning and Marla and I are sitting on our bikes waiting for Spin class to begin.  

“Yes…oh wait…no…my online grocery order is coming on Wednesday morning.”

“You’re getting online groceries?”  She looks at me a little quizzically.  

“Yes, my Mom’s coming Wednesday night and I have no food in the house, I have to work after I pick her up and I don’t get paid until Tuesday at midnight.”

My beautiful tree
Decorated by an army of five nieces and nephews
They are my Christmas joy.

Ahh the holidays. A minefield of physical and mental challenges. Never is the tension between light and dark so pronounced on so many levels. 

First the literal. You wake up in the morning and it’s dark, and when you get home at night it’s still dark. Heaven help you if you don't have a window seat at work. Even the cheery Christmas lights struggle to illuminate this heavy backdrop for the season of joy. 

Then on the figurative level with the inevitable pressure to be extra happy.   I’ve been struggling with this one for about 20 years now.  I am 100 times better than I was, but it doesn’t seem to matter how hard I try or how much therapy I pay for,  I still miss my Dad at Christmas and I still cringe a little at midnight on New Year’s Eve when I don’t have a date and it’s the kissing moment. 

Finally, there's the battle between healthy living and the season of parties.  Those of you who know me, know that even without the aforementioned factors to escape from, I appreciate a good party.  Thus arises another tension, the desire to indulge my true nature and stay out late, drink lots, eat cheese and wheat and then blame it all on the anticipation of Santa Claus and wrap it up with a bow by calling it a remedy for the holiday blues. 

Me and my Dad.  1973

The older I get and the more people I talk to, the more I realize that I am not alone. By the time many of us reach middle age, we know that some sadness in life is a simple fact. No matter how much we roll our eyes and wish things were different, we shouldn’t be surprised when the holidays are fuelled by the tension between factors like money, emotion, food and the lack of time.

So how do we make the best of it? How do we cope? How do week keep our fitness goals on track?

I've read quite a few articles on this from the experts.  All of them call for restraint and adoption of strategies.  Most of the strategies they suggest are good ideas in theory, but they don't take into account the competing tensions of the season and seem to require super powers of self-denial that in my flawed humanity...even after all I have accomplished...I just don't have.

So this year, I have decided to create a few survival strategies of my own. Hopefully being realistic and accepting  a few simple truths will make the next few weeks a little easier. 

Truth:  I will sometimes be sad. 

Strategy: See grief for what it is…evidence of love.  

Truth:  I may find myself throwing a couple of pity parties about everything including my lack off and need for self restraint.

Strategy:  Get over myself.  I have the best friends a girl could ever ask for and I’ve worked really hard and achieved great fitness and lifestyle goals over the last few years.  I have gotten past bigger challenges than these next two weeks and I have the next six months of the 43 Project to plan.

Truth: In the case of certain parties, I won’t be home before midnight, I will drink and even if I eat before I leave home, I will get hungry. I may eat cheese.

Strategy:  Ok…it happened.   I had tonnes of fun.  I won’t use it as an excuse to go buck wild for the next two weeks.   Practise self forgiveness. 

Truth:  I stayed out late and I don’t feel like training today.  

Strategy:  Look at my training schedule and try and give myself a rest day on the day after a party.  That said, I need to pick my parties, I can’t do this for all of them.  I am training for the 5km Resolution Run on the 30^th of December.  Maybe I can occasionally consider making an adult decision and get home at a reasonable hour.

Truth:  There's a lot of fun stuff happening over the next couple of weeks.

Strategy: Stop thinking so much.  Enjoy the moment. 

So with my online grocery order busting out of my fridge and my holiday plan in place, I wanted to take this opportunity to thank you all for your support over the last six months. Your notes, our conversations and your posts on my blog page have meant the world to me and have kept me going.  My heartfelt best wishes, prayers and blessings for the holidays and the New Year go out to you and your family.  xo.    See you in 2013.

Never quit,

Mary

I will not be blogging next week, but will be back again clogging up your inbox and Facebook newsfeeds on January 2^nd

Horsing Around with Lucky Number Seven

I walk slowly, very slowly, from the GoTrain towards the stable. 

 “You can do this” I tell myself.  In fact, I really want to do it…I just wish all of my leg muscles weren't screaming in unison.   Today is my second consecutive horseback riding lesson.  Since riding Sky six weeks back, I have been obsessed.  For the last three weeks I have been riding once a week.   This is my absolute favourite thing to do. 

I get up to the Horse Palace and open the huge front door.  As I pass through, I’m like a character in a children’s novel that crosses the threshold from one world into another.  I become a kid again, a young girl that’s in love with magical creatures.  


I walk on and breathe in that horse stable smell.  I pass by one of the grey kittens, not sure if it’s Charles or Owen, playing with something.  He stops what he’s doing, his eyes narrow, he watches me as I go by.   I find Seven, my horse for today’s lesson.  

A chestnut Belgian Cross mare with a white blaze in the shape of the number seven, she has become my friend over the last three weeks.  I greet her and look in into her great brown eyes.  She puts her head down and tries to find treats in my pocket.

After brushing her auburn coat and combing her blond mane, I put on her saddle.  I struggle a bit.  She’s not happy with me when I put the girth on her.  She lets me know.   Later, when the instructor tells me that I have put it on backwards, I think back and wonder if at that moment, she was trying to tell me I was doing it wrong.   Horses and I are still learning to communicate.

Finally it’s time to put on the bridle.  Like a royal princess bestowing an act of kindness on a peasant, she lowers her majestic head for me.   I feel privileged that this regal beast has agreed to let me ride her.  

The clock indicates the top of the hour. I enter the ring.  Once inside I meet Faith, my instructor for today.  I mount up. Seven and I walk around the ring.  Then we trot.  My legs are taking a while to get warmed up. They ache like crazy but I want to succeed at this more than anything I have tried thus far.  I push through and keep going.  Finally the blood starts circulating.

For the next hour we work on developing strength and balance in the way I ride.  We work on communicating with the horse. We work on my confidence and we even work on the two point position-- the position riders take as the horse jumps. It requires leg, core and glute strength.   This is a tough one for me.  To get past myself, I try and imagine Matt, my trainer, yelling at me.  “Come on Mary, squeeze your butt, squeeze your quads, suck in your gut--squeeze everything.”   And after a few unsuccessful attempts I suddenly I hear Faith, not Matt, with her English accent, saying, “that’s it Mary, you’ve got it. 

I exhale.

As our lesson comes to a close I come into the centre of the ring.  I pull Seven to a halt and dismount.  I am so tired that my legs nearly buckle underneath me, but I make it out of the ring and deal with Seven’s tack. Before I leave the world of the stable, I go back and say good-bye. 

On my way toward the big door into daily life, I think about how happy I am and how riding, while being a great work out for the lower body,  gives me that full mental escape I need.  I reach the door and put my hand in the middle of the long bar that runs the entire width. As I push down I am breathing a little easier and smiling a little more than I was an hour ago. Sore but rejuvenated  I take that step across the threshold back into reality. 


Never quit, 

Mary

Coming up:  I face the ultimate test...trying to stay on track during the holidays

Running and Reconnecting

Our High School Group
Me, Tara, Jocelyn and Kelly (missing from photo Martha)
Summer 1988

It’s Saturday morning, 7:30 am.   I look out between the blinds. I can see an icing sugar dusting of snow on the ground. It’s a chilly -4.  I am still a little bleary eyed, but I am up. I am scheduled to meet my high school friend Jocelyn whom I haven’t seen much of since the late-1990's and go for a run.  

Today is one of those days where life hands you a scenario you never imagined. If someone had told us five years ago that this would be our plan for today, I think both of us would have told you that there was greater chance of the world ending (as per the Mayan’s) in December 2012, than there was of the two of us running around High Park.  Yet here I was, peering out the window at the weather and feeling a little apprehensive.   

As fate would have it, my friend Jocelyn has been on a similar path to mine, like me, she has been seeking to make changes in her life and push the limits of her physical fitness. She is more than a little impressive. In the last three years she has taken 78 inches off her entire body, gained 35 pounds of muscle and just finished a triathlon.    

I hope I can keep up.

She arrives and I remark to myself how there is nothing in the world like the magic of an old friend.   They know exactly how to relieve you of any baggage you may be carrying.   As I am sputtering about an injured foot and apologizing because I am consequently only running 5 minute intervals, she just laughs and says “don’t worry about it.  I am here to run with you.”

We soon get moving.  As we head through High Park I notice how stark and sad the trees look, shivering naked in the breeze that blows in from Lake Ontario. The dismal surroundings are in sharp contrast with my mood.  I am having a great time and relieved to find that I am keeping up.    

The next few kilometres are fueled by great conversation.  She tells me about her life; her journey of positive change and the events that inspired her to start. We compare notes on how making a change in one area seems to lead to changes in others. We talk about how we both still consider ourselves to be "works in progress."

We stop. Laughing, we try and take our own picture.  Thankfully a fisherman comes by and takes it for us.  

As we get close to the end of the 5KM loop, my foot starts to give me trouble.  It happens just as we are about to start the torturous Spring Road hill. It’s one if those sleeper hills that doesn't appear to have such a stark incline, but about quarter of the way up your legs ache and you are gasping for breath.    

“ I've never made it to the top of this hill without walking,” I say to her. 

“So come on then, let’s do it together,” she says.  

Today, miraculously it happens. Sore foot and reduced training notwithstanding, I get to the top.  It’s a nice moment. 

As we are walking home, I think about how, strangely, running has taken on a significance beyond fitness for me and how through running I have come to connect with different people and myself in very profound ways.  I think about the vicissitudes of life and how opportunity for renewal presents itself in places like Facebook.  Had Jocelyn's status updates and my 43 Project posts not had a common theme, we might not have reconnected. I am very glad we did. Ultimately I think about how we could have gone for a cup of tea or had brunch, but chose to do this instead. Given path we are both taking, I think this was perfect way to get reacquainted. 

Never quit,

Mary

Coming up:  Horsing around in earnest and investigating the unfamiliar world of racquet sports

Spinning: As the snow flies I take the ride inside.

“Oh man…it’s snowing,” Marla says with a combination of sadness and disgust.

As we walk to the gym, I look at the sky.  It has a melancholy grey about it and the ground is harder than usual beneath my feet.  It seems a long time since last Sunday when it was warmer and the sky was a happy sunshiny blue. It was the type of day where winter seemed like it might pass us by. As we rode our bikes out to Leslie Spit, we strategized about the how we’d ride all winter if there was no snow this year.  

Just as I am about to get lost even further in the memory of last Sunday, a gust of cold wind slaps us in the face with a dose of reality.   It reminds me of how we both somehow instinctively knew that our winter riding dream was just that…a dream, and why we are up at this ungodly hour on a Sunday morning to attend spinning class.

The Sunday morning class at my gym is unique...and getting up early is a must...if you aren't in line by 7:45 you won't get a spot when it starts at 8:15. 

Spinning, if not lead by the right person, can by very boring.  But this class is designed by Paul. He is a rock n’ roll mix master, road cyclist and genuine guy with a great sense of humour.  He’s the kind of person that can make you believe you are having fun…even when you are biking uphill for 20 minutes. Paul is one of a kind, and even though he would never admit it, I am willing to bet he has developed quite a following at the gyms where he works around the city. 




Marla and I get there in good time.  We head into the studio and choose our bikes.  I am adjusting the seat on mine when I hear a broad English accent, "Well, what do we have here? Mary! Nice to have you back."  I give Paul a big hug and try to sneak a peek at his playlist as he sets up his bike.

Born in London in the shadow of White Hart Lane, Paul was the kid who took his transistor radio to bed and listened to music until late into the night.  His love of music is part of his instruction style and soundtracks for classes are filled with tunes that cross decades of popularity.  One can expect to hear the Beatles, Neil Young, Nine Inch Nails, Pink Floyd, Beastie Boys, Metallica and U2, just to name a few. 

As we are standing there chatting, I tell him I have been out riding my bike most weekends and that I am back so that I can keep my aerobic level up over the winter. "You are going to have to work to your full potential in every interval to keep your edge." he says smiling.  

One of those people who, unlike me, is prepared to brave any sort of weather, Paul rides his bike everywhere he goes--all year round.  His devotion to cycling forms his philosophy for spinning. Classes are designed to replicate a one hour outdoor ride with lots of hills.  He concentrates less on sprinting, like some instructors, and more on building cardio and muscular endurance through climbing.  

Our class begins, Paul tells us that our first interval will be a nine minute hill.  There are a few groans, which prompts him to utter what has now become his tag line...“pain today…nice looking legs tomorrow."


For the next hour, we encounter rolling hills,  adjust the resistance to simulate a steep hill and thankfully have a five minute flat aerobic interval.   All of this is done at maximum energy level and intensity.  Paul doesn't allow us to back off until the 60 minutes have elapsed.

After class is over, Marla and I walk back up the hill towards our building.  Although I am wishing I could be outside riding my bike, it's nice to have the whole day ahead of me to do things.  As we walk on,  I also can’t help but think of the weather and how my Mom always says “it’s an ill wind that doesn’t blow some good.” Spinning with Paul is more than just an exercise class, it's an entertaining social event that I can look forward to over the winter.  Plus a new season brings new opportunities. Putting my bike away will be sad, but I have a whole list of winter activities planned...many of which require snow.     

Never quit, 

Mary


Coming up:  I connect with an old friend and run for a good cause.   

Cave Tubing in Belize

"Sunscreen...check. Bug Spray...check. Water shoes...check. Sunglasses...on my head."

With our cruise ship floating outside of Belize City, we are waiting for the number of our tender boat to be called to take us into port.  I am amusing my obsessive-compulsive self by checking my backpack for probably the 10th time since I packed it.

Today some our group are going zip lining. All of our group are going cave tubing. The zip liners seem pretty confident, but what I haven't really told anyone is that I am terrified of caves and enclosed spaces. Since I haven't had my 10:00 am beer yet, I am a little nervous.

They call our number and we board the tender boat to Belize City. It's an incredibly beautiful day. When we arrive we meet our excursion group and get on the bus which will take us through the city and about an hour inland to the rain forest and caves.

Our excursion company for the day is called cave-tubing.com. As we travel along they shout out facts about Belize and tell jokes over a crackling microphone.    I find myself seated beside one the guides, Fabian.   He smiles at me and we start to talk about Belize and Canada and the some the dangers inherent in consuming too much of the cashew wine our excursion leader is handing out.




He tells me about the multicultural make-up of Belize. "We have people of African, South Asian, Chinese, British, Mayan and Spanish origin here," he says.  "I am British, Spanish and Mayan." I take a good look at him.   He is handsome, with olive skin, structured features, dark eyes and long black lashes. We compare notes on our lives and our countries for the next hour.

Eventually we are dropped off at an activity complex built in the rain forest.  The zip lining site is located among a canopy of palms, allspice and cashew nut trees.  While Mr. Wiser's, Mr. Maui and Ritzy are zipping through the trees, the Snorkels, Sheri and I have pre-tubing beer.

In no time the zip-liners are back and we are kitted out with tubes and life jackets. So begins an entertaining but agonizing 20 minute hike over a rock path in thinly soled water shoes.   There's lots of laughter as we amble along, and lots of people, including myself, looking to find a dirt path that is easier on the feet. Finally, after twice wading through the river, we reach the mouth of the caves.

"Come over here mama and papa, you are the anchors."  Our guide Jamie is talking to Brad and Angelina Snorkel.  He is arranging us in one long line of tubes.   "Hold on to Papa's feet,"  he says to Angelina.

When we finally all have our life jackets on and have the feet of the person behind us in a death grip,  we are pushed out into the stream.   Incredibly, Jamie starts towing us, swimming the back stroke and giving us the information about the caves.  

These caves were referred to as "hell" by the Mayan's," he says. "It was where the dead congregated."

In spite of what sounds like at rather ominous location and my claustrophobia, I am feeling pretty good.  The ceilings are actually quite high and there is lots of room to move and breathe.  In fact, I am able to relax enough to fully appreciate what I am looking at. I see stalactite's dripping water and hanging down from the top of the cave like giant fangs.  We float by a waterfall which is followed by shelves of stalagmites rising up to form scenes that our guide describes to us.

"If you look to the left you will see Bob Marley standing next to the Virgin Mary. This is the only place in the world where the two come together in such a public way," he chuckles.   I can't help but laugh to myself as well, thinking of how this coupling of  icons is somewhat symbolic of the unique combination influences in my own life.

Although Jamie is largely steering us, there are moments when the ride is unpredictable and we bump off the side of the caves or have to lift our butts way up in shallow parts of the river.  In the end, we exit the caves and come out into the sun.  Looking back at the dark hole in the cliff face it does seem like we have just been through another dimension of existence.

We float down the river and eventually end up at the point where we started our hike. After a snack and more beer, we board the bus. As we make our way back to the ship I sit with Fabian again.   He asks me how I have enjoyed Belize.




"I love it here," I say.   "Today was fabulous, there is absolutely no question I'll be back again."

Never quit,

Mary

Coming up next:  Home from vacation, I put my bike away for the winter and head back to spinning class.

 

Sometimes You Just Have To Take A Week Off

It's Tuesday morning and all I can hear is the sound of the ocean pounding against the beach as a Kenny Chesney tune keeps turning around in my head.

"So I'll sit right here and have another beer in Mexico..."

My cowboy hat is down over my eyes and there is nobody on the beach but myself and the East Coasters I am travelling with. Altogether we are a group of eight. We are cruising on the Carnival Legend to celebrate our friend Sheri's milestone birthday.

Today's shore excursion is courtesy of  my music business godfather Mr.Wiser. The only man, other than my father, who ever took the time to teach me anything. As a result of a life of travel and tour managing, he knows a "place" in every town. This reggae bar on the beach, where we are all by ourselves and the beer is $2.50 a bottle, is his spot on Cozumel. I couldn't have imagined anything better.

It's a funny 10:00 am break for me. I make this observation to one of my travelling companions, Angelina Snorkel.

"The beer's going down nicely," I say. "If I am in my office, I usually have a handful of nuts around now."

"Well today you are travelling with them instead," she says with a smile.





Laughing, I push my hat back up and survey the scene. The whole group isn't present. My cruise roommate Becky is back at the ship with Sheri and they are having spa day. I am missing them. But gathered around on deck chairs and at wooden table is our excursion group. There is Mr. Wiser, Me, Mr. Maui and Ritzy as well as Brad and Angelina Snorkel. It's a very fun bunch.


Time passes under the Mexican sun. There's not a cloud in the sky and its hot, hot, hot. One beer leads to another and pretty soon I need to cool off. A few of us are already in the water and I decide to head in too.

This is a rugged beach with a bit an undertow and rocks underfoot. But the combination of the warm turquoise water against the black rock and white sand make it picture perfect.


Once in the water, I cool down. I lick my lips to find that old familiar taste of salt. My mind races. It's a beautiful moment where past memory and current experience converge and translate into instant happiness.

After bobbing up and down in the water with Mr. Maui and the Snorkels, Brad shows me the sandiest path out. I make it to the beach without incident.

"It's a good day when the only thing you have to worry about is cutting your foot on a rock." I think to myself.



Around 2:00 pm we decide to take a break from the sun.
Following the highway, we pass beaches, a tequila plantation and road side stalls. We eventually end up the main city. It's a world of extreme heat and motor scooters.

Families are picking up children in school uniforms and helmets. We pass a grandmother driving a with a little boy, no more than three years old, standing on the floor board of the scooter...his head just peeking up over the handle bars. Groups of young boys in white crested polo shirts and grey trousers play chicken with cars as they try and cross the road.

We move out of the "real" part of  town and back towards the cruise ship terminal. It's now a world of duty free liquor and vendors with giant sombreros, t-shirts, shot glasses and a roaming mariachi band.

I board the ship with Mr. Maui and Ritzy. We are all a little bit pink from our first venture into the sun. It's been a good day...a great day really...not one I will soon forget. It's a perfect start to a week long adventure that involves a lot of living in the moment and worrying about nothing.

Never quit,

Mary

Next up: cave tubing adventures in our next port of call: Belize

The Toronto Women's 5KM Run

It's 9:27 am and I am somewhere I never thought I'd be. I'm at the starting line the of  Toronto Women's 5km Run. A couple of months ago, I would have told you that I don't run. Now I am surrounded by runners, at least 200 in front and countless others behind.   Thank God Marla is here.

She has manoeuvred us into what she explains is a strategic starting point. 

"You want to be behind a strong fast group. They will pull ahead of us, and the ones behind us will take some time to catch up. That way we get some space and are not running in a big clump of people."

I nod and follow.  I try not to show it, but it's an intense moment for me. The reality of being here almost has me in tears.

The announcer gives the one minute signal. People move up. I see some women on their own, looking for space. Once again I think how happy I am to not be alone. Our friend and running guru Scott is cheering us on from the side of the course. The energy is seriously intense.

"30 seconds," says the announcer. People start moving their feet. Running on the spot. The energy level is dialled up another notch.

The horn sounds. It takes us 20 seconds to get to the gate. I step on the mat. My time chip is activated.

It's a tough start, it's pouring rain and despite my best efforts, I am soaking wet. My body warms up quickly but my hands, feet and legs are cold.  It's a weird uncomfortable feeling.  I want to stop but we haven't even gone one kilometre.

As I am thinking the whole thing through,  I feel a tug on my sleeve.  It's Marla.

"Slowly...slowly...take it easy. Keep a steady pace. You want to get to the end." We run for 12 minutes--a stretch from my most recent ten minute accomplishment, and then walk for less than a minute.

As we start up again,  Marla says "we can walk again when we get to the place where the firefighters hand out the water."  It seems an eternity before we reach them. We pause only for a moment. Volunteers along the course cheer us on...it helps.

As the four kilometre marker comes into sight, I am starting to fade. I tell Marla that I am going to walk for a minute.  She stops too.  I know she can keep going, so I tell her to go on.

"I didn't train with you for ten weeks to leave you now," she says.

I start to run again.  With one kilometre left to go, my lungs feel like I am breathing razor blades and my legs are sore.  I concentrate on picking up my feet.   "Almost there," I  tell myself.   I come around the corner and I can hear people cheering.  As I look up and see the finish line, I am filled with emotion.   In my mind I hear the old taunts and feel the indignity of school yard bullying. I see the demon of being useless at running rise up like an image in front of me.  I laugh in it's face and this time it disappears--forever.  

Freer and lighter of heart, I summon that last bit of energy. I see Scott cheering me on. As I cross the finish line, I am running with everything I've got.  I hear the announcer say my name. I can barely take it all in.

Later that day I get my results.  Although I rank 215th out of an unknown number of runners, with a time of 34 minutes and 19 seconds, it's both a physical and mental victory.  It's an experience that has value beyond the activity of running and a moment I will push me forward in contests to come.







Never quit,

Mary

Coming up next.   Caribbean Adventures.

P.S.  A special note of thanks goes out to my friend and neighbour Marla.  Without her constant coaching and encouragement I wouldn't have made it.  Thanks also to Scott who stood in the rain and cold and cheered us on and took pictures.    You guys rock.

Crashing Down the Humber River

It's Sunday morning, I wake up with an angry rotator cuff. Not good. I do the stretches my chiropractor has given me. They don't help. Luckily, I still have full range of motion and It's a beautiful day. I have an appointment for a kayaking trip on the Humber River to look at the fall colours. This is only the second time I have been in a kayak and I am looking forward to a day on the water.

After a good lunch I arrive at Kingsmill Park. As I am waiting for the other 13 people in my group to show up, a young man walks up to me and introduces himself.

"Hi, I'm Jordan, I'll be your guide"

Jordan is about 5'11, medium build. He is tanned. Although it's the end of October, it's a fairly warm day. He is bare chested under his life jacket. He has black pants and black Blundstone boots. Both are covered in mud. He has close cropped curly black hair. I can see myself in the reflection of the aviator sunglasses he never takes off. He tells me all about the river, it's currents and it's local wildlife inhabitants.

As he speaks, I am thinking about how Jordan is like a sort of male version of a water nymph. I'm under his spell and floating in time until he says to me,

"You have your own life jacket. You must have paddled a bit.

My dream bubble bursts with a loud pop. I do what any good spokesperson does when they are on their back foot. I try and look confident and provide a general sort of non-answer.

Truth is, I bought the life jacket that morning at Canadian Tire because it was on sale for $22 and I thought it might be a good investment in my aquatic future.

When it's time to take our kayaks down to the river, Jordan helps me with mine. I get launched.

We head downstream. Because it has been such a dry summer the water level is low and the current is quite strong in places, we are quickly pulled forward. I start to paddle. I quickly find it's not like paddling on Moonstone lake. The current pulls me to the side. I can't track straight.

As we get further downstream and I get a bit of a rhythm going. Jordan paddles beside me and gives me some tips. "It shouldn't be about your chest and shoulders," he says, "it's in your biceps. Also, try and control the boat with your hips" He does a demonstration for me.

As we turn back upstream, I give myself a bit of a talking to and start to really concentrate on my stroke. I don't even bother looking at the leaves. I am vaguely aware of their beauty, but I have other issues. This is tour of novices, and even though I am starting to get it, other people are really not. Over the next hour, I am cut off constantly by other kayakers, hit three times by the same family of first time canoers and side-swiped by other canoes in our group who can't manage the current.

As we get up to the final bend in the river the current is so strong that people are being cast back down sideways. It's a log jamb of kayaks all bumping up against the bank and into each other. Some people make it through. I simply don't have the strength. I am too tired. I am forced to portage over a gravel spit. Jordan gets out of his boat and helps me.

When it's finally over I pull myself out of the kayak and drag it up over the embankment. I am covered in mud and I ache all over. My rotator cuff is on fire.

As I am getting on my dry shoes I see Jordan. He says to me "You paddled well." I cast my mind back to the moment I rammed into the dock at the Toronto Yacht club and I laugh a little on the inside.

It's been a frustrating day, but I have learnt a lot. As I walk towards the subway I am already planning the future. I can't wait to find a place where I can get a little more coaching and get back on the water in the spring of next year.

Never quit,

Mary

Coming up: Toronto Women's 5km Run and some Caribbean Adventures.

Back in the Saddle After 32 Years

We roll down a driveway and towards a large beige ranch style gate. As it opens automatically I feel a shiver of excitement. "Wow, it's just like Southfork."

Nobody but me can appreciate how wonderful it is to be inside my head right now.

After more than 30 years, I am returning to horseback riding and I cannot wait.

1980

My brain is going a mile a minute. I remember everything;  how, when I was a a kid, my father agreed to give me horseback riding lessons because he never wanted me to be at a disadvantage if I found myself amongst the privileged; how I fell off a horse cantering with no stirrups and was afraid to canter after that; how I had a grumpy instructor who made a painfully insecure 11 year old feel even worse; how ultimately these factors combined in my poor adolescent head and my awkwardness and fear overcame my love for horses.

But today, I get a second chance, a chance to start it all again. I am absolutely giddy.

The horse I get to ride is called Sky. He is gentle and sweet and for me it's love at first sight. Sky is perhaps less sure, but after fixing me in his big brown eyes and then sniffing my hands and coat sleeve, he lets me groom him. Sky belongs to Mr. Barolo's nephew O2.

O2 is also kind, gentle and generous of heart. He surrenders his horse to me for the afternoon.

While still grooming Sky, I meet O2's Grandmother, Anne. She is a highly accomplished equestrian. Over the course of the afternoon she she becomes the instructor I wish I had encountered over 30 years ago.

She reads me immediately and as we are walking out to the ring she says to me quietly,

"This horse can be a bit spooky. If you are nervous he will sense it and react. Take a deep breath and relax."

Once in the ring, I focus on her voice while I try and remember back to what I learned when I was a kid. I get on the horse. I take the reins and Sky and I walk around the ring. Anne speaks to me gently the entire time.

"Bring your heels down, place the balls of your feet on the irons and angle your toes out." I remember this was hard for me to maintain when I was a kid. It still is.

Sky and I walk around the ring.

"Now bring him to a trot. Do you remember how to post?"

I sort of do. In English style riding, when a horse trots, a rider lifts oneself up and down in the saddle. It's proper form to raise yourself when the outside foreleg comes forward.  First, we work on just the trot itself and then she says to me "you are doing well. Let's see if you can get the diagonal."  The fact that she says I am doing well makes me want to weep for joy.   I don't manage to synchronize my movements with the horse's outside foreleg right away, but eventually it comes. I ride for over an hour.  Sky and I get along just fine. I don't canter this time.  But I will.  I take the horse back to the barn with the resolve that I one day I will jump.

When we finally leave the farm I am at a loss for words;  there's Anne who has shown me such great  kindness, there's O2 for selflessly allowing me to ride his horse; there's Mrs. Barolo for driving my up to the farm; there's Mr. Barolo's sister and brother-in-law, the Glenfiddich's, who have made the arrangements for me to ride. This all has meant so much to me. All of these fabulous people have come together to give me a moment of redemption too complex to express with a simple "thank you."  Unfortunately those words are the only tools I have.   So I thank them for the day, knowing that this is also my way of thanking them for a new beginning.

Never quit,

Mary

Coming up next:  Kayaking , Toronto Women's 5km and a Caribbean Cruise

Three-day Weekend, Four Hikes and My 70 Year Old Mom

Spring Road, High Park

I am in a part of High Park I have never been to before, looking at a sign. All of a sudden I hear,

"Ouch, oh no"

I turn around to face my mother, who is saying, "that dog just hit me. It really hurts."

"What? A dog hit you?"

"Yes dear, that brown dog."

We walk on for a few minutes and then she says,"I think we should turn around." She pulls up her pant leg to reveal a bruise and bump the size and shape of a mango. It's the type of bruise that results when an 80 pound Weimaraner hunting dog running full tilt side swipes a thin 70 year old.

"O.K." I say. We turn around and head home. I am concerned about my Mom, but I am also a little sad. After dragging my family across 32km's of Toronto's parks and ravines, I have had the greatest Thanksgiving ever. I don't want it to end.

The Beltline

As we trudge home, I flash back to Thursday when I tell my her that I want to do four hikes this weekend. She initially looks a little nervous and asks if they are the types of hikes that one can drop out of, if necessary. "Sure," I say. A half truth. I'm not sure that they are and I am not sure that they aren't. When I suggest to my cousin, Jane, that we celebrate Thanksgiving by walking 13km across the city and then go to Chinatown for our Thanksgiving dinner, she doesn't even bat an eyelash. "Sounds good to me" she says.

So begins my Thanksgiving odyssey. After doing a bit of research, I have come up with 4 walks; a 5km warm-up on Friday night in High Park; a 13km Saturday walk, across the Beltline; on Sunday a 10km walk along the lower Humber River; and a final Monday morning 5km spin around High Park.

My mom and I complete the first walk on Friday evening in an hour. "See Mom," I say, "You just did 5km and you feel great. Tomorrow's 13km will be a piece of cake." She does not respond.

The Beltline

Saturday arrives and my Mom, Jane and I are out on the Beltline by 10:30 am. The pace is brisk and we talk. This is a hard time of year for each us. It feels good to reminisce about the past, tell stories from the old days and laugh as we check out a few of the more handsome runners we encounter along the path. Eventually our trail leads us to Mount Pleasant Cemetery. The three of us have spent a lot of time in cemeteries in the past few years, sometimes together, often alone. It's feels normal to be there.



As we walk, certain headstones stand out. We pass a runner who died at 29. At least 20 of the medals he received are hung on his tombstone. We go through a section which is specifically for children. Weather beaten teddy bears stand guard beside the small square plaques on the ground. I've had a lot on my mind lately and this part of the walk is a Thanksgiving style reminder of all that is right with my life...a reminder that there are types of grief I haven't felt and no time to waste on self pity.

From left to right: Me, Mom, Jane at the Brickworks

By lunch time we reach the Brickworks, an old factory that has been re-purposed into a craft, food and farmer's market and have lunch. As the vendors are packing up we head back onto the trail and carry on northward towards St. Clair Ave. As our walk ends I am left with a feeling of calm.

Sunday, my Mom and I set out again for trek up the Humber River. She says she is feeling a bit "squeaky," but after two hours and forty-five minutes we complete our 10 km walk.

When Monday arrives I admit that I am feeling a little "squeaky" myself. This time it's my mom who says to me, "are you ready to go back to High Park?"

"Are you?" I reply.

"Sure, why not? Let's give it one more try."

We head off and soon find ourselves amongst the the trees. This is where she and the dog collide and our final 5km is cut short, a kilometre early. In the end, the collision is not serious and with a bit of ice she is almost as good as new.

My mom goes home later that night. As I watch her get on the bus, I am struck by the fact that the more we change and develop new traditions, the more we value the people who help us do that. This weekend I have experienced good things while seeing new parts of the city and spending time with my family. This Thanksgiving I have been reminded just how lucky I am to have both my mom and Jane to walk with me not only through the ups and downs of city of trails, but also along the path of life.

Never quit,

Mary

Coming up: horseback riding, kayaking and the Toronto Women's 5km.

The Beltline

The Beltline

Thanksgiving Dinner

The Lower Humber River, Etienne Brulee Park

The Lower Humber River, Etienne Brulee Park

Grenadier Pond, High Park