Holly Higgins

Champagne, Wine and Popcorn

2012-01-27T16:58:00.000-08:00

My years, as long as I can remember, have been decided into two parts. On Season and Off Season. On Season was marked by fresh cut grass, the turning of Spring to Summer, and the promise of shoulder-padded men trying to make the team. Off Season was marked by the start of winter, the long dark months ahead, and a possible warm-weathered vacation.

I am older, and I still observe On Season and Off Season for football seasons, but I also observe the On Season and Off Season for Triathlon. On Season means wetsuits and clean eating and race bibs. Off Season means eating desert and drinking whenever I want, adding a few pounds, worrying less about missing workouts. I am currently in Off Season and loving it. I have the carrot of spring ahead (enough to motivate me to workouts) but there is enough space and time in there to not fret about overindulgences, or sleeping in.

Last Sunday I raced in an Aquathlon. I knew it was happening, that Jon was racing, and yet I still drug my feet on making a decision to race. Did I really want to get up at 5:45am on a Sunday? Did I really feel the need to do an all-out swim followed by an all-out run? Did I?

I Did.

Not deciding to race until 30 minutes before the gun goes has its advantages and disadvantages. Allow me to highlight them.

Advantages:

-I did not spend time worrying about this race, my speed or outcome.

-I did not build it into a week of training, ask Mike for a taper, or delicately tip toe around the race.

-I got a free t-shirt and a water bottle.

-I tested out some early, early, early season fitness and some pack swimming.

Disadvantages:

-Being that I hadn't decided whether or not to race, I didn't fuel properly. As I posted on Facebook: Champagne, Wine and Popcorn is not an adequate fuel source. Also, sleeping for five hours after being out at the bar isn't an outstanding idea either. In fact, it makes you feel like garbage when trying to perform. I had a hangover when I woke up on Sunday and I choked down some yogurt, coffee and water before pushing my ass out the door.

-Inadequate planning means inadequate gear. When you peer deep into your gym bag and all you have is a bathing suit, an old ripped sports bra and mismatched socks, this is what you will race in. You look like you may be homeless, wandering around on the street before you discovered there was an aquathlon you could partake in.

Not having set any goals, I decided about two minutes before it was Go Time that I could probably win. The field wasn't really deep, and my hangover was slowly dissipating, so now was a great time to throw down. It was also helpful no one knew me, and I knew no one, so vomit or stopping or a blow up wouldn't be as big of deal. I could huddle in a ball of shame silently and never tell anyone (and certainly never share on my blog).

We did a 360m pack-swim around the 50m pool. It was great. At push off and for the first 25m it was as fantastically alarming as a legitimate triathlon start. Limbs flailed, body parts were grabbed, goggles were dislodged. At the 50m mark it was myself and another dude. Sweet, I am winning this thing! I thought to myself so I settled in and drafted off the lead guy for the remainder of the swim. What I missed was the two girls who shot off the front of the pack, so while I was swimming 1:49s dipsee doodling around what I thought was the leader, the other gals were getting a bigger lead, sigh. Also, Grr.

Off to transition where I fumbled with my sneakers (obviously I didn't have speed laces in my sneakers, what would have been way too planned) and ran to the track, where I proceeded to attempt vomit. This is a special kind of talent. I can only put myself into the puke zone a few times a year, and I thought hell, I could blame this one on the hangover! Off I went for 2km. I finished, and to my dismay, couldn't muster a single strand of puke. I did feel light-headed, which I thought counted for pretty good effort. I walked around in my bathing suit and sneakers for a few moments, waited until Jon won, then we cooled down. I would find out later I had a fairly decent 2km time and finished fourth overall. I was pleased in my 2km time, but there was no way I could have held that for another 8km. There is still work to do.

I finished the morning with a box juice and granola bars. A girl I raced against chatted to me after, and it turns out we've raced in multiple races against one another. I love that community aspect of triathlon. It's almost like rugby, but without the kegs of beer at the end of the game.

With a renewed sense of excitement, I started really looking at a 2012 race schedule. Over a glass of wine. Hey, it's not race season yet.

Priceless Pink

2012-01-15T08:31:00.000-08:00

On Friday night I had a panic attack.

I haven't had one in years. Well, it could be argued that much of 2011 was a constant, mild panic attack. This is what happened. Wake up, clock says 1:24am. Feel head spinning dizzy. Problems inhaling completely. Thoughts running wild through my head. So out of bed I hauled myself and to the front door, where I stuck my head out and heaved brisk Calgary air until the feeling passed.

I came back inside and sat on our couch. I looked around the room. I wrote down a few sentences of what was making me anxious. A new job, a new home, so many things to do, to learn, a training routine to reestablish, addresses to be changed. I put down my pen after a few moments and paused, feeling better. My eyes settled on a small pink object across the room and I started to giggle. I giggled until I laughed, laughed until my face hurt, and then I was able to go back to bed.

The pink object in questions was this.

A week and a bit ago, Crystal and myself had been doing a mad cleaning of the place as we had just moved in. I saw the small pink hunk on the bookshelf and wrinkled my nose. It was the size of a couple baseballs put together and had the look of an old rotting trinket once purchased at a flea market. I took a look at it and decided it was A. an old something of Jon's, inconsequential in nature because I had never seen it or heard of it before; or B. something the previous tenants had left behind (although I was fairly sure I hadn't seen it during the walk through, that whole period of time is a blur). Without to much of a thought, I tossed it into a large black garbage bag we were using. End of story.

Not.

Jon asks me a few days later, in the kitchen, if I have seen his piece of The Great Barrier Reef. I stopped, mid mouthful of food.

What does it look like? I asked, slowly, careful to maintain a poker face.

Jon's earnest face smiled and he held us his hands. "Oh, like this big, light pink, looks like old coral..."

Like the size of two baseballs? I asked. Somewhat old looking? Probably I'd never seen it before?

Jon looks at me directly with his big brown eyes, with the same face I imagined he used growing up to get ice cream, $5, or a ride home from swim practice from his parents.

"It's a priceless piece of The Great Barrier Reef," he explained, "my Grandma's friend brought it back from Australia for me before it became endangered and illegal to relocate it."

Well, shit, shit, shit.

As soon as Jon leaves out to the garage I go, scissors in hand, and start going through the big black bags of garbage. UGH. My first bag yields no results. My second bag is different though, as in the bottom of the bag, stick to with an old swifter and some paper towels is THE GREAT BARRIER REEF. I bring it inside, lovingly scrub it, and put it back on the shelf where I found it.

I considered not telling Jon the journey it just had, but I couldn't help myself. He didn't say too much, but noted that he was glad it was back.

Me too.

Numbers

2012-01-07T09:56:00.000-08:00

2007: Calgary Cell Phone.

2008: California Cell Phone.

2008: Ireland Cell Phone.

2009: Calgary Cell Phone.

2009: Alaska Cell Phone.

2010: Calgary Cell Phone.

2010: Utah Cell Phone.

2010: Italian Cell Phone.

2011: Victoria Cell Phone.

2012: Calgary Cell Phone.

No wonder I draw a blank when someone asks me the phone number on the account.

The Thin-Air Year-End Discourse.

2011-12-30T22:28:00.000-08:00

"It's been a long December and theres reason to believe maybe this year will be better than the last...." -Counting Crows

I had the urge to compose a blog that discussed my successes and failures of 2011. However, the predominant emotion that flooded me every time I started writing was equivalent to the feeling I experience when I have to open my Visa statement. Must plant self firmly on chair. Feet and shoulders square. Inhale, exhale. Fight the urge to pour a glass of wine in order to scrape together the courage to open the statement. I decided if the adrenaline response that accompanied viewing my debt was present in writing my year end review, I'd pass on writing it for 2011.

These past weeks haven't been outstanding in the way of reflection. I spent the first 19 days of the month in a scramble that consisted of packing, working, training, moving, errands, being unwell and generally irritable. I collapsed into a heap upon my return to Calgary and became a social hermit. Unable and unwilling to repeat the Story of The Month (nay- Year!) That Just Passed it felt easier to nurse the end of my cold with Christmas cookies and lots of hugs from my parents.

However, in the final days of the month my energy has returned slowly and my desire to move about is increasing. I managed to pull myself together enough for some visiting, some light training and some pulling together of self. I believe other people refer to this as, "getting shit done." In that span of time I also managed to secure a Big Girl Job -more about that in the year ahead- which is a relief considering the hodge podge of work I pieced together this year. There is still so much to sort: people I'd love to see, training plans to put into place, documents to change back to Alberta. In the mean time, I have been doing little things when I have the energy, running outside, swimming at TC and attending yoga. I still notice a sense of discombobulation; as though I am fighting an invisible forcefield of energy that isn't allowing me to relax entirely into the circumstances present. For this I only ask for patience, and a respect to myself for the experiences of this year. At some point this light fog will lift and I can reflect wholeheartedly on the year for all its peaks and valleys. (I also hope around the same time I will completely adjust the the altitude which is cracking my lips, bugging my eyeballs and making hangnails and gasping for breath during workouts a common occurrence.)

While trying to write a list of Top 100 Things of 2011, my goals for the next year, my reflection on the year past, I let myself be distracted by other folks thoughts on this. These are just a few of the Blogs I follow who had a few words to say on the topic.

Brene Brown writes about finding magic in the mess. The image at the bottom of this blog is also hers.

Every year my friend and fellow blogger Sarah writes about the books she reads during the year. (She also inspired me a few years ago to keep track of what I read, although she easily doubles me in volume). She usually gives a clever review to most the novels, and a few big nods to the winners. So I loved it when this year she deviated and wrote, THIS YEARS WORST READS. Bravo. Not everything is great all the time.

Emily Wapnick runs a business serving "Multipotentialites". I resonate with the idea, and I really liked learning about her trials and errors of this year.

Let the Fictional Psychologist in me indulge in a little Authenticity. Setting Authentic Resolutions is a psych-laden but relevant read that intrigued me.

In the funniest of all blogs on this topic is Susan Lacke, one of my favourite twitter personalities and triathlete/runner authors. Penning articles that range from hilarious to gut-wrenching hysterical, she posts a great one on resolutions as suggestions. Copy and paste the link to read it: http://bit.ly/sFu5UL

So while I didn't write anything too personal or meaty, I am sure I can save that for a few posts in 2012.

To a Wholehearted New Year!

YYJ + HPR

2011-12-18T16:58:00.000-08:00

Of all the things I disliked early on about Victoria, my strongest fixation was on the airport. Petite in size comparable to say, Calgary, Toronto, Vancouver, and suffering from the weather patterns that frequently engulf Vancouver Island, I found the airport insufferable. The first few months we lived on the island I flew in and out finishing off my Backroads work, I was subject to being fogged in, fogged out, delayed due to rain, due to snow (I thought that one was comical, coming from Calgary). There were only six gates! You had to walk on the tarmac! There is no Starbucks! My complaints of the airport were plentiful, and so it would be in the beginning of Our Life in Victoria.

Those first few months were bleak (in weather) and dark (in my mind). I worked slowly on finding employment, and trying to make my lifestyle better. I thought about the best place to develop a community. A deeply spiritual friend from Calgary suggested I start asking the Universe to supply me with some angels. Guides, helpers, she said, people to make the difference during your time there. Little did I know I was going to receive a fleet of them, and they were going to be dressed in black and orange. It wasn’t long after this conversation with her that I met Mike.

We had coffee and I liked him instantly. With a calm demeanour and an obvious passion for triathlon and his triathlon team, I was intrigued and simultaneously terrified. His group had people that had represented in multiple Championships. Age Group Worlds. ITU. Kona. Could I possibly hack it with the group? We agreed on a trial period and I picked a Sunday morning run to start off. I hardly slept the Saturday night before, worries running rampant through my head. What if I didn’t like them? What if I wasn’t fast enough? Worse yet, what if I didn’t fit in? I was desperate for something to bring a ray of sunshine into my dreary existence as I struggled to find my feet under me.

Sunday run came and went. We ran ten km and I could hardly believe it. Everyone introduced himself or herself, but more importantly, I was talked to. Asked about. During the run I was rotated through the group with different people running and chatting to me, and I was overwhelmed by the general kindness of the people. I decided to stick with it. I joined officially Human Powered Racing a few weeks later and the rest, as they say, is history.

The next many months unfurled, winter coming to spring, spring coming to summer, summer coming to fall, and from fall into winter. I looked forward to each and every workout, a triathlon season that lay ahead giving me a renewed sense of purpose and invigoration. I learned my teammates stories, met their partners and friends, and shared life’s inevitable ups and downs via foot, bike and pool. In the hardest of times in Victoria there was something for me to have, something to which I belonged, a place where people knew my name, learned my story, and cared for me. I felt loved, and I loved them back.

HPR also gave me my first legitimate friend. Living close by helped out the beginning portions of our friendship, and soon we were biking to and from workouts together. We’d meet for a run, a swim, on the off chance one of us couldn’t make it to the group effort. One day in June when I got home from a bike ride we’d taken I realized how much we’d talked about and shared over the ride. I came home so excited and woke Jon up from his nap. I HAVE A REAL FRIEND! I cried. He probably gave me a quizzical look. I texted Joelle: Thanks for the bike ride and sharing friend! Can’t wait to see you soon. Friend. Friend. Coming from a huge social circle in Calgary, and in Backroads, I hadn’t realized that meeting people and developing meaningful relationships was going to be so hard. Joelle was a gift, a sign, life here would continue to improve. It did.

I especially loved Monday, Wednesday and Fridays in the summer time when we’d swim at Thetis Lake. I loved arriving in my shorts, taking the short hike to the waterfront, and pulling on my wetsuit. Being a native of the Calgary triathlon scene where open water swimming is practically non-existent, I was delighted by the easy ability to swim there. The sun would shine late into the evening, I got to understand “small island” “big island” swimming, and I grew and I grew and I grew in the open water. I suffered alongside the group on rainy bikes and runs. I reveled in the view of the ocean every single time we rode to Sidney bakery. I’d always feel a smile looming as we rounded the last corner in North Saanich, knowing the sight of the water was ahead. The ocean! Living in so many land-locked places it was sheer novelty. I loved my athletic life, the part of my year that completely came together.

It would occur to me mid-summer, on an evening ride up East Saanich to the airport –which ironically became one of my favorite rides- how much I adored the once loathed airport. I saw sparkle in it’s large flower sculptures, delight in the tiny, slow moving counters and a joy in being able to walk outside to your airplane at all times of the year. A niggling thought in my head spoke and said, you actually think the airport is quite charming! I actually chuckled at the thought, given my feeling on the slow-moving island ways that could often drive me batty. You’re alright Victoria, I thought on a Tuesday night, as the late evening sun illuminated the farm fields and ocean, warming everything as far as my eye could see.

So when the time came, and it was decided that the time we’d spent into Victoria was coming to an end, I went into a period of mourning. There were so many reasons to return East and open a new chapter. But this would mean I’d be leaving HPR. How could I do that? I’d made a plan for 2012, 2013… I saw myself growing, changing, supporting and being supported by these people. How could I ever leave them? I met with Mike to tell him, and spent forty-five minutes at Starbucks heaving unabashed sobs. I love this team, I told Mike over and over and over again. In the days and weeks that followed, the sympathy, love and compassion that flowed to us came predominately from the triathlon team. We were offered places to stay, meals, financial support, moving help. If I wasn’t overwhelmed at the beginning with the love that had been shown to me the last ten months, this was the trump card of them all.

In addition to the wonderful folk of HPR, I’d be amiss to not also mention also Mark, Olivia and Michelle who made my working life not only tolerable but actually enjoyable. Thanks to Adrienne who gave me support and encouragement where I least expected it, to my first “legit” friend Joelle. I am also thankful for Andrew and Noa, Kelly and Kyle, and Leif and Laura, really special couples who made our time here so wonderful by sharing themselves with us. Last but not least there is Sarah and Bill. If ever I needed proof my Backroads experience extends beyond the four and a half years I spent working for them, this was living proof. They gave us a place to stay two Novembers ago at the beginning of this and a soft place for me to land at the very end. Their undying affection, love, encouragement and support have been overwhelming in its completeness and genuine nature. We were so blessed.

One day I'll write the story of this year, but not now. Sitting in YYJ, this is the end and also a new beginning. I can look around and feel satisfied in this tiny airport, a piece of this place I came to love.

Onward and Upward.

When push comes to shove

2011-12-09T22:24:00.000-08:00

I had a magic trick during University. Due to the fact it worked almost 90% of the time, I adopted it, without much thought, into my post-University life.

When a deadline for a paper, project, lab or exam was looming I would do a little bit of spotty prep work. I would read the required texts, do a wee bit of research, and maybe draft a sketchy outline. I’d do a fraction of the work required to actually complete the said project.

In the eleventh hour, or when “push came to shove” (perhaps my favourite idiom of all time, thank you Grandma Ethel) and it was time to get down to it I'd put on a fantastic show. It’s 9:30pm on Wednesday and my term paper is due at 9:00am on Friday morning? Sit back and enjoy the production folks, here I go.

Working madly until all hours of the night and into the wee of the morning, fuelled only by coca-cola, expensive Second Cup lattes I could not afford and potato chips, I worked myself into a cloud of feverish dust. I would write furiously, collapsing only at the point I was re-reading the same sentence for the fifteenth time, I’d nap, wake, and continue writing. Draft, write, scratch out, and change. Draft, delete, re-write, proof. Draft, decide on a quick shower. Re-read the project, look at the clock and wonder if “4:00” means AM or PM. Then, in nothing short of a miraculous poof I’d have it; my winning paper/project/etc. One could say I was lucky, or a good paper-writer, or just a jack ass. The times I did this far outweighed the number of times I did not, and due to part of the fact my grades were excellent I had no reason to change this formula. With adrenaline and a time deadline coursing through my veins there was little I couldn’t do.

I can procrastinate with the best of them, but when it is Go Time there is no one better than I. I prided myself in my ability to hit the ground running. Since University I have also diligently worked on coaxing myself out of this anxiety riddled state and into a more preparatory state in which I attempt to spread out my working time and utilize time management wisely. I believe I am highly organized which felt counterintuitive to living in a massive ball of fire for 48 hours of time prior to getting something done. Although I am constantly to work to be always in this new, less stressful way of productivity, old habits die hard. This particular old habit is coming through loud and clear as I prepare to move from Victoria.

Our tiny home for the year doesn’t have much stuff. We came with no furniture, save a couple IKEA night stands. We each had some clothes (one of us would argue the other had a significant amount more than another) and shoes, and gear. Good lord, do we have gear. Bicycles, wetsuits, enough sneakers to outfit a high school track team, cycling and running clothes for all weather. We brought along some kitchen items, not many. We brought along some photos, paintings, décor. Not much. So why then, as I pull our stuff into our tiny dining room, do I feel a sense of sheer overwhelming wash over me when I look at our stack of what is to return to Calgary?

So I find myself late on a Friday night playing with my iPhone Starbucks app. I could wax poetic for an entire blog on why Starbucks is my favorite transnational, which goes to show just how damn good of a procrastinator I am. I would rather write and publish an essay on Starbucks, consumerism, capitalism or their marketing scheme rather than pack. All it requires is my hands, to put items into boxes. Tape them shut. Write on top. “Records” “Shoes” “Kitchen items”. That’s all I have to do. Not much more. So why then, as I shake my phone with glee – I have just discovered I can tip the gold stars out of my virtual coffee cup – am I not doing it? I am letting my free time be occupied by said app, Words with Friends (also hopelessly addicted) watching Arrested Development, and rearranging my sock drawer (not kidding).

Weighing in on the current date, and the date of my departure, and the chaos that surrounds me daily (see photo below) I foresee a 48 hour Ball of Flame moment coming on. Despite my efforts to show my mature, evolved, organized stripes, the old me can't help snickering and shining through. Coca-Cola, anyone?

#99GC

2011-12-02T08:51:00.000-08:00

Last weekend Jon and I headed to the mainland to take part in Grey Cup festivities. Despite an aggravating start with the ferries -where I experienced my first ever feeling of "island fever"- the weekend couldn't have been more wonderful.

During this very busy, very emotional week I have tried to take some time to reflect backwards on what a fantastic weekend I had. It's as though that weekends strength will pull me through these upcoming weeks ahead.

We saw an incredible football game on Friday night with the Vanier Cup that ended in a double, shoot-out, overtime. The boys managed to polish off four large tubs of (refillable) popcorn. We ate out as a modified family, Thomas took us to an awesome art gallery coffee shop, I enjoyed a couple long runs through Vancouver's warm rain and we attended the Grey Cup football game. I was especially delighted to expose Jon to this, as his experience with CFL games has been limited. It was a wonderful mini-getaway across the water.

I'm still smiling!

Checkstop

2011-11-23T19:18:00.000-08:00

I'd finished the group trainer ride shortly after 7pm, packed up my gear and waddled uncomfortably to my car. Still dressed in full bike kit and carrying bike, trainer, mat and bag, I awkwardly shoved said items into my jeep as the rain came down in long hard sheets, soaking me entirely. After several minutes of juggling these items I finally sat in the drivers seat. Realizing in that moment I had about a half hour back to home and didn't have a pair of sweats to change into, only my dressy work attire from earlier that day. Sitting outside in my jeep at Pro City I wiggled out of my bike shorts and bike jersey, dressed myself in my overcoat and made the executive decision that I would drive home like this. I was wearing a sizeable overcoat that came down far past my hips and had a large cowl neck collar. I'd have no problem getting home wearing just the jacket, and I wouldn't have to sit in my sopping wet bike clothes for the duration of the ride.

I suppose this is when I should have realized I was doomed. Not for any reason other than I am me, and I seem to attract troublesome or bizarre situations wherein I feel my life may be temporarily suspended for stupidity.

I am driving, singling along to Airborne Toxic Event on the radio when I make a right handed turn onto West Saanich Road, a mere few minutes from home. There is a long line of sirens going, and at first I thought it must be an accident. Upon closer examination, and looking at the line of cars stopped, I realized with a sinking pit in my stomach that I had just stumbled across a Checkstop. Victoria loves their Checkstops. I have been through four since February, which actually beats my grand total of all-time rolled through Checkstops before my move here. Because the drunk driving law is airtight here, it seems to be a common occurrence, not that I made a practice of having a few cocktails and then trying to dodge the law home (rest assured, Mum and Dad).

I don't like Checkstops for a few reasons. 1. They make me very nervous. Although I never drink + drive, for some reason the lights, the suited-up cops, and cars pulled over increases my resting heart rate and overall anxiety. 2. I am always afraid more unrelated questioning will follow. Ie: Why do you have Alberta plates? Do you know your right blinker only occasionally works? Have you paid your recent parking ticket? Unfounded these fears usually are. I don't have anything to hide! This time, however, I kept swallowing down big gulping worries. I was completely naked under my jacket, and I wasn't sure if somehow this was breaking a law. Indecent exposure? I would have grabbed my phone and done a quick google search, but I also didn't want to get nailed on driving + texting. They take that stuff pretty serious now a days.

So I slowly inch my car up to the officer, hoping to God it is a young guy.

No luck.

The officer taps on my window and I roll it down. I likely have the appearance of someone who is about to lie to a police officer about drinking and driving. My heart is pounding inside my ears, I can feel sweat pooling on my temples. Shit, shit, shit. I manage a weak smile and a squeaky voice.

He takes a quick look at me and shines his flashlight into the car. He asks me where I am coming from (downtown), where I am going to (home) and if I have had anything to drink (no). He smiles at me and for a moment, sweet relief. I am in the clear! I'm going to have managed my way through a Checkstop with no problems, without having to step out of the car to reveal my blue coat and red Toms as the only items I am wearing, and will live to tell the tale. I am jubilant in my smile as I thank him and begin to roll up my window.

Wait, he suddenly says.

Sunk.

He leans all the way into the car, so sure I am he can see my bare legs, I can almost feel myself begin to cry. He is going to ask me, are you wearing any clothes? Are you aware I can arrest you on the spot? What makes you think you can get away with this?

He shines his light past me into the back of the jeep.

Is that a road bike you have there? He inquires, his face a genuine question mark.

For the next few moments we chatted. Yes, that is my road bike. Yes, I did ride it on a trainer. Turns out the cop just bought himself a used Trek bike and had been fiddling around on it. I can't figure out those clips, he chuckled to me, and I assured him that the pedals would come easier to him the more he practised. In fact, I said, most cyclists when they begin take a few hard falls. Thanking me, and sharing in our little cycling secret, off I drove into the dark, homeward bound.

Saved by the bike!

Do not pass Go. Do not return to the Desert.

2011-11-15T20:24:00.000-08:00

My sister, brother and I grew up playing games together. Frequently my sister and I would gang up on my brother, forcing him to play My Little Pony or having to be Ken in Barbies. As we grew older we spent more time with board games, including the classic Monopoly. While my brother and I usually went Bankrupt (albeit in a glorious, go-all-in kind of way) my sister would usually win. Coincidentally, she was also always the Banker. Perhaps this was a sign of things to come, as she is now a Financial Analyst for a living, and she counts those dollar bills for people with real property and money.

Besides petty arguing over who got to be The Monopoly Dog (the preferred figurine) we would also usually poke fun of whoever picked up the "Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200" because some how that was utterly hilarious to us. YOU FAILED! It implied, or maybe YOU HAVE ROTTEN LUCK would be more telling. We would laugh and taunt and tease the other as they would Not Pass Go, sometimes the card being accompanied with "Go Directly to Jail". Luckily for me, I am not facing the latter of the two, although this fall I feel like I am Not Passing Go.

Every season I spent with Backroads opened and closed in Death Valley. I remember squinting at the computer screen in 2007, wondering if there was a mistake. California Desert, the schedule read. Wait, California has a Desert? No Kidding. A brief google search revealed a few quick hits about the place. It was pretty by the photos, I decided, and had no problem working there.

I never could have imagined what was going to happen next (this is always the best stuff of life anyway). I ended up spending most every Spring and most every Fall there for the rest of my trip leading career. I built relationships with folks at the hotels and restaurants, learned the park inside and out, and fell in love with Hendersen. I got to know the ins and outs of Las Vegas (not just the illustrious strip) and I looked forward, with great anticipation, to my return to the Desert at the beginning and end of my season.

I had often been asked, "Mountains or Oceans" as if it was possible to select just one of nature's grandiose offerings. I had waffled on that for years before deciding if there was a third component to the question- Mountain, Ocean or Desert?- I'd chose Desert. Every time.

While others withered in the Desert heat, I embraced whole-heartedly the warmth. While others complained of sand and grit and wind, I felt exfoliated, rejuvenated, whole with every visit. When we'd cycle the roads and I'd lose myself in the utter silence, the complete peace, the panorama at every turn. I rejoiced in the long, seemingly never ending roads that traced themselves east and west and north and south through the glorious park. I never felt more peaceful, more relaxed, more at home than I did in that place.

The last couple months have rolled through, I have found myself lacking much Oomph. I didn't Pass Go. I didn't collect $200. I didn't hit the Desert and rock a few trips, soak in the healing vibes of the place I loved so passionately and return home invigorated, refreshed and ready to rock my life. Instead its been a silent hum, a steady go, the continual push. I don't know if I suffered under the illusion that I'd work for Backroads for the rest of my life and therefore would be treated to several weeks in the desert each year to restore my balance, redirect my goals and face forward to whatever the future would hold. Perhaps there will be a new Death Valley. Or perhaps I will just need to find a way to return.

The BC List

2011-11-06T13:38:00.000-08:00

One of the best pieces of advice dispensed to myself upon my move to Victoria was from my parents. Make a list of everything you want to do which is close to where you now live; and endeavour to fulfill that list. You might be in Victoria for ten years, you might be there for ten months, but try your best to get to all those things. You'll never regret it.

As per usual, the advise is valuable, practical, and poetic. So was born The BC List, scribbled out in our day-timers, scrap pieces of paper, added to in the haphazard and moderately chaotic fashion in which we live our lives. I finally penned it out in the back of my grateful journal, and we've done our best both together and solo to accomplish the things on our list.

One item we'd listed was "Salt Spring Island". Fabled for its Hippy Market and large artistic population, the largest of the Gulf Islands was a place we wanted to check out. We landed that opportunity in a divine timing of events, a couple days off for me, the generous offer of a cabin in which to stay, and the ability of Jon to work it around training. We hopped on the short ferry and off we went.

Into the woods of this island, although we were only 35 minutes across the water Victoria, it felt like an eternity away. For a few days we rambled about, building a fire in the adorable cabin and reading books, checking out tiny inn for a charming dinner, biking through the island in the cool fall air. I was subjected to the most technical ascending and descending since living and working in Italy. The pitches steep, the downwards slopes thrilling, and I never rested long enough going down before another daunting hill appeared. We worked through a loop of the island, and I felt the aluminum of my "winter bike" (a term I only learned and have come to love out here on the island) shake and rattle below me. My heart threatened to explode going up. My nerves threatened to crack going down. In short, it was a magnificent ride. We lingered in the morning over double americanos and the paper, we lived without the internet, our iPhones or watches for a couple days. Although the getaway provided a list of highlights, I'd have to pick our ramble up to Mount Maxwell as my favourite. A small path a few hundred feet from our cabin lead us up through the woods to the top, providing a view point of the Gulf Islands, and across to Vancouver Island itself. The sun treated us to a little glisten, lighting up in the mid afternoon light.

I thought of Kris Hudson, a long-ago high school friend who I have lost touch with. "Huddy" is what the guys in the neighbourhood called him. Kris Hudson easily makes the list of one of the most quality people I've known in my life- hands down. Kind, generous, caring, and genuine to a fault, Kris had the feel of a country boy and the charm to match. It was Kris who introduced me to Jack Daniels, who would drive me home after rugby practice, who was an ear to chat to and a friendly face at school. Although we'd been pals all through high school, we lost touch when I went to University. I have thought of him often and I always try to send him the best energy when I do. I felt as though I had to add in this seemingly irrelevant piece of my history to make the next paragraph make sense.

On a hiking trip in my last year of high school, Kris and several others had "summited" a small mountain inside of Rocky Mountain House. When we spoke later in that week of the hike, he said with a maturity and wisdom far beyond his seventeen years, that on top of that mountain he found a sense of peace. That in reaching the peak of the mountain, he could put all his troubles up into that air, leave if up top, and then come back down feeling lighter, but still "on top of the world". I smiled into the brisk autumn air at the top of Mount Maxwell, indeed a little lighter, a little more bold, and certainly "on top of the world".

A refuge in the woods.

Me, in tree.

From the top.

Fictional Attachment

2011-10-27T20:48:00.000-07:00

It was an accident and the details of how it happened exactly remain foggy, but Hillary and I got hooked on Alias in the winter of 2002. A television show that was one part science fiction and a little bit romance; with a weaving plot line and sensational cast of characters. We were hooked. We followed the show from Sunday night slots to Wednesday to Thursday, the show's ratings growing steadily and the stars of JJ Abrams and Jennifer Garner rising. I loved the kick ass heroine of Sydney Bristow, so much in fact that I created an alias for myself around her for my bar frequenting years. The details of her character are cards I keep close to my chest, possibly only with "Elle" knowing the true details.

All that aside, I got fairly attached to the show. Hillary and I wouldn't ever miss an episode, and often after they were over we'd sit and decompress from the exciting heart pounding hour. I adored the characters, and I could hardly wait to see what happened next. I was so attached, in fact, when one of the lead characters was killed off the show in season four I cried for several days. Just ask my siblings as they were with me watching that fateful episode with that shooting and watched my meltdown.

It seems senseless that I would become attached to fictional TV characters, and Alias had a special kind of stickability in me that was extra profound. These weren't just made up characters, they felt like my friends. When the show ended I had a little pocket of sadness in me, because I knew I'd miss the story, being drawn into the ever changing shape of the plot, and the "people" in it I'd come to love.

Although I have followed other TV shows on and off since then, no other one has landed quite the same way in my heart. That was, until just recently.

At the end of September, when triathlon club was on break, Jon was away, and then I battled a whopper of a flu, I had a little spare time on my hands. Time where I needed to lay low and relax. I looked through Jon's mega box of movies -he has hundreds- and landed on something light, something funny, something that I could watch a little bit here and there. I landed on the TV show The Office.

I'd seen a few so I knew a bit of the story line, but I wasn't a faithful follower. What better way to spend a few hours battling fever then downloading the first couple seasons to my laptop?

Boom, here we are here. I ploughed through the first two seasons and into the third, watching with a zeal and delight that previously had been reserved for Alias. I would bait myself with things; if you do this chore you can watch an episode of the office, if you deal with your online banking you can watch an episode of the office, and on and on. I started to slow down in season four, one; because Jim and Pam are finally dating, and two; because I only have season four. No five, or six, or however long it goes.

Being that I didn't watch much TV over the past 4.5 years while trip leading and traveling around, I am easily justifying this little Office rampage. But for the record, there is no bad-ass, gun yielding, man beater-uper in this one like Sydney. Girl, you got a special place in my heart.

#720

2011-10-15T13:12:00.000-07:00

I had been looking forward to this past weekend for a while, knowing both of my siblings would be coming to town for Thanksgiving. Hillary also decided to do a little run while she was here (her third marathon... chuckle, smile). Being that I have a plentiful cornucopia of athletic goals, currently none of them include running a marathon, so I have a deep reverence for the distance. The length that makes me feel tired and my hamstrings ache just thinking of it.

I couldn't have asked for a better weekend. The weather was glorious for Hillary's race. Thomas, Jon and I scooted around Victoria to cheer from an assortment of corners, hills and other places. I brought out my cowbell, and my big pink sign (see below) and we all took great joy in yelling at Hillary. I also picked out a few other souls to pick on, those people who I try to determine just by looking at them if they'll get a rise, a kick, or some added inspiration with a little "Pain is temporary"; or "you've suffered worse than this" or "it's all in your head."

Hillary, wearing bib #720, crossed the line to a wave of hugs from us. We hosted our first Thanksgiving dinner where Jon did the turkey, and I whipped up a pumpkin pie. The evening went down with a few bottles of wine, some Phillips Slipstream Cream Ale, many laughs and a festive table.

It was a weekend to be Thankful for.

Abundance

2011-10-03T13:55:00.000-07:00

I'm excited to report I turned another year older last week. I can't express the acute relief I felt at experiencing this particular birthday, almost as though my turning one year older automatically washed away the difficulty, change and constant incredulous state I experienced during the last year. I entered into a Saturn Return; I shook off the bizarre twelve months past and forged forward into this year ahead. A year, I have decided with vigour, will be a most excellent year.

Particularly fitting it was then, that I had two "instances" (lets say) or more "This-kind-of-weird-and-ridiculous-stuff-only-happens-to-me" events on the lead up and early part of my twenty-eigth year on the planet.

With Jon away at a race, and our landlords finishing out a holiday, I was in charge of general house care which included chicken-sitting while everyone was absent. This task I don't mind so much as I have found quite a bit of joy in chicken-sitting previous to this. My only real irritation is locking the chickens up at night, when it's dark, and late. I am reminded both of the pitch black that is living in the country-side vs. city, and also the complexity of my over-imaginative brain, that conjures up only images of horror flicks, or deeply distrubing TV shows where the killer remains unfound and the murder unsolved. I forge into the black pitch of the night, small headlamp on, usually singing out loud. I thought about carrying a kitchen knife for defence as well for these late-night-post-work-chicken-lock-up events, but I thought that might be a little melodramatic. A few days before my birthday I was out back with the chickens, cleaning the coop, adding hay into the coop when the door shut soundly and firmly behind me. I stood up and pressed agains the door. Locked. The locked door. I had locked myself into the chicken coop. With Jon and the landlords away, being alone on this Sunday in the far corner of the far end of a massive property I fought the immediate rising terror that I wouldn't be able to get out of the coop. I began to bang on the door. I was stuck! I had locked myself into the coop. I began to scream and bang on the door in unison, creating a ruckus I am sure perplexed my two small feathery friends nibbling on lettuce I'd just fed them. I looked at the small box hole the chickens used to get outside into the caged area. The panic was pulsing through my veins. Jon had no idea I was here, no one in Victoria had any idea I was here, our landlords were gone, I wasn't expected at work until Tuesday, I was going to be stuck in the chicken coop, possibly for days. My overactive imagination once again kicked into overdrive. I imagined myself, dehydrated, trapped, surviving on chicken feed. Fortunately, with a little bit of leaning, banging and running towards the door it eventually unlocked, releasing me back into the world. I, shaking, crying, wailing, walked back to the house. Later when I told Jon the story on skype I watched him slowly tilt his head to the side. "Um, Holly," he asked me very slowly and cautiously, "you do know there is a safety latch on the inside, right? One to pull in case of these occasions?" (Erm, no.)

Right around this time I also developed quite the whopper of the flu. Appropriate, I felt, that 27 had been kicking my ass all year long, so why not finish up with a flu bug? One last gnarly little poke into my psyche before I rode off into the sunset of my new year of life. Once I arrived at the birthday-day itself, I was fortunate to feel a little bit better, on the other side of the illness. I was not perfect, but I was better, and I took this as a positive omen and a reason to believe things were continuing on the up and up! I had a lovely day, but as I nestled into bed at night and lay horizontal, I began the hacking cough chorus that kept me awake for a solid hour before Jon and I mutually agreed I needed to take care of it before it kept both of us awake for the rest of the night. A quick google search revealed that Victoria has no 24-hour pharmacy (What. Seriously. Wow.) but there was a place I could get to (right downtown) that closed at 12am. Grabbing my rain jacket and not even bothering to change out of my pjs, out of the door I flew, purse in hand. I backed down the driveway at 11:20pm and then the most cruel thing that could happen, did. The gas light came on.

Being that I have tested my limit with the gas light before, I knew I had about 15km at least before my baby girl stopped working and ran completely out of fuel. I knew it was at least 11km into downtown - my next destination. I was going to be cutting it extremely close. I pressed the small black button over my odometer and reset the count to 0.0km, continued driving, and started praying.

At approx. 12km and 11:40pm I arrived in downtown Victoria. Ironically, I could only find a parking location right in front of The Mint, a trendy new restaurant/ ultra lounge in Victoria I have been dying to try. Can you imagine how excellent I felt getting out of my (almost empty) jeep nearing midnight (on my birthday) to a glamourous and beautiful looking cluster of people standing outside The Mint? I pulled my hood over my head and made a direct line to the pharmacy. I paid for some extra-strength night-time cough syrup and only then did another thought cross my mind. "24 hour gas station?" I asked the woman behind the counter.

"I dunno," she said, looking somewhat amused. "Why?"

I wanted to state something clever, but decided instead I needed immediate help and accurate information. I was fairly certain cynicism wasn't going to help the Karma Bank Account in this situation. Turns out that in Victoria, gas stations like almost everything else, close early.

Well, Eff.

So now I am standing back outside in downtown Victoria, the time on the clock closer to 12 by each minute. Gas station. Within 3km-ish. 24 hour. I use my handy iPhone which gives me a super map of stations in the area but with no real promise of any of them being open. With no gas in the tank I knew I couldn't afford to make a mistake. So I did the only thing I could think of. I hailed a cab.

When the cab pulled over I explained to the confused driver, no, I didn't want a ride, I wanted to know where to get gas. By the time he figured out he wouldn't get a sale from me, I could have probably run through the entire downtown looking for a gas station. At any rate, he instructed me to the only 24 hour he knew, near Crystal pool.

Near Crystal Pool? Just outside of downtown? Gulp. This one was going to be close.

I booked it back to the jeep, past the group of fabulous looking people, caring less about my appearance and more about how I was going to call and tell Jon he needed me to #1 come and get me downtown and #2 I was going to need some sort of container to transport gas in. I turned on the ignition and pulled out of downtown. 13, 14, 15km went by quickly. Too quickly. New territory now, I thought, trying to hum along to a song on the radio. Now 17km. Passed another closed station. Still five minutes from quardra village and the promised station. Now 19km. The small yellow gas light has never shone so bright. I roll over into 20km. Hello God, I said out loud in the car. It's me, Holly. I know I've been asking for quite a bit lately but if you could help roll me to a gas station that would be pretty sweet. I am reminded of that scene in Along Came Polly where Ben Stiller can't flush the toilet and starts praying in a similar, desperate sort of manner.

20.5km. I can see the gas station in the distance.

21km. I see a cluster of teens in all black hanging out near a corner. It must be a gas station!

21.4km is what my odometer reads as I pull into Mohawk, at 12:19am. There is an ambulance and taxi also filling up. I feel a palpable sense of relief. I drove home, and tapped my bright red finger nails on the steering wheel. Back up island, into the darkness of our little community. I picked a bold red earlier in the day during my nail appointment, a birthday treat to myself. I had looked to the bottom of the nail polish bottle, as I usually do, to ensure the name was interesting enough to earn a colour swatch on my body for a week or so. The colour? Abundance. I chose it, chose 28 to be an abundant year. This was my last thought as I swallowed a couple big spoonfuls of syrup and fell into bed, where I had a modest, if not someone broken by coughing, sleep.

As I wait for that Abundance to find me in every form, I feel grateful. You can now begin, most excellent 28th year!

The red of abundance!

in this morning

2011-09-21T08:42:00.000-07:00

Walking in my housecoat outside across the back lawn I approached the chicken coop. I called to the girls, wishing them a good morning, cooing as they stepped out of their perch and into the pen. I fed them corn, promised to be back for lettuce and water a little later, and wandered back towards the house.

I stopped to check the plant pots sitting on the patio, watering some of the dry ones. I surveyed the glorious backyard stretching back almost a half acre. I by-passed the white door entrance to our place and walked 100m down the driveway to retrieve the morning paper.

I caught a whiff of coffee brewing near by. I let myself close my eyes for just a moment.

I was rewound to a year ago; to awakening in the early autumn morning chill in Tuscany. Running the streets of our small town as men cut the strings of the day's paper, and little coffee places opened up, the first customers of the day standing smoking and drinking their espresso. I can see each long stretch of breath I exhale into the dark morning. I can see every corner, every street name, every small fiat, the grocer, the main piazza, each traffic circle, intersection and the borders marking the edge of town.

I open my eyes. I look up and down the street of where I live now. One year ago, I didn't even know this place existed, that I would be living here, let alone a new city. The people that live below in the house below us, every member of my triathlon club, my work environment, strangers. The newness of my life winds me for a moment. I had that sensation that you have the second before fainting; the blackness dancing on the edge of my vision. So I sat down at the end of the long driveway.

I feel a small smile coming on. Sitting in my blue pj pants with apples on them, my orange flip flops, glasses and black housecoat. I love the recall of that moment, but I am glad I am not in it. In fact, I am glad I am here.

I wander back to the house, make myself some breakfast, and begin my day.

Curious case of the Aching Head

2011-09-13T09:34:00.000-07:00

Spending a substantial amount more hours per week training than last year, I was rewarded with some of the unfortunate aches and pains of an "active" (hyper-active?) lifestyle. For a couple weeks I had a tightly wound hip that refused to settle down and required constant stretching, tiger-balm and eventually chiropractic care to make better. A couple months later my right shin responded with an angry scream every time I would break into a run slightly faster than a light trot. It would yell and throw a fit so bad I was relegated to a swim/ bike regimen for a few weeks while I worked on the problem. Out of all of this slightly irritating but mostly manageable issues, the most curious one has been of late. The curious case of the aching head, I have come to call it.

The headache varies from mild and slightly irritating to a full out head of rage where lights, sounds and anything that requires concentration is impossible. The first week or so I blamed the headaches on anything I could: change of weather, lack of sleep, too much sleep, bad pillow, hard bike ride, stress. It was only upon our mini vacation in Kelowna did I realize, in a full blown flash, I had a constant head ache. Sure, the ache varied. But it stayed the same. It based in the low right side of my neck, and sat in the front part of my brain on the right side, behind my eyeballs in my temple.

Thanks to Dorrie I was directed to a most wonderful masseuse named Shelley in Kelowna who I saw a few times who helped me find some relief. She suggested I perhaps had a trapezious headache. What was that? I went back to Victoria and to my own chriopractor. And off we went on the treatment process.

Only upon serious retrospect (and the kind but directed prompting from my fabulous chiropractor who I love) could I nail down when this started, where it was located and perhaps WHY it continued to plague me weeks after I had first noticed its constant presence. I rewound back to Sunday, August 8th. I had been participating in a triathlon relay and was inside the swim when a rouge foot, attached to a flailing swimmers leg, gave me a hit at the top right side of my head. I was mostly annoyed because my goggles dislodged and required me to pause for a moment to fix them. I didn't give it much more thought until THE thought that this was the beginning of the constant headache.

Sarah's hypothesis? That my neck was in a position of extension that slightly dislodged/ moved C2, causing a spasm of muscles that spread all over the neck (and into the trap). Because it went untreated so long (ugh) it became more inflamed, the muscles more tightly wound, the general soreness and ache of the area increasing until I had an undeniable, roaring loud headache.

I have been seeing Sarah once a week, and slowly we are getting my neck back on track. In addition to our sessions I have been given a series of stretches to do, instructions to tiger balm my neck when appropriate, and aromatherapy suggestions for the relief of light headaches. My favourite of all is that she instructed me that Jon should have to rub my neck each night to help the tight muscles to relax! This is the one I am most happy about fulfilling.

Although the headaches are better, they are still kicking around, showing up a few days a week in a mild manor, aggravating me mostly. I asked Jon how long he thought it would take for me to be fully healed. After some thought, he said a soft tissue injury is usually six weeks to full recovery. SIX WEEKS? I practically yelled at him, before groaning loudly and rolling over to pout. Patience isn't my strongest suit, but seeing some relief is giving me the gusto to keep waiting.

Hoping to get back to action!

Sarah's attitude

2011-09-01T08:44:00.000-07:00

I got home late last night from volunteering to -my delight- find a letter waiting for me from my long-time friend Sarah. It's hard to believe I have known her since my St. Albert days, and our friendship has lasted primarily through letters since her graduation from U of A; as she spent many years in Lusaka, Zambia.

We kept in touch entirely by paper. We'd exchange short cards and long letters written on looseleaf, she would send me photos and notes and little mail-able gems from Africa. I, in turn, sent post cards from places I worked, letters that I am sure have reflected my shifting journey.

I was so absorbed in going to bed last night, it was only this morning I sat down with a tea to read the letter. I read it and could hardly believe I found myself crying! Crying with gratitude for how blessed I am to have long- time friends, for the simple joy of snail mail (I don't think I won't ever love that), but mostly for the attitude that Sarah has possessed. As long as I have known her, her glass is perpetually half full. She always has a little (or large) project on the go. She finds joy in simple things (she once wrote a whole blog about the Happiness she gets from cleaning her apartment) but zeal in great adventures, which she has also had many.

As September and a new season starts, I continue to work on myself; my ability to rejoice in exactly where I am am, and the belief this is exactly how my life is supposed to be right now... some really powerful stuff. All embodied, always, by my friend Sarah. I leave you with some of her own words.

"I wake up in the morning thankful for a heart full of love and joy. ..I'm thankful everyday for the solace I have found sharing "home" with my beautiful husband...I've reconnected with old friends... am working towards a meaningful career... I've found a great yoga teacher, I'm doing some great workouts, there are always the road for cycling, walking, running, what more could a girl ask for?"

snail mail I keep on the big desk we have in our little place!

composition failure

2011-08-23T14:16:00.000-07:00

I know I am exhausted when I stare at a blank screen, the space bar menacingly blinking. Sucker, it blinks, mocking my brain. I continue to stare. Maybe even drool. My ability to critically think is toast. My creation options are limited. I sit, instead, on the ride back to Victoria attempting to understand why I can't make anything happen.

In writing, that is.

I attempted to write about "one year ago I left for Italy..." and it fell flat after describing my arduous twenty seven hour journey across the pond back to SGV. I also tried to write about the Apple Triathlon (too tired) the week in Kelowna (glorious, too sad to think about now, as I wish vacation would continue on) or the autumn ahead. My head instead pounds in a light, rhythmic headache. Fool! I can't do it. I can't compose. Now I am an artist complaining of writers block! Soon I will be smoking drugs, getting my hair dreadlocked and that full back tattoo to stimulate my creative juices, Victoria-Island-Style.

Instead I will need some onion rings. Or a Blizzard. Maybe a quick bike ride. Or a nap.

More soon...

Calgary 70.3 Roller Coaster

2011-08-05T10:39:00.000-07:00

When I was a little girl we used to go to Calaway Park as a family. I have a fantastic rolodex of summer memories growing up in Calgary and there are a few large grins associated with that amusement park. As I grew taller and more curious, the ride that caught my eye was The Corkscrew. (My understanding now is that it has been renamed The Vortex). Standing looming in the far corner of the park nearest to the highway, The Corkscrew was the penultimate in thrill rides at the park. At first my little legs were too short to allow for a safe ride, but then magically one summer, my head hit the line. I was roller coaster legal and esctatic. I was also terrified.

I had decided in my own mind I wanted to ride the roller coaster. The problem was, when we would go, I would chicken out as soon as we wandered towards the far corner of the park. I would play bashful, saying I didn't really want to go. Deep down inside I longed to know what it was like, being strapped in on this ginormous beast, taken for what I assumed was the thrill ride of my life.

My Dad was often excluded from these high excitement trips as outdoor-amusement-park season usually coincides with football season. For some reason, the day I decided to ride the roller coaster my Dad happened to be with us at the park. The whole day is incredibly blurry to me besides this fact: I had decided to ride the roller coaster, and Dad had offered to ride it with me. We stood in line and as we got closer to the front my terror grew. It virtually paralyzed me. I started crying with about two rows left in the winding lineup. My poor, patient, father. Other people must have been wondering what he was doing with a small little girl weeping with each step closer to the ride itself. My Dad held my hand and assured me that as soon as it was over I would want to do it again. In those moments it seemed like a small amount of solace as I now perceived I was getting strapped into my death. This was the stupidest idea I had so far in my young life.

Still crying up a storm, I was sat in the huge bucket seat, the heavy black looped protection coming over my head and pushing down on my shoulders and ribs. Dad instructed me how to hold the handles. The Corkscrew roared to life. It occurred to me, in that exact moment, I was in it. No matter what happened now, I was there. Strapped in, going for the ride.

Last Sunday morning when I woke up at the ungodly hour of 4:00am, with a nervous nauseous stomach, I began thinking about the moment I had decided to race a half-ironman. I can trace it down to a moment, with 2km left in the Toronto Half Marathon in 2009. As Hillary veered right to carry on to the back half of the marathon and I crested the hill back towards downtown the thought came to me in the form of lightening bolt. I could do a half-ironman now, I thought. I can run a half, I can do every other part of the race. It took me two more years, a couple other triathlons, one more 10km, three different countries of bike touring and a move to Victoria before that dream would become a reality.

When I arrived at Ghost Lake race morning, list in hand, gear and parents in tow, I felt the enormity of the training wash over me in one giant swoop. As I pumped my tires, taped my gels to the bike, and puttered around transition one, I kept wiping tears from my eyes. I had that lump in throat and heart burst feeling that comes with the emotion that is simply being overwhelmed. In my mind, I had already completed this race. Every step that lead me to this start line was the journey. Now, like The Corkscrew, all I had to do was get in, be present on the ride, and let my body do all the work I knew it was capable of. As I waded into the lake and began my warm up swim, I had to fight the tears coming up and pooling in my goggles. These were not tears of terror, or hysteria, or fear. These were tears of happiness. Gratitude. I had made it, I was going to complete it, I was going to accomplish this goal that once long ago seemed like nothing more than a pipe dream, an athletic endeavour reserved for the super elite, super fit hoards of triathletes. The air horn sounded and off I went.

Although I would do over a dozen things differently, from the day before (double flat, hour and a half at a bike shop diagnosing the problem, two trips to Ghost Lake, a bail off my bike while doing a flying dismount, failure to eat lunch, not finishing my day before training until 5:45pm) to the morning of, to the actual race, I couldn't have been more pleased with the result. The day was full of wonderful highlights: my parents yelling and screaming at every possible location -my Mum even had a huge sign that said, "Go Faster Holly"- and later in the afternoon my sister, Grandma, Grant, Mike and other Talisman Centre Triathlon people joined that crew of yelling people. A small girl, dressed all in purple, standing with her athletic looking mother, yelled at me on the bike, GO IRON LADY! She was jumping up and down with her purple pom-poms and her cheers were only reserved for the females. Perhaps one of the most special parts of the day for me was when I ran down the long hill into the Weasel head to be greeted by my smiling friend Lisa holding a large orange sign: Go Holly Go! On the other side it said: Smile, you are Awesome. Lisa ran with me for one km until I disappeared into the park on the other side of the bridge, and then met me again when I was about to come back up the otherside. Together we ran up the hill in silence, and she met me again on the course with 1km to go. She actually ran with the sign unfurled, which was hilarious and I wanted to tell her so, but I had no breath in which to say that. The last km was the longest 1km of my life. I was breathless with gratitude for the distraction from my agony. Then, it was over.

I cannot thank enough: my Mum and Dad, Grandma, my dear sister, Grant, Lisa, and Mike. Jon, who managed to contact me twice that day despite the flailing French wifi. Every person that sent me an email, message, note, the day before, day of, day after sending love, support and encouraging messages. The guys at Bike Bros that helped me put myself and my bike back together on Saturday after the spill and double flat, all the amazing volunteers on course, and finally my triathlon team. Human Powered Racing and Mike Neill: for whipping my ass for five months, making my cry with agony during workouts, for sustaining me during painfully long runs and rides, for picking me to pieces in the pool, for supporting and encouraging and getting to know me and my story. Without HPR, this journey would have been even more difficult and painful.

Not that much unlike The Corkscrew, once it was done, and my little hands stopped shaking, I couldn't wait to do it again (much like my father had predicted). As the last few days have passed, and I have basked in a post race glow, plenty of sleep and rest, and many sinful food delights I was previously passing up, I can't help but to start thinking forward to 2012.

I will certainly be riding the Half Iron roller coaster again.

Mum with her Go Faster Holly sign in T1.

Women's swim start, en mass.

The sun rises at Ghost Lake.

Will wear warmer clothes next time. The morning was cold!

The original roller coaster supporter, my Dad.

World's best pit crew. The guy on the far right is especially loud!

Part of the longest km of my life.

Early on in the 90km.

“I’m terrified of my Half Ironman”

2011-07-27T16:03:00.000-07:00

When I googled the phrase earlier in the week my search left me empty handed for what I was looking for. I was linked to forums of people bemoaning open water swimming, mass starts, transitions, and general anxiety about their first triathlon. I was linked to race promotion sights, triathlon clubs and the almighty ironman website itself. I find it hard to believe someone hasn’t tackled the topic out there in cyberspace, or more appropriately, tri-geek land. I am sure they have; writing long and witty compositions on web forums or for triathlon magazines to be published into age group articles, about other (somewhat) experienced triathletes dipping their toes into a new distance.

So I find myself in a peculiar dilemma as the time draws nearer to 6:45am on Sunday, July 31^st, 2011. I’m not a rookie of this sport, having had success and failure at the Sprint and Olympic distance. I’m not a pro and do not desire to be. I’m not hoping on Sunday to qualify for Kona or Las Vegas or win my age group. And yet, I have every intention of going out and displaying the full throttle of athleticism I think- and hope- I am capable of. The challenge for me is: I don’t know what that is. How different is an Olympic distance triathlon going to be than a Half Ironman?

With Olympic distance racing, I know the difference between 1:40s and 1:55s in the water. I can sense almost to the 0.5km speed I am cruising at on the bike. I know how to handle wind and no pass zones and when to gel and when to drink and when to spin out. I know what a ten km run feels like after a bike at race pace, I know that I find the red line, and then I sit just under it, and pray to God I can hold on. It’s a brutal, ugly, painful suffering. But I know it; the feeling that starts as a creeping tingling and slowly spreads from the top of your head to your fingertips to your toes. The feeling that you have put yourself into a tiny box of pain, your box of pain, where you sit and suffer and hope you can simply manage that pain until you cross the finish line, at which time you can crawl or walk or cry or eat. You sit in the pain, you talk to it, coo to it, make friends with it. I have found cursing this pain only makes it worse, more frightening, more alive. I try to sit with it. Not name the pain, nor judge it. It will come, I am always ready, and I try to welcome it the best I can.

I ask myself, will I put myself into that box of pain and suffering for six hours? Is that even possible to maintain? Can I swim with the fast women and sit in a draft, or will I end up blazing a new swim path with a second or third pack that forms? Will I suffer under the heat? The altitude? Have I trained enough? Have I trained too much? Did I taper right? Did I eat the right things? Will my race day nutrition hold up? Are my shorter distance triathlons going to pale in comparison to a bigger, longer beast of a half? Can I race this race, or am I going to end up just participating in it, or worse yet just finishing it? These questions, are the threads of uncertainty in my half iron experience, is keeping my heart beating steadily above its resting heart rate while I am trying to relax and go to sleep at night.

My landlady and I had a chat a few days ago in our backyard as I went out to empty the compost. She was wishing me luck and shaking her head. “Can you believe you’re going to run a WHOLE HALF MARATHON after all that swimming and biking?!” I pursed my lips. I hadn’t really thought of it that way. I can’t. Like Mike encouraged me at Parksville 360; this journey is like eating an elephant. You have to eat it one bite at a time. I think I may have laughed after he said that, but I understand. I have tried to draw on some of the longer rides and runs for strength, remembering the tiny struggles in those sessions. Contemplating the strife often dealt with in training, I try to instil in my own head those very difficult sessions are the very ones that have prepared me to draw my sword and dawn my armour for a longer, more trying battle that lay ahead.

So I sit with my terror the same way I try to sit with my race pain. I greet it, I am sitting with it, I allow myself to experience its totality. I am letting it be. I can’t push it down or back or away, I just let myself feel what I feel, and give myself permission to be terrified. Once the gun goes, and the swim starts, I will just be another athlete and it will just be another triathlon. But this one will be special for me, because it will be my first Half Ironman.

Terrified or not.

The New Edmonton

2011-07-20T09:32:00.000-07:00

Every now and again when I lived in Calgary I'd feel thirsty for a change. Not a subtle "buy new sheets in a different colour" change, but not a "lets put another hole in my body" kind of change. Itchy for a change of pace. Just a little one. The need to get out of town. To do or see something different. Just for a little while. Sometimes I would answer this call by heading west to the mountains, but usually I would throw a bag of stuff in the jeep and head North to Edmonton.

I had my drive down to a science: 1 hour, 20 minutes to Red Deer. Stop in on the third exit to the city, head straight and take the 2nd left into Starbucks. Bathroom break and tall americano with room, or zen tea if I felt overtly juiced already. The whole break would take under ten minutes. Back in the car I'd go.

Sometimes I would sit in self-mandated periods of silence (Dad's voice here: music is bubblegum for the brain, Holly) for ten, twenty, hour long patches. I would think about deep, serious things, I would think about small, ridiculous, unimportant things. I would turn on the radio when I was 50km out of Edmonton in hopes to pick up 102.9 Sonic.

I'd roll into town, usually stay with Mat. We'd eat, drink, cook, shop, watch sports, check out stuff going on in town. I could frequently grab a quick visit with Nicki, occasionally Tara, do a quick roll through the University Ghetto and Downtown. I would sleep in, read my book before bed, lounge around in my pjs for a part of the morning, and generally go without too much of a plan.

Day or two later, and suitably refreshed, into the car I hopped for the journey three hours south. I would happily engage in my Red Deer Ritual, and I could feel a smile creeping on as I edged towards Carstairs, because I knew at any moment would appear the glorious Rocky Mountains. I would be home.

Being that I now live on an island, driving possibilities are here, but will not lead to other large cities unless you have a willingness to hop on a ferry. I had an unexpected break for three days, I let myself marinate in the need to get out of town feeling for less than a few hours before I packed a bag, tossed my bike in the back of that same jeep, and headed northeast to Kelowna.

Being I have twice made the roundtrip there in the last few months, and twice over the winter months en route to and from Victoria, the road has begun to look familiar. The terrain had started to gradually implant itself into my brain. Busy the first part of the number one, quieter near Hope. Stop in Hope for a brief break (swap out a Starbucks stop for A&W onion rings; not quite as clean eating perhaps but Hope is pretty small) and text sister and mum "I am in Hope" - which I continue to find amusing. Hit the 5; mind the curves, cell phone service cuts out for about 45 minutes on that stretch, 97C connector all the way to Kelowna. I delighted in the feeling that I didn't have to compulsively check my iPhone every five minutes to make sure I was going the right way. As I drove over the passes and gazed over the mountains I loosened grip on the idea I was a born and bread Alberta Girl. Perhaps I could be a BC Girl for a little while.

Three days goes by too fast, I suppose as all vacation days do. I slept in, swam, biked through gorgeous sections of East Kelowna, and ran in actual heat. Together with Dorrie I hit Gio Bean (perhaps my most favourite coffee place of all time, tied only with the revered Bumpy's), tried out a new fish taco place, wrote in my journal and sat outside in her backyard. I swam across the lake on Saturday. I revelled in my tiny, lovely, wee bit of time away from life in Victoria.

Off I drove back west, back over the water, back home. To Victoria. Somewhat refreshed I begin again another busy cycle. Already looking forward to another break!

Blue Book Envy

2011-07-08T21:50:00.000-07:00

"You know what they say about the Karma Payment Program," the adorable girl with black heavy-set bangs and a nose ring says, as she hands me my parcel from across the counter. I muse silently, for only a quick second, thinking mostly about how clever that saying was and how unfortunate it was that I had never thought to use it before.

"Erm, no, what do they say?" I am now curious, riveted that what started as small chat about paying for parking in downtown Victoria is lead to a conversation of much deeper sorts.

"It's a total bitch." She flashes me a huge smile, her glowing white teeth perfectly aligned against her thin lips. I can't help but to laugh at her adorable little monologue and witty observations. The phrase stuck with me and it has become a constant as I have been observing and indulging in my buffet of thoughts over the last few weeks.

My Karma Payment Program has come roaring to life with a vengeance just recently when Jon, post nap, yelled at me from the bedroom to come quickly. I poked my head in to find him smiling broadly ear to ear. "Guess what, the training camp base in France is only about ninety minutes from the Tour De France, and I'll be there at the perfect time, so maybe I can convince-"

I cut him off mid sentence by letting out a sob.

He looks at me puzzled as I proceed to have a complete weep fest while remaining completely standing. I begin to blubber indecipherable words. No I'm really actually quite happy for you that you're going to a training camp in the Pyrenees, I want to say but can't. I also want to add that I am not jealous at all, Tour De France is no big deal and isn't on my bucket list. I try to say, no big deal you're going to Europe, been there a ton myself anyways, it will be awesome in the summer, instead big tears and hiccups come out. What I am shocked to observe in this moment is that I feel no sadness. All I feel is jealousy. Sheer, unaltered, complete and full jealousy in its boldest and most radical form.

I manage to eek out to him that I am crying jealous tears and he consoles me saying we will go there one day and rent a chateau and follow the tour together and eat bread and cheese and wine although it will make both our stomachs hurt and follow the tour anyway.

Later that afternoon as I lay with my feet up against the wall I began to wonder. I am participating in my own Karma Payment Program?

I spent the better part of four years leaving people, in various places, all over the world. Specifically I left my family the most, missing a variety of Important Events due to the career I had chosen. As I explored what the job had to offer, every time I boarded a plane I knew I was leaving behind people who loved and cared for me. For the first time since the swapping of careers I am suddenly on the other side of the fence. It is I driving to the airport and leaving it alone, painfully aware of the empty space in the passenger seat next to me and the heavy silence of the little place we live when I get home.

I think of all the people who have dropped me off at airports, and how excited I often was to board the plane. Sure, I thought of the folks that mattered who I was leaving, but in the pursuit of pure life, pure adventure and pure selfishness I would often brush that emotion aside in favour of Whatever I was Doing That was Cool and The New Thing I was Seeing Next.

I have watched Facebook come alive with my Backroads friends travels: Alaska, Greece, California, Ireland, France, Italy, Switzerland, South Africa, Iceland. I try to look at the photos and think, this is good for them, how totally exciting, wow that's lovely. I know deep in the depths of my heart I don't want to be gone for months at a time, that I have so many new and exciting goals that require a concentrated focus and the being in one place for longer than six weeks. I know I chose this, and I am satisfied, beyond satisfied, with my choice. But still.

I am filled with an envy. A little lustful envy that refuses to quiet. It lists all the places it still wants to go, singing alongside the current of thought that fears it will be a long time until another adventure. My wanderlust grows as one of my new friends in Victoria speaks lovingly and openly about her time living in India with her husband, for the girl at work leaving for Russia in just a few weeks to take the train across the country, and my very own boyfriend, heading to a European training camp. I lay in bed at nights sometimes and peel through the pages of my passport, my favourite little blue book, which is kept in my travel wallet beside my bed. I can't explain the need to keep close tabs on it, and now I feel like somewhat of a freak admitting I like to keep it near where I sleep. I know its pages by heart, the little ridges along the outside, the stickers and stamps and ink that makes it come alive.

My Karma Payment Program may be sitting in one place, watching others go, being taught fully the 360 vision of what it means to leave, but now what it means to be left behind. Like in Buddhist principle, I am attempting to observe and learn from my karma and pay my debt with humility and awareness. I say attempt, because I mean it's a trial in every sense of the word.

But I am secretly also praying a big trip might be in store for me this year, yet...

The Queen

2011-06-26T22:57:00.000-07:00

I'm breaking my rule of "no computer before bed time". I have this rule because in undergrad a sleep expert spoke to our physiology class for a few lectures. It's funny I can't remember a damn thing about that class besides a few token facts about Cardiac Physiology (a really cute grad student taught that part) and the facts and studies presented by The Sleep Expert. No bright lights two hours before bed time. No TV, no movies. No excess alcohol or caffeine. Essentially nothing that will get your brain spinning along as you are attempting to wind it down. So I guess I will take the blame if sleep cannot come, as I am willingly spinning the wheels pre- bedtime. Nearby Jon watches a movie about some long ago war with loud noises and people getting shot with spears, which I suspect is much more likely to give me nightmares than a little blog post before bed.

We ventured down to the nearby state of Washington for the weekend. Our departure was tentative with Jon nursing a less than healthy knee injury sustained a few weeks earlier in another race. Late Thursday he was given the green light, and that evening I was given the nod to get a little bit excited: we were going on a road trip.

I am familiar with these (properly nicknamed by a Triathlon Magazine contributor) "Race-cations" but was enthralled none the less. Although I've had a couple great, quick trips this year, most of them have been close to home and a few have had a work-related undertone. Plus of course my spin to Calgary, but visiting Calgary has turned out to feel almost as haywire and hectic as anything work related I have ever done with travel. A weekend away! Just the two of us! A chance to see new things! I eagerly threw together a couple small bags. We tossed our bikes and Jon's gear in my jeep and off we went.

I am reminded in a just a tiny slice of time why I love travel so much. Using the word "travel" to describe the long weekend feels a little extreme, but the weekend elegantly displayed the beauty I have come to adore about being in a new place. I delighted in everything from pondering directions to the hotels to walking the race site while waiting for Jon. I enjoyed the tiny asian place we had rice and chicken and vegetables, the new coffee places I tried and seeing the downtown Seattle skyline appear out of nowhere as we drove in from Monroe on Saturday afternoon. I loved collapsing onto the heavenly bed, the downtown lights of Seattle visible from our little place. Each and every moment was a chance to be present, to enjoy and cheer on and support Jon in his incredible journey and soak up the enjoyment of flexible timeline, a different city heartbeat and pedalling my way around new roads in the Saturday morning drizzle. We stumbled upon Seattle's Gay Pride Parade which was a huge and fantastic spectacle, the Bang Bang cafe with its funky mix of americanos and burritos, and a guy riding his pimped out triathlon bike on a trainer for 12 hours. If you ever want a hearty belly laugh, ask Jon about "The Queen". I know he will be tickled to retell the story.

A complete treat, this little weekend away, and I come home only craving another chance for a long weekend like this one.

Safe to say I will be smiling all through the week.

It's getting real

2011-06-21T09:40:00.000-07:00

It's a gorgeous tuesday in Victoria, and as I plod away on the computer I can't help but be captivated by a couple videos. Plus the urgent need to go outside, but that will have to wait a little longer!

The first video was first sent to me by Mat. He always finds the most clever things online, so I always delight in his links.

Whole Foods holds a special place in my heart (cue the cheesy music here). I was first introduced to Whole Foods in 2007 by two guys I was working with in California. I then spent a large portion of four years working in Death Valley being based out of Boulder City, which happens to have a Whole Foods not more than 15 km away. I used to delight in the huge and exotic salad bar. The endless kinds of organic coffees. The cheese isle and chocolate counter. The huge wine selection. I could spend hours wandering the isles, reading labels, sampling delicious bits of food. I would go before trip for some of food buy, and return after to spend my tip money. On my last trek to Las Vegas I ran from the strip to Town Centre just so I could go to Whole Foods. Whole foods is where I learned about Kale, Kombucha, and La Croix. I also learned here that gluten free cookies can taste good, that a grocery store can make a decent burrito and that one can never have too many Whole Foods reusable bags (I own three, I bought my Mum and sister ones this year too). This video made my laugh because these gentlemen pick out all the hilarious nuances of WF and make it into a delicious parody.

I couldn't get the second video to cue up, but this link should send you to it. In honour of my last Sunday of racing where I was "washing machined" (didn't even know that was a verb) I can't but help think I might get Jon a kayak and a paddle, and hope he is up for rowing around Thetis Lake, hitting me with the paddle, so that I will be better prepared next time!

The B-

2011-06-15T12:28:00.000-07:00

I saw the small, square white marker on over my left shoulder. In front of me an adorable looking girl, maybe ten years old, was offering me water. The aid station was alive with folks in bright green t-shirts and hawaiian themed costumes. Somewhere festive music is playing. I see in my periphery large tables with small uniform Gatorade cups. I squint into the sunlight to see the marker reads "4km". In this moment, I suffer from a complete and total mental collapse. I suddenly have the urge to scream, cry, vomit, kick the sign, walk, and go home. All at once.

But first: let's rewind a few hours.

A short five hour drive into the mountains and I found myself in Kimberley, a place I can remember skiing at many moons ago with my family. I was hoping it would have the charm of Canmore (it didn't) but what it lacked in size, charm and pizzaz the place we stayed made up for in trendy comfort and chic, plush decor. Large, spacious and incredibly stunning, my king sized bed featured a large window to the left that looked out on the glorious mountains. Three days ended up being a lovely weekend retreat that included my first triathlon of the 2011 season, and a fabulous - although jam-packed- few days in Calgary.

The day before the race I spent hanging around with Hillary and Grant. I managed to put out one last workout, and then we went down to Wasa Lake. I'd have to say the few hours we spent that afternoon at Wasa very well could have been my actual weekend highlight. We got Hillary into the water and her wetsuit, practised entering, exiting, and sighting in the water. I also suggested Hillary practise peeing in her wetsuit. Although she wrinkled her nose in disgust like I couldn't possibly do that, I guarantee a couple open water swims and long lines in portopotties will change her mind (I swear it Hillary, I swear...) Hillary and I posed for photos to send to our parents and laughed plenty and generally enjoyed the footloose and fancy free nature of no pressure afternoon goofing off at the lake. We scouted out the race site, went to grab our packages and had a serious chill session before the race. I heavily resisted the urge to drug myself in order to sleep pre-race night.

Then, the race. I sail through the warm up, beginning, swim, cycle when here I am, feeling fairly fierce, stepping out onto the run course, mentally congratulating myself for coming around the time I had planned. When all of a sudden I find myself at 4km.

I must have really stared down at the cute girl holding water, because she took an unexpected step back from me as I actually ran through the aid station. My razor sharp focus faded to a blurry one, like I had simultaneously lost both contact lenses. A wave washes over me, a wave of nausea. My stomach makes a large, angry knot. Suddenly, my race is over.

I watch helplessly as women breeze by me like I am standing still. I go from hitting my 4:30minute/ km goal to 5:10, 5:30 a km, 5:50 a km, 6:10 a km, my speed dropping with each footstep, my morale sinking with each stride. I am struggling, and my race goes from excellent to surviving. You're fine, I coach myself, while hitting the 5km, 6km, 7km markers. More women zoom by, unaffected by the heat, the air, their nutrition, whatever had caused me to have a complete melt down I was experiencing. My brain is playing the worst, most angry, tricks on me. You suck, it's saying. I try to silence it. You should quit. I'm trying to ignore the dark spaces I find myself in. You're done. You were cut out for team sports. Walk. You are useless. You are standing still. You suck-ity-suck-suck.

I continue my awkward waddle/run. By the time I hit 8km I was seeing double. I tried to think of all the times I have run 2km. I couldn't muster up a smile, a thank you, anything that would involve the pleasure spheres of my brain to fire. Grant later would mention to me that when the small Talisman Club cheering squad saw me at that point, I looked white as a sheet and was wearing a grimace, or as Grant called it, "my pain face". The next km was the single longest of my life. I searched, and searched, and searched for the 9km marker. I hated, hated, hated my life. In front of me, spectators are lining the finish chute, cheering. Two women race past me in a sprint for the finish. I can barely make my legs move one step in front of the other. I feel no satisfaction. I am empty.

A boy walks up to me two steps after the finish line and takes my timing chip. I take two horizontal steps and end up on my hands and knees. (Please note, any sort of stumble in the finish line area lands you in the med tent). After twenty minutes or so of being attended to, fed both water and oxygen, and being force fed some fruit, I was allowed to go back into transition. I listened to other triathletes commiserate and story-tell, while I fought down the impending tears of frustration. What happened to me? I couldn't help but wonder, as the afternoon burned on. We stayed to watch friends receive their medals and ribbons. To watch Grant get his prize money and plaque for his big win. We headed home and I lay down, quiet and alone for the first time all day.

But the sun came up the next day and I am left with at least small bits of satisfaction, I see this as "Cup Half Full" (try to use my fathers endless wisdom with this sort of thing). I was terribly disappointed because I came up short of what I know I can accomplish; like writing a paper you think is an A+ and getting a B- on it.

Many congratulations go out to Grant for the big win, Hillary for her first triathlon completed, Ari, Gerald and Linda, Allan, Alina,Tyler Mitton, Marc, Cindy, and anyone else I may have missed. It was awesome seeing so many familiar faces on the course and pre/post race.

But I do know when I need motivation for the days and weeks ahead, I will think back to that exact moment when the wheels came off the train, at the 4km marker. If that isn't motivation to put the shoes on and get out there for a run, I don't know what is.

The view of Kimberley from our pimped-out crib.

Wetsuit girls, prior to a play in the lake.

This is a posed photo.

But we did actually swim, too.

Grant = best photographer ever.

"My First Tri" (like my first day of school but way cooler)

T1/2

Hillary's gross knee after her fall in transition. You can't tell in this photo, but she actually had swelling the size of a second knee.

Rookie mistake: not enough body glide on the neck gave me an awful wetsuit chafe. ouch.

]

Really kind of Natalie Siu Mitton to pass along these two photos. I think this was the happiest I was all day: pre race.

Run faster Holly!

In the med tent at the end. The guys who helped out were excellent.

Cigarettes at a Marathon expo

2011-06-07T08:36:00.000-07:00

I spent a very busy, very quick 11 hours in The Bay Area on Sunday. I feel its almost unfair to call it a trip because it was so very fast in its nature. I was graced with a too-fast breakfast with Rebecca and a too-fast dinner with Eoin, and the desire to connect with another half dozen people I know in the Bay Area that I couldn't muster up the time to see. Shame, but the brief stint away reminded me how I do love that part of the fabulous state of California.

I managed to buy my Grandma some of her favourite coffee (Pete's) and grab an americano at a place I love in Berkeley. I let myself peek through the rolodex in my mind of the memories I have of Berkeley, San Francisco, and I find myself smiling and giggling.

I went and represented at a Travel Expo. Thing is, I was a little out of place. From my outfit to the offering of the adventure trip we have, it seems clear we're barking up the wrong tree. People would give you the quizzical, confused, baffled expression. What are you doing here? As I watched the people file in at the conference I inwardly groaned. It was going to be a long few hours. Grey hair, walkers, wheelchairs and a generally older age made me realize these folks are probably not going to bike through the mountains for their holidays.

The woman sitting next to me was wearing a cream coloured suit and a Chanel scarf. And Christian Loubintin high heels. She told me of her terribly exciting life which also included having just returned from France. I listened politely and tried to add into the conversation, being that I have been, but I was quickly shut down. The problem with France, she told me, is that everyone is dressing so casual these days. Just like you, she added, pointing out the fact I had already noticed. I grimaced at this backhanded insult. Men in suits, women in dresses, me in dark skinny jeans and a classy but simple black blouse. Underdressed, cursing myself, the 27-year-old-rookie. My Mom taught me to always overdress. How could I have imagined this simple but very Business Casual outfit would cut it? More inward groaning.

I smiled as much as I could and went back to my booth. I tried to talk to everyone who passed by. I returned home exhausted. But laughing. When Jon asked me how the trip went, I could only answer the question with a question.

"How do you think it would go over if someone set up a cigarette booth at a marathon expo?"

if I wasn't ( ) i'd still be a ( )

2011-05-27T14:43:00.000-07:00

I've decided to build myself a new website. Actually two. One, personal (that will house this blog) and another, professional (that will be home to my professional endeavours). After many months of contemplating this, I decided that the difference in websites is necessary. I wanted to make huge peppy mishmash of a website to save myself time and money. Never mind that web design isn't exactly an area of strength for me and the thought of having to make something like that happen sounds about as much fun as going to the dentist.

As such, I have been doing a tremendous amount of online research. Blogs, personal websites, professional, small business, feminine, masculine, bike-related, food-related, and everything in between. I have come up with a few ideas, but mostly I have just added to my already lengthy list of blogs I follow.

Two blogs especially stuck out. I enjoyed reading backwards a bit in both of these blogs and smiling alongside the writing, nodding my head in agreement or cocking my head in confusion. I added to my increasingly large book-marked collection of reading.

As this very busy week comes to a close and the door opens to a very busy weekend, I have started to look ahead to when I can wiggle myself some time off. But also I have been feeling reflective of what this past week and month have brought me.

Jordan. He got married last weekend in gorgeous Kelowna. I drove out Saturday, feeling quite far under the weather and bummed about my rainy journey. Despite the questionable Saturday and Sunday morning, the actual service couldn't have been more sunny and gorgeous. Jord's bride looked stunning, Jord pretty handsome himself, and the simple, concise, lovely ceremony complemented both of them perfectly. I enjoyed getting reacquainted with Jo, a girlfriend from University, and meeting her significant other. I had a lovely dinner, enjoyed the slide show, the laughs, and mostly the most ridiculous (yet hilarious) speech I have maybe ever heard at a wedding delivered at the hands of Jordan's two younger brothers.

My only real regret from the weekend? That I didn't get a picture of Jordan and I. What was I thinking? Ten years of incredible friendship and it was a joy- a real joy- to watch him get married.

(I actually also regret not drinking, but I had consumed quite a sizeable amount of cough and cold medicine and didn't really want to play with that).

GioBean - I could probably also have titled this "Dorrie" because that was another part of the long weekend. Originally a friend of Jon's, now also a friend of mine, I was housed over the weekend by her. We had lengthy, deep "life is ____, ____ and ____" kinds of talks, and also discussions on why triathlon tops don't fit properly and why learning Italian is essential to the Italian travel experience. It felt so wonderful to let my hair down and share some of the girl-like things I can't here, and two trips to GioBean were a great part of our time together.

LasVegas- Oh My Goodness. I went here! I was the fastest trip I have ever had and as per usual could probably have been an entire blog on its own. However, I am going to restrict it to a few photos and the mental note to myself to expand on my love for this city on another blog at another time.

(actually- kidding about the photos because facebook won't let me copy any of Nicki's pictures. Ha! I picked out two really cute ones, but you'll have to use your imagination).

Tour De Victoria- mostly because I can't count how many times I have taken a cup of water from a volunteer at a road race. It's time to contribute to part of the karma-payment-program and be the one handing out liquid. The 140km road race tomorrow will find me at a tent starting at 7am, cutting bananas, handing out electrolyte, and generally being a helpful person. Currently I am feeling quite envious because I wish I was riding myself, but when I look inside myself and think of what it's like to hand me a paper cup at a race, sweating, drooling, without breath or words or any kind things to say, I know I need to be on the other side of this to appreciate the grace of these kind people.

New jobs- two. On top of the one consistent part time job. Well one that is paying, one I am hoping will turn into a paying gig after my month of volunteering for them is up. One that's serving (and humbling, and all the things that come with a minimum wage, labour style, customer service and alcohol-related kind of gig), one that is marketing, social media, writing, planning style. (I see, I know, the need to get myself a website. Noted.) As my weekly task list increases with three balls in the professional air, I am acutely aware of the need for down time and also my own space so my creativity keeps flowing, my health completely returns, and generally I can be that happy person I know I can be.

Well. Phew.

My website search, blog reading list, research - endless research- list has me stewing on the title of my most recently read. If I wasn't ( ) I'd still be a ( ). Funny enough, nothing came to mind immediately because where I am is exactly where I am supposed to be. That is what I came up with. Enjoy. Onward to June.

The Emm, four years later.

2011-05-21T15:14:00.000-07:00

I was silently cursing myself as soon as I woke up and looked at my alarm clock: 8:33am. I was going to get up and have a couple hour ride before I headed out to Kelowna for the weekend, but alas, my energy levels dictated laying back down. Then bursting into tears shortly thereafter. Laying around for a few more hours. Watching a movie (that just made me miss my family) thinking about what I was doing one year ago today. Feeling sorry for myself that again, yet again, I am sick. This time with a cold. I took this sickness with a few grains of salt starting last weekend, scoffing at it. Sore throat? Whatever. Headache? Pshwt. Runny nose? Meh. I pushed through the last six days fully training, fully working, trying to keep fully committed to my life until I arrived here, back at full boar sickness. Frustrated, furious and unable to relax I mixed up the mornings activities between half heartedly packing, small bursts of crying and blowing my nose.

When I started digging around my head for what was causing the extra heartache, I rewound back into time for just a bit and then I remembered. Today is four years.

Four years ago today I got an email from a friend informing me that Emma had died in a car accident in London. I remember flying downstairs, old laptop in hand, telling my Mum. I remember sitting on the phone, the computer, the rest of the day trying to find out details. Emma, Emma, could it really be true? Could you really be gone?

Emma and I spent our most quality years together at St. Albert Children's Theatre. In fact, quite frankly, most of my best memories of SACT somehow include Emma. My high school experience, and indeed a large part of my teens, is filled with Emma's smiling face.

Emma, driving around her Mum's huge blue SUV with rap music playing loud. Emma, with her loud, mouth gaping open laugh that came in airless spurts. Emma, wearing her Oilers jersey at every game day. Emma the dancer, Emma the athlete, Emma the actress. Sleep overs with Emma, Katie, Jenna and Allison. Pre show, post show, endless rehearsals. I remember one time driving to The Mall in Edmonton between shows in Emma's car. Her and I talked the whole way to the mall, and only when we arrived did Katie come out of the back of the SUV, freezing (it was an abnormally hot day in Edmonton). She had iced out Katie with the A/C in the back, and when she found out she laughed until she cried. She was the funniest person I ever knew.

Each year since Emma's passing I have tried to do something small to honour her and the beautiful impact she had on my life. I've had grand and not-as-grand gestures. For this year, this is it. Emma, girl, who knows if you were here what you'd be up to. I hope we'd still be in touch. You were a positive, beautiful, bold ray of light in my life. Thank you for being part of my memories.

Inspiration unfurl

2011-05-17T11:18:00.000-07:00

By a book I picked up
while waiting in a town upisland
all one word "upisland"
I like that.

Also inspired by this (I usually am)
which was inspired by that
so really it looks like
a lovely chain of inspiration
a wave, perhaps?
I choose to ride.

I let my inspiration unfurl
and I make lists
I learned that from her the best at it!
So I decided this Spring will bring me
trying out this new place, also this, and this
trying the new
but rejoicing in the favourites: tried, tested, true.

I'm dying to get my hands on these
which will come as a reward on the completion
of this, or maybe this.
Or maybe just a pay check or two more.
I'm really dreaming of this,
but that might be a next year dream.
I will be OK with that.

As for where I live,
it's time to see some more, like here, and here
possibly would like to go back there
where we first vacationed
as freshly linked couple.
I remember thinking

I can't believe people live here!

excited to be outside here
americano and journal and pen
smiling into the sun
can't forget the best brunch on a lazy weekend.
I love this
and can't wait to do more with these folks.

I can't wait for these paired with these and painted toes!
long days and late sunsets.
sparkling water twisted with lime
and local produce.

So I let the original inspiration sit
seep into my spirit like my favourite cup
finally
looking forward to
the weeks coming in my own life
and the bold promise
of the joy of summer on its way.

Carrot Cake Failure

2011-05-13T10:02:00.000-07:00

It’s no secret I love to bake. Even though I love this activity, I’m not always the swiftest baker. I follow recipes to a tee, but I don’t have the luxury of adding a “splash of this” and a “dash of that” to in-progress dishes as some of my chef friends can do (Mat comes to mind). I envy that, being able to taste colorless dough and determining it “needs more salt” “could use more blending” or to “add some extra sugar”. I must have been devoid of this gene, just like when a 5’2 woman falls in love with playing basketball. It’s a lovely story, but unlikely to actually pan out for all those involved.

Going out for dinner last night we were tasked in bringing desert. I literally was licking my chops, as I don’t bake anywhere near the amount I would like to, partly because Jon and I would eat it all ourselves, and part because there isn’t really anyone to give it to. Apparently eating 24 cookies in one sitting isn’t good for training for triathlons… and as such, I have been careful not to dawn my apron and have been quietly pushing down the urge to whip up a quick batch of cookies.

I chose two deserts for dinner, one being a white chocolate cranberry bar (which ended up being quite simple and quite good) and carrot cake. With nine people at the dinner table, I figured the double should take care of all the big appetites.

Yesterday afternoon I started pulling items for the carrot cake and noticed we didn’t have eggs of butter. I was irritated at myself because I had JUST been at the grocery store purchasing items for baking. I hoped on my bike and spun down to Red Barn and grabbed said eggs and butter. I ran back inside, threw back on my apron and washed my hands.

At that very moment my cell phone rang- work. I sat down at the computer. A new email came in—right. I have to deal with that ticket today. Shoot, I was going to phone that guy in Denver about the rental. I start to frantically work through my half dozen work items that came up and ignore the carrot cake. I whip out in my jeep at a ridiculous speed to pick up Jon from his workout. We blow back to our place that is now a complete and utter mess. We quickly pull together the carrot cake, Jon taking charge, and we throw the cake into the oven.

But the cake was supposed to bake in three separate pie plates. The cake was supposed to bake for 35 minutes. As 40, 45, 50 minutes pass and the cake still shifts and wiggles around in its one large cake pan and refuses to brown I become enraged.

We proceed to dinner, and I let this anger quietly simmer on the back burner for the entire evening. We drive home, I arrive to the kitchen, a sheer and utter disaster zone: dirty dishes everywhere, cake batter splattered all over the walls, and that damn carrot cake, now fully baked.

Slowly I begin to clean up the kitchen and I can feel the incredible swell of anger coming through my body at an alarming rate. I can feel myself clenching my jaw and crying angry tears. I looked at the carrot cake and all I could see is myself, the carrot cake failure. I looked at the cake seething with resentment and I surprised myself with all the things that came rising to the surface. I have lived, traveled and worked all over the world, why can’t I seem to find my feet under me with this move? I found ease, comfort and a sense of home every place I have walked and lay my head down to sleep, why I have I lacked this feeling since arriving here? Just like my failed carrot cake, I let myself feel an acute sense of disappointment. I am disappointed in me.

Instead of really working with this thought, massaging it, thinking through it, I instead walked to the bedroom and proceeded to lay my anger out on Jon. We all know how this works: anger breeds anger, frustration, frustration, and instead of just loving myself and consoling myself I let the emotions brew and grow and turn into something ridiculous.

(How Holly could have handled the situation. 3pm: wow, as per usual my time management skills are totally off. How about I abandon the idea of trying a new and difficult recipe and just bake another simple cookie so I have enough deserts and don’t stress myself out completely? 5pm: arrive to pick up boyfriend showered, in cute dinner-out outfit, smiling, relaxed, have time for snuggling and sharing day over tea before leaving for dinner. 6pm: leave for dinner on time, arrive on time, cookies and squares in hand, completely devoid of anger, resentment, disappointment, and mentally beating self up for hours on end. 10pm: go to bed happy, tired, content from day. Wow, this looks much better than how I handled it).

But time is funny how time goes, Friday morning comes and sets of apologies are given. I take solace in the sunshine, the belief that each day is another chance, a new start, and new hope. And the hope I will handle this situation completely different next time.

Now if I could just do something about the absurd amount of carrot cake.

Yawn. Type. Erase. Ugh. Yawn.

2011-05-08T22:50:00.000-07:00

I remember in University, especially the last two years, my love/hate relationship with paper writing. The more my speciality eased towards humanities and social science the more words I seemed to be required to pump out of my over-tired, over-stimulated, over-worked brain. The Sociologies specifically seemed to churn out one paper after another. Fifteen pages on this, twenty five on that, a fifty pager as a semester closing. Although a few of my classes caught my attention and interest in bold enough manner to warrant some serious research and early starting on writing, many of the papers I wrote started just like this, at 10:38pm on a Sunday night, with a 9am Monday deadline looming.

Fortunately for me there is no professor with an iron fist or the threat of losing 25% a day over a series of days I haven't turned in a paper; rather the unfortunate gnawing of a self-imposed deadline I am not going to make. Write five blogs a month for 2011, says my annual goal sheet. I sigh heavily eight days in and notice I missed the mark for April and have lacked the inspiration and motivation to make something happen at the start of this new month.

My topics seem flat, my ideas uninteresting. I started to composed and find myself yawning. Let's take a moment and let that sit folks. I am yawning at my OWN writing. I feel the instant need for a nice big glass of Pinot or the urge to purchase a plane ticket. I grasp at ideas. I feel like I am writing a paper supporting globalization theories and practises inside Canadian government. Read: yawn. Word check for the hundredth time. Have I really only wrote 250 words of a 1,500 word paper? Shoot.

So while I bound around looking for my lost words, I leave heading to iPhoto to review photos of late. I am hoping that while I look at them I will be struck, lightening like, for word inspiration.

Also, on a completely unrelated note but pertinent to Sarah, to answer the question from your blog: Rent the Musical and Best of AC/DC. Although I also liked your video posted.

No alcohol for Sucky

2011-04-26T15:22:00.000-07:00

I was sending my parents a text message this past Saturday when we were at a Cider House up island. Hillary and Thomas were in the process of taking down a massive flight of cider and I was propped up only by the help of Tylenol AM. My iPhone refused to correct the mistake, "no alcohol for sick-y", I wanted to say, cleverly. Instead, my iPhone decided I was Sucky and I actually agreed.

If there is anything I absolutely detest, it's being sick. Not like I know a score of people that thinking being sick is awesome, but a few ladies I know relish the attention they receive upon a few feverish days. I thought about this as I crawled from my bed to the bathroom all day on Thursday, swearing at myself for not taking it easier after the Parksville ride. I let my body completely shut down for five days. I could hardly look at any of the Easter treats I had baked for Hillary and Thomas, because I couldn't consider eating without also considering vomit. Ugh.

As the sickness has slowly past, I can't help but to think what a great weekend I had anyway. I showed the siblings around the Island, tried to share some of my "Best Of" locations and wow them with my Knowledge of Area. I am so happy they were here, and I can't wait for another sibling weekend.

Pancakes, please.

2011-04-19T10:13:00.000-07:00

Kneeled down between the warm bodies and the barrage of bikes and cars making a cluster outside in the rain, I am crouched low in a squat near the warm floor with my hands stuck under my arm pits. "Lick the floor," Karen says, laughing, as the other two near by join in to the ha -ha -ha chorus, watching me twitch and shake with the cold. "I would lick the floor of this Ferry," I tell her, "if there was a pancake on it."

It was somewhere in the last 30km of the day. After the last big climb. Right after the nausea came back out to play. The nausea that had haunted the previous twenty four hours. Brain says: you're sick. Stop pedalling. I say: you're fine. Keep going. I begin this mental ping pong match with myself, wrestling with the sick churning in the pit of my stomach. Despite this feeling, I started thinking about pancakes. Late breakfast almost brunch type pancakes. The frying pan sized, three or four high stack with butter on top, and syrup. Syrup thick and slow, sticky on the glass containers outside from multiple over excited hands messily tipping it onto oversized plates. 99% of the time I'm an eggs and potatoes breakfast kind of girl, so the obsessive thoughts of pancakes surprised me. Pancakes became my all consuming thought. Telephone pole to telephone pole, gravel and pot hole from hill-up to hill-down. Pancakes. Beautiful, lightly browned, restaurant style pancakes.

Rewind a couple days. Similar to The Toronto Half Marathon, or Escape from Alcatraz, I am suffering from the affliction where the last three days pre race my over-excited brain refused to shut down at nights. Especially bad this was before Alcatraz, where I had endless nightmares of all the things that could happen while swimming in the Bay. Frigid water infested with sharks? Jump off a rocking boat to start a race? Damn it. Had I gone completely stark raving mad? That morning when I got on the boat with 2,000 other athletes, as we circled around the island and I kept nervously looking out the window at my land marks I kept thinking about how stupid of an idea this was.

Fast forward a year, when I joined a Triathlon Team here in Victoria I spent the first few work outs and weeks being quiet and slowly sorting out how they all worked. Who belonged to who, who was fast, who was not as fast, who I could run with, where I could fit in. I had to work hard, much harder than ever before in the pool, on the road, on my bike. Saturdays, our long ride, became my endless suffer-fest to not get dropped off the back, to hang onto the pace line, to learn to shut up and grit my teeth through three, four, five hour rides. As I pushed the pedals down this weekend, bike computer speed creeping up, I was reminded of something Leif told Jon and I last November. "Victoria is a place for retirees, and elite athletes", which becomes even more comical when you realize you are living this truth.

Thursday night hill run.

So when my new coach Mike told me about the parksville weekend over six weeks ago, the first time I met him for coffee and to talk about the team, I thought it sounded great. I was inruiged and excited. A round trip up the Number One to a community I had never been? Wait a second... a touring trip? This is right up my alley.

When I sat with myself and considered some of the big ticket touring I had accomplished I felt nervous (still) but moderately soothed. After all. I did bicycle through the Slovenian Alps for 6 days, 600km, over three mountains passes, did I not? And hadn't I biked some of the grandest hills Tuscany had to offer? And what about the 2010 stint of The Bird Family's Annual Golden Triangle, where I had to grit and grind my teeth for the last 40km just to finish the three day, 315km ride? I could manage a measly 180km. Back to back days. Gulp.

The funniest thing was, as the days approached for the actual ride, my anxiety grew. Slowly and quietly, the tiny dark corners of my brain where fear, doubt and uncertainty lurk came swirling into my mainstream of daily thought. The Wednesday before the ride I awoke at 4:05am in a cold sweat, panicked I had missed the ride start. Going back to sleep was impossible. Thursday and Friday saw more of the same. The inability to calm myself down into a sleep state, to the acceptance I would be more than fine. As I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, I took my resting heart rate. 81 beats per minute. Only a mere 25 bpm over normal. Great.

I took great pains to prepare myself for the ride like a race. I meticulously planned the whole 48 hours before of what I'd eat, how much, and when. I assembled my ride nutrition, labelled bottles and baggies, got my bike tuned, prepared what, when and how much I'd consume on the bike. I lay out my day one kit, I packed my day two kit. I felt like I was preparing for a Trip Start, something that had given me endless anxiety in my past bike touring gig. That or a race. My body, tired, my hip, aching, refused to calm itself. Refused. So I relented and fell into a few day stupor of fatigue and the quiet acceptance that the ride Would Be What it Would Be and that I may as well try to relax into it. Take heart rate again here, after telling self this. Shit. Still 79 beats per minute.

With all the noise and words and preamble in my brain leading up to the weekend, the weekend was shockingly simple.

Saturday: wake up, eat. Get ready. Bike to start. Leave on ride. Feel excellent first 70km. Nausea 70km-180km. Abandon nutrition plan in favour of eating anything you can keep down. Run at hotel. Shower. Try not to fall asleep eating dinner.

Sunday: wake up, eat. Have two preemptive pepto bismol tablets. Listen to Mike's pep talk (in short: get tough people)Feel really good first 20km. Flat tire. Nausea 20km-160km. Bike home in rain. Raise fist and shout YES when biking up driveway home. Buy pancake mix. Make pancakes and turkey sausage. Collapse into bed at 8:30pm.

The mental fanfare I had given the weekend was undeserved. I had the most delicious life conversations (common suffering is an amazing forum for the sharing of life stories), saw large expanses of The Island I haven't seen, and once again, threw myself head first into the gauntlet that is endurance athletics. Despite the nausea, the uncertainty, the aches and pains, on the other side of the pendulum is the giant rushes of adrenaline, the sheer joy and complete accomplishment. In all endurance endeavours for me stands the penultimate wonder: being forced to turn all my focus inward. To remove the chattering, nattering runaround that can be my head and bring myself into vision, a singular goal. This is the reason why I keep coming back to racing (and training). It's the most intense moving meditation I've ever experienced, with the complete drowning out of the external noise. There is a presence, a beauty, a joy in the pushing. The pain. The intensity of racing. This is why I sometimes hate it, this is also why I love it.

It always makes me giggle, the thoughts that arise during long expanses of time training. For more, this time, it was the obsessing over pancakes. As I mentioned before, I don't even really like them that much. But I wanted, needed, thought of them. A tiny distractor as the kilometres ticked onward. So pancakes I wanted, pancakes I ate. More in the last 24 hours then probably the last four years. I pushed up those hills, I don't fill at all bad tipping back some extra syrup on those bad boys.

I'm Alright

2011-04-12T21:42:00.000-07:00

I once wrote a status update on facebook that went like this: Chinese Food, Jam, Football and Futuritis. It's like going to a buffet and having macaroni salad, apple crumble, roast duck and sashimi for dinner. An usual combination that's just plain strange. Sometimes my brain, in the process of contrivance, or just plain meditation, sputters out things like this. Similar to my friend Lisa's old car Amber that used to backfire in a multitude of pitches, it's as though my brain sputters through emotions. Ideas. Recently ingested media. Current goals. Strange thoughts. Events. This also translates into a variety of bizarre dreams, no more strange than the one I most recently remembered, with myself stirring an alley-sized garbage bin full of thick purple goo what I told everyone was r-EPO. Yes, in a dream I was a garbage woman selling EPO. If this doesn't inspire me to stop reading about doping scandals in cycling before bed, I don't know what will.

As I tried to work through several posts, I decided to shrug my shoulders, give up, and just sputter out the Amber inspired mixture.

--I didn't realize the song that earns the title spot of this post was so old. The evidence is the music video, not just the cheesy clothes and terrible sunglasses, but in that the video won't actually even load onto my blog. I'm Alright by Jo Dee Messina- the catchy country tune I find myself coming back to under my breath, repeating itself in my mind. Mantra-like maybe. I'm Alright.

--Jon and I Chicken-Sat last week for our landlords Chickens. I grew quite fond of the routine. Getting up early and letting "the girls" out of their coop, feeding them corn. Coming back a few hours later to fed them lettuce and bread, clean out the coop and check for eggs. Some mornings the girls only lay one, a couple mornings they lay three. I would come barrelling up the stairs and disrupt Jon from sleeping, eating, or working on the computer (probably more likely one of the first two) and practically scream to him THEY LIKE US THEY LIKE US THEY ARE LAYING MORE EGGS

--I was afforded the most brilliant long weekend getaway. Not only was I Vanna White at Swim Camp (much less glamourous looking) and the operator of the Go Pro (hoping secretly Jon will let me take it on a surf trip one day) but even better I had a chance for a "family and friend top up", a phrase made famous to me during my months in Ireland, when I befriended another Canadian expat who insisted that a "once every eight month visit to the mother land can soothe the soul and ensure you don't go stark raving mad". I may no longer be an expat, but I am in a completely different place. The family and friend time was a treat, and the top up should fuel me through these upcoming weeks. Actually, let's cross our fingers for a month. Month(s)?

(Heart melt here). I hope one day her Mum and Dad will let me run her in the Chariot!

The mishmash of thoughts settles, and I am left with bags to unpack, dishes to wash and some semblance of a life to attend to. I might even go out back and wish the girls Good Night.

I guess I'm doing alright.

( )ike

2011-04-01T16:34:00.000-07:00

Cultural Studies ruined me in third year University. Not only did I give up on Walmart forever, (seven years and two months and still going strong) but I became extremely brand slash socially conscious about consuming. Especially when companies had big, bad reps for exploiting third world countries for cheap labour, poor CSR practises and a general non compliance to "the rules". One of the companies I learned which has this wrap is none other than the grand ol' athletic giant. You know, the one with the big swoosh.

Not to say other companies haven't been poor with labour laws, off shore production and other eyebrow scrunching, stomach-knotting business practises. I am swift enough to know the larger the company the more likely there lurks a small-cough-large mess and an ugly off-shore production somewhere. I try to pick my spending battles wisely, but I suppose if I only bought clothing from completely morally upright companies I might be currently wearing potato sacks and smelling like chicken coop.

Enter to this post my lovely boyfriend and his love habit of wearing recycled clothing items. (This resourcefulness and simplicity is one of the many things I love about him. The man only owns one pair of jeans. Let's sit on this, folks.) He has a few warm weather run/ cycle items, including a pair of electric blue bib tights, that when I first saw I wrinkled my nose, but after feeling the furry inside, decided in this case he could forfeit fashion for function. In addition to this he favours his half decade old MEC pants with rips in the sides, his Dad's cycling booties from the 1980s and a ligher blue lulu jacket with huge rips in the side. "I went bush-wacking" he tells me about the rips so earnestly I can only shake my head.

Turns out I am not the only one that sometimes shakes my head at his choice of workout attire. A couple weeks ago after a run workout Simon told Jon he looked like a bum, and then invited him to come over and get a few of his old run pieces so he may be better equiped (and also more professional looking, perhaps?) for the Victoria outdoors. Jon came home with a load greater than what I imagine to be The Kardashian family gift exchange at Christmas time. His new load of gear including a half dozen pair pants/run tights, hoodies, dry-fit shirts, jerseys and rain gear. He also got a new suitcase. Pretty generous and kind. As we started to go through the suitcase full of new clothes he had accuired, I noticed a trend.

Two of Jon's team mates are sponsored by them. The brand I was ignoring and have been since Cultural Studies. And almost ALL of our new gear accquired had the swoosh. I felt a little bit of cold sweat on the back of my neck. All this amazing stuff. From THAT company. I picked at Jon for information. How had the other two been sponsored? What did they get exactly? Although Jon didn't know everything for certain, he did know one very important thing. The company I loathed was amazing to it's sponsored athletes.

Living with a poor, sponsored athlete myself, I spend time watching him manage his money so carefully. He has to be so incredible concise in choosing his gear, clothing, bike parts, nutrition and everything with the money and sponsorship he does have. I recognized early on in our relationship that a brand that sponsored Jon would also earn my dollar too. They were giving him something, but it small or large, to finance his dream. Because he is dedicated to a sport where there isn't a multi-million dollar signing bonus or media appearances, a new wetsuit, free gels and cheap sneakers are incredibly appreciated.

This (formerly terrible) company sends their athletes new clothes, specific to their sport. They let the athlete choose several pairs of running shoes. They get whatever resources they can to assist the athlete with in the training of their sport. In short, they are a huge help. Probably the sponsorship agreement with the company is a little bit different with this guy then with other amateur triathletes, but a new appreciation is fostered for the brand I had so specifically targeted not to consume. I may be brand aware, company aware, strong in my consumer sense but the practicality of our day to day reality hangs heavier. The gear is state of the art. It's water proof, wind proof, potentially bullet proof.

Instead of thinking of this as a LOSS inside the part of me that is my Cultural Studies induced moral compass I'm trying to think of it as a compromise. Especially when the shirts with the too short sleeves don't fit Jon-long-limbs, they do fit Holly-long-limbs.

Giving in? My "new" super rad purple cloud hoodie.

Restlessness

2011-03-23T12:12:00.000-07:00

Who is quoted with that anyway? I make a note to double check online. Restlessness and discontent. Something, something, something. Signs of success? A place for progress? It strikes me there is a quote that starts out talking about the importance of restlessness. I accidentally just typed Recklessness and I smirked a little, because sometimes I think those two words are in bed together anyway. Restless. Reckless. Restless. Reckless.

This is summed up completely by a recently received email. I noticed the background of your blog is changing almost everyday, she wrote. As I sit in our desk-turn-workspace, typing frantically while looking out the window on a rare sunny spring day I waffle this idea around in my head. These past few weeks I have felt endless, gnawing restlessness. I don't want to call it discontent, I am contented enough. I don't want to call it unhappiness, despite the occasional burst of tears I do feel cheerful enough. It's more this itchiness under my skin. The desire to feel a settledness I suspect is still months (nay, years?) away. It's the longing to run into a familiar face. It's the hope that behind a corner, along a street, at the grocery store I will be hit by a bolt of light that allows me to completely exhale. To relax into my circumstances, to this city, to this moment in my life.

I find the restlessness translates mostly into the constant moving and changing of little things. The blog background, par example. I keep changing it, adjusting the colour, the title, the spacing. I keep moving around my clothes in the drawers and closets. I start to get itchy to do something so I change around drawers, closets, where I put the cards in my wallet. Funny how I crave familiarity, and yet, in my antsy days all I can do is change around little things. I fear this may be some kind of disorder. I can't even google-it because I am afraid of what I may find.

So instead of doing my work (yes, I landed some part time work), or dwelling on the other thoughts that continue to erupt, or the constant wondering what the hell happens next? I clean the pans. Put in a load of laundry. Keep on moving.

I checked the quote. It goes like this: Restlessness is discontent and discontent is the first necessity of progress. -Thomas Edison (insert heavy sigh here...at least I am making progress...)

Victoria highlights:

Gowlland Tod Provincial park (by our house)

Little brother visits Victoria. He thought it was awesome my coffee cup had a bike on it.

The best-ever care package

2011-03-18T20:16:00.000-07:00

I'm always amazed how good things come when you most need them and are least expecting them. After a really long day, it was such a treat to come home to this.

My sister and Grant had taken some time to put together this super sweet care package that made its way to us in Victoria.

In true style, true to our style, the care package included gluten free cookies and scones, dozens of gels, new water bottles for our bikes, yanks and cervelo tee shirts! We were jumping around like little kids on Christmas morning. What a special treat.

If this is an indication of what the weekend ahead, things are looking up indeed. Thanks you two...

Untranslatable Poetry

2011-03-10T14:14:00.000-08:00

Proper names are poetry in the raw. Like all poetry they are untranslatable. ~W.H. Auden

My last name is used effectively to refer to me all the time. Beginning in Gym Class in Jr. High and sticking with me all the way through my adult sport activities, there isn’t much that beats a booming yell of HIGGGGIIINNNSS!!! It’s as tough as nails, down and dirty, bold, fabulous last name and I love it. It’s born of Irish Viking Blood after all. What could be more strong or noble?

I’ve had such a long and bold love affair with my name. I have an early memory of a teacher in elementary school telling me my name was beautiful. I immediately bought into that thought, and to this day I still believe it is. As I have grown my name has morphed, changed and been manipulated into a host of flattering and humorous (and not-so-flattering, not-so-humorous) nicknames.

For long as I can remember my family has also had a host of names for me. Holly Babba, which my parents think is fabulously amusing (after the esteemed Ali Babba), Babba (because at one time little brother Thomas couldn't pronounce Holly, but some how could fumble out Babba), Holly Doodle, Holly Dolly. Sometimes my sister will call me Dolly, Holly Doll or just Doll. She is the only one I let do that, and I really love it.

During University one of my Best Girlfriend’s (and she still is) Lisa began some real fancy footwork on my name. Thus was born the many variations : Higgs, Sniggs, Hhizzle, hizz, Higglins and Holl. Previously I had shuttered when people dropped the ‘Y’ from Holly, but with Lisa it just worked. Nicki, Mindy and Jody call me Holls. Kirsty calls me Holly Higgs, something that fondly began in our early lululemon days together. Wayne will let roll a Higgster, which came to be during a week of leading together in Italy. Also born in around this time was H2, Double H and H Squared. I thought by 25 I had heard every variation possible on the letters in my name until I met Brad Miller. After a day of washing bike helmets together in the France warehouse, he started calling me Higgy Babby. I squealed with delight when I saw him this past fall for the first time in two years. He met me at the leader house with a hug and my nickname, he being the only one with exclusive rights to Higgy Baby.

This past summer I worked with a new leader. Big eyed, blonde haired and adorable in his boyish, goofy way, we worked a large family trip towards the end of the summer. Unfortunately his first year of work with the company had many large bumps, and he constantly muttered and shook his head and said that things weren't going his way. It's like you have a storm cloud over you, I said, in a brilliant flash I yelled out loud: YOU ARE LITTLE MATTY STORM CLOUD! I bent over, in hysterics at my own nicknaming ability humour. The other two working with us thought it was pretty funny too. Imagine my delight when I ran into another leader this fall who casually mentioned, hey, have you met Little Matty Storm Cloud? I gave him that nickname! I practically shouted, literally leaping up to give myself a whopper of a self- high five.

All the changes to my name have come from people I know and love. Of the entire aforementioned list, there are no nicknames that I picked, tried out and decided on. People who loved me (or at the very least liked me and spent some time with me) worked my name around for its own term of endearment or affection. A little slice of intimacy, I discovered, when I was nicknamed by someone. The comfort level and rapport must exist between the two people involved in the slicing, dicing, addition or subtraction that creates anew a reference to someone.

Being in a new city I am hyper aware of the things I do not have. A big one is girlfriends. I am so lucky to be here with Jon, but he is a poor substitute for a girlfriend when it comes to things like: getting manicures, going for bike rides that are under 250Watts, shopping, drinking wine AND eating chocolate at the same time, watching chick flicks and The Bachelor. I am aware that making friends and getting to a comfort level where you can tease, chide and nickname each other takes time.

Every time I meet someone here - with a handshake or hug- I am Holly Higgins. At some point in time there will be a Victoria friend that abbreviates or changes a bit of it for a new nickname, something I will greatly look forward to.

For the time being I remain.
Yours,
Holly Higgins

Airport Love

2011-03-04T07:24:00.000-08:00

Because I secretly, completely, absolutely love airports.

A great read by one of my favourite bloggers:
http://chrisguillebeau.com/3x5/for-the-love-of-airports/

Enjoy!

Rap Music Accuracy

2011-03-03T08:19:00.000-08:00

My friend Lacy Bradley says that sometimes, not always, country music has the answer to everything. Her astute observation also applies to Rap Music. Sometimes, not always, Rap Music has a few answers too.

In this case, it's Diddy whose prose I am identifying with. He's walking through this Desert wasteland. He is singing about his own self awareness, growth, and arrival to this place called home. Home, arguably in this go round, not so much about where you live at a particular time but rather an environment of security and happiness. Or as dictionary.com puts it: a valued place regarded as refuge or place of origin and belonging.

I watched this music video over and over again while sitting on the lightly carpeted cement floor of SFO, waiting for my flight home to Victoria. After successfully filling myself full of Burrito, I was crossing and uncrossing my legs in attempt to regain the feeling that had been lost in them from the lengthy sit on the hard surface, trying to understand what about the video was particularly touching to me at this particular moment.

What I deduced was that it was the literal act of going home (Victoria) but also home (to my own heart, pinacle location of all major life changing decisions) and home (to my own truth). I giggle and thought to myself, Diddy, I am feeling your shit. (Isn't that what major rap artists say to one another?)

So in-between Home and Home and going Home was a trip. My last trip, in the most perfect place I adore. Death Valley for one more go round. I was endlessly delighted by my two hilarious co-leaders, and many late nights there were spent giggling over some event of the day. In usual Desert fashion there was some sunshine, a wind storm, and lots of smiling (me). I didn't tell a soul it was my last trip, but some of the staff found out anyway.

Last night at dinner, I was pulled into the kitchen and presented with a small cake. The head chef, dining room manager, several of the wait staff, several of the front desk staff, and the hotel manager huddled in a corner, and presented me with my gift. I was dumbfounded. For a few moments I couldn't really eek out any words, stumbling and side stepping around the waves of emotions springing up. The largest wave carrying a sea full of gratitude. Not only for the staff at FCI, but for all the people that made this the brilliant ride it was.

My cake was really good. The trip was fine. I spent an afternoon wandering around the strip, waiting for my flight home, thinking about home. I sipped coffee from the best place for coffee in Vegas. I bought new sneakers. I smiled a lot. Oh Las Vegas, and what you mean to me. Another home, in another time.

Inactive Reserve

2011-02-22T11:47:00.000-08:00

I confided to a friend several months ago over strong espresso I was thinking of leaving my job. I remember the moment clearly, sunshine was streaming through the windows of the cafe, onto our table. She was smiling, and I was fighting the rush of emotion coming up from my heart, through my head and out the corners of my eyes. I haven't ever done anything in my life for this long, I added, wiping away the water with a grainy recyclable napkin.

She inquired how long I'd worked for them. I considered. Well, at least four years, a little more. I laughed. The same amount of time it took me to get my degree, I say, then take a sip from my cup.

It seems to me, she replied, that this job was like obtaining a second degree.

Long after that conversation was complete, after another few months of trip planning, organizing, logistics orchestrating, travel, guiding, working like mad, I sat back on this thought. I organized my own thoughts and made the phone call. It took under ten minutes, and had the tidy conciseness of a doctor stitching up a small cut. You're finished? Yes. When? Two weeks. I'll send you the paper work. You'll return X, Y and Z. Your final trip will be such and such a date. Thank you for your hard work. Thread pulled through, knotted, wound completely, neatly, cleanly closed. And that's all.

I slowly worked through my required sheets. Employee drop schedule. I read through the Policy and Procedures. I organized what I had to return. Ending was so easy, so completely easy, it felt like the dream you wake up from and wonder if you really did it. It was so lifelike, you murmur to yourself. In the nights ahead as work would haunt my dreams, continually, completely, fully, I would keep saying this to myself. You've quit. Did you really? Or was it really just a dream?

Now only upon The End have I thought about The Beginning, and those bookends sandwich a highlight reel so magnificent I can't even begin to write it into words. I thought of each and every time a schedule was published and I would sleep restlessly the night before, and wait with baited breath to see what the blue page might bring me. I remember the places I was afforded to experience, and the situations I was put in. Positive, negative, drunk, sober, injured, ill, assisting, sharing, learning, call it how you may. I thought about all the hospital visits I made, the times the blood was coming from wounds on my own body, the nights that there was no night, only day that ebbed into day. In the bizarre moments, in the tough moments, in the amazing moments, I could only think that maybe, just maybe, one day I might laugh at what was happening.To begin to share these memories I cannot, because I feel it can't possibly be captured in a few sentances- to hell with that, a whole novel- what I feel, the gratitude, the joy the completeness in my heart and spirit when reflecting on what this experience has meant to me.

But of all the curves along the way, it was undoubtably THE PEOPLE who made this the beauty that it was. I think of the events (weddings, funerals, trips, preparations, side trips, weekend getaways, hikes, bikes, meals, early mornings, late nights, parties-oh the parties!) but more importantly I think of what I shared with the people I met. How profoundly I was touched by their stories, their love, their laughter. How many of them challenged me and everything I believe in, they challenged me to not only think, but act, not only to dream, but to believe. I was treated to a commradery, friendships, love, passion and a sense of journey. In short, I was blessed.

I was told I would be placed on inactive reserve, I could lead later in the future if I chose, that I left on my own accord and in good standing. One last trip to wrap up the present with a bow, this career with a complete end. A period at the end of a sentence. Or maybe just a semicolon for what comes next.

Every new beginning comes from some other beginnings end. SEMISONIC

Eggs

2011-02-17T10:35:00.000-08:00

Our little location outside of Victoria is fairly rural, and as such, biking, running and walking in the area had us notice there are several signs for Eggs. (Also hay, but we can't do anything with that). Jon sent me down to get some Eggs a little while ago. I felt very Little House on The Prairie. I even put on my rain boots for good measure, and had I owned overalls I would have put those on too.

I wandered about a half a km down the road to the first sign for EGGS. I walked up to the little booth, half expecting a farmer to be sitting there, collecting. Instead, there is a sign 'EGGS- Dozen, $4', a mini fridge with several dozen eggs, and a slot to deposit your money. I couldn't help wondering if this was a trick. Eggs? On the Honour System? But what if someone steals all your eggs? THEN WHAT? I walked around looking for someone on the property to ask these questions too, then finally deposited cash into the slot, took a dozen and walked home.

I queried Jon. What happens if someone steals all their eggs? Then what do you do?Can you believe they really just have them sitting out there like that? If they have eggs what else do they have? Do you think the honour system is popular in Victoria? Do you think that would ever work in Calgary? Do you think its just a rural thing? What if someone trashed the stand and took all their money? How much money do you think they make selling eggs each year? Is there money in eggs? Eggs and what else? Do you think they treat the chickens differently, better?

Jon answered my questions, patiently one by one, like he was answering a child playing the twenty question game. Eventually he asked, do you want some, frying up something delicious smelling.

Sure, I said, sat down and ate the eggs. Silence.

Wow. They are delicious.

it started with a flat tire

2011-02-11T11:46:00.000-08:00

Like, not a bike flat that I can deal with. A CAR flat tire.

I chose the Kia Rio because it was black and sexy looking. Jill laughed when I said this to the guy at the car rental place. We drove the strip at night, windows down. We bombed out to Death Valley, Hello Desert. Sun. Dry eyes and frizzy hair. Hikes and talking and talking and talking.

I worked. Bike routes, old hikes, new times with the hotel. Change of horse stable. Can the Ranch work for dinner? Can we get rid of their crappy salad?

The flat tire. Some helpful guys to take us to Stovepipe wells. Jill the amazing tire changer. Stupid Donut tire. I love real life Donuts, Donut tires are dumb. The garage in the Valley changes my tire and show me the inside of the shredded old one. Lucky they say, you could have had a Really Bad Accident.

Indeed.

I threw my hands in the air yesterday, jubilant. Afternoon, carrot and sweet potato chips and PBJ devoured. Overlooking the strip our window. LET'S GO! I said to Jill and we proceeded to have a night only Las Vegas can produce. Entertainment, sushi and laughter, washed down with Champagne and Campari. A mistake, not because of the alcohol but champagne and campari makes a poor substitute for an actual Spritz.

Today the car place said This is A Mistake you Need to Fill Out an Incident Report. I already called your 1-800 line I told them, not blinking. Doesn't matter they were nice but I had to do the report anyway. I rushed. I gave myself SO MUCH TIME. I have learned. Five years of so much travel give yourself SO MUCH TIME.

I arrive at the AC desk the woman unblinking. You missed it. Two minutes to late. I think she's delighting in this. I try to be patient. My bag can come anytime it doesn't matter I say. Please. Get me Home. I think of Calgary, then Victoria. Hillary, then Jon. Please, I say to her. I need to get home.

She clicks her tounge and tells me I am without luck. She points me to the baggage claim taxi area. You've failed, her voice implies. I cry at the counter, my dry eyes burning with the tears that start coming. I want to go home. Stop crying, she says.

You'll go home, tomorrow, she snarls.

Sometimes I hate yoga in these moments. What should I be practicing: patience, kindness, compassion, empathy. There is a reason for everything, my inner voice chimes.

I want to break my inner voice's nose.

I sit in Maccarran, crying in the corner, my small stack of orange luggage to my left. I will go back to Jill and the hotel. I think of all the people who would say I am lucky, one more day! One more day in brilliant Vegas! I want my own bed. I want to have clean clothes. I want to swim in a lane pool. I want to be with Jon. I really, really, really. I want to go home.

Stupid flat tire.

To the one I left behind

2011-02-04T22:16:00.000-08:00

I can still remember the first time I crested up over the last part of the Highway number two near Carstairs, the Rocky Mountains illuminating the brilliant blue sky. It was one of those perfect Alberta days only the prairies can produce. My new home, I thought to myself in elation feeling an incredible sense of aliveness followed immediately by a grandiose sense of how little I knew about the city to which I was born and had been absent from for eleven years. Despite my literal and non-literal "growing up" in another place, I had always felt a claim to Calgary, a belonging that wound deep through my bones. A place I had a small knowing I would probably come back to. On that summer Saturday as I drove into town I could have never guessed, predicted or written a better story for what would encompass the next six years of my life.

My professional life ended up taking me many places, and there were times I would inwardly groan when a pilot announced that we were "landing in Calgary". I dipped in and out of phases of loathing of the city, thinking it boring, lame, dull, undignified, snooty, rich, ridiculous and a list of other items only a twenty-something exploring the world and her own mind could create. Despite my constant misgivings, without a doubt Calgary was my home. Regardless of where I had been, how long I had been gone, or what I had experienced in the time I was away, a little part of me always rejoiced in being home.

I was contemplating this thought as I traced my fingers over the cold medal keys, then the cold granite, keys, granite, keys, granite in a careful pattern as the tips of my fingers made long lines across the counter. Keys left on the granite countertop for my sister, the keys that allowed me in and out of our home, a tiny downtown condo we gleefully deemed "The Palace". I remember the day my sister handed me that same set of keys, three summers ago. Jet lagged, exhausted and seeing double from the long trip from Ireland she let me into our home, dropped me off and returned twelve hours later. I slowly unpacked the boxes lovingly assembled by my Mum and Dad, carefully labled with the small pieces of my life. My room was small, there was a small window, a small closet. My small life. As I put my life from the boxes to the closet, I wouldn't have guessed the best part of living with Hillary. It was unanticipated, unreplicatable, and still an entire wonder to me thinking of it now, smiling.

Always being close, living together only amplified this effect. We discovered our living differences, what was vital to fix and easy to let go, and worked our best around each other. I could never completely understand her inability to clean the fridge (I would often find old, rotting food, completely indeciperable in its magnicient creation moulding in tupperware) and her my constant "Hurricane" effect: the leaving of my jacket, purse, keys, shoes, books, journals, and STUFF everywhere. I can see her face in my minds eye, picking up a sweater from under the couch. "Is this...." she would hold it up, trailing off slowly. I would sheepishly grab the item, quickly tidy up (thus beginning and maintaining our long standing family joke that when you are looking for me I am probably "Cleaning My Room") and go back to whatever I was doing, likely making a mess.

We endevoured to do many other things together, everything from restorative yoga to experiementing with vegetarianism, dreaming up travels, buying plane tickets. We coached each other through changing jobs, boyfriends, and habits all while swapping clothes, making french press coffee and sharing new country music. She taught me how to properly blow dry my hair straight, apply liquid eyeliner and I would clean the bathroom sinks and write her marathon training programs.

Also born of our time together were what we affectionately deemed "Sister Mornings". This premeditated morning would range in activities, sometimes involving a run, a huge breakfast at Bumpys and a trip to Purr. Sometimes it would involve several hours of girl-y TV, mangos, cappuccinos and other breakfast delights all in our PJs. When she was sad, I would make the farm dance (a range of stuffed animals we'd collected through our childhood) and when I was sad, I would lie on the couch or floor and mope near the fireplace while she would talk me through it. We'd have impromptu sushi nights where we would pick a "level" of sushi we wanted to eat (ranging from dirt cheap, fast and greasy to delicious, fancy and expensive) and meet each other. Laughing and sharing over life, chopsticks, we'd talk about everything and nothing, and sometimes lapse into silence that is comfortable around people who have known each other forever.

When I shared with her that I would be moving to Victoria with Jon, she was supportive along the entire way. Especially when I got the top layer of my face burned off. In the back of my brain there was a niggling thought I refused to consider, that leaving Calgary meant leaving her, leaving our little life together, saying Good Bye knowing that our chapter of sisterhood-living-together was going to turn into sisterhood-from-a-distance.

As I went through the motions of going away, saying good byes, putting my affairs in order, I let myself float down the sea of denial. I would not have to say Good Bye to Hillary. Nope. No. Not now. So when the moment arrived and I left the keys, swallowed the end of my tepid mint tea, I knew there was no more avoidance. We walked down to my jam packed jeep together and stood for a moment. I had a million words to say.

"I...." I stuttered. Stammered. Begun to shake. The tears started to come. The tears I had let myself tuck away during my final weeks, days, hours in Calgary. The tears I suppressed while cuddling Jaya, celebrating Hillary's early birthday, drinking wine with Lisa, going through the final ETS classes. It was as though all those tears came at once, the sadness of leaving Calgary, the fear that had been burning down inside my guts for weeks on end, the big black hole the future now was, the terrible uncertainty of what was coming next. The end of this chapter, the next one blank, completely blank, with only a highway stretching west all the way to the ocean.

We stood in silence in the parkade, her in her matching PJs, me crying my mascara in long streaks into my collar. Like my limbs were stuffed with lead I put myself into my car and drove to Jon's. I let my brain roll over and over and mull through the experience of leaving I place I loved, loved to hate, and all the people that contributed to the Love part.

The raw emotion will stick through this transition. Yesterday morning as we drove toward Kelowna through the mountains the sun shone through the trees, reminding me of the moment I arrived in Calgary six years ago. I let myself keep crying the tears, alternating with happy music as a distraction, trying to think forward to my goals, trying to keep believing all of this will pass, will get better, will settle. That the happiness and joy that I had in Calgary I will have again in a new place, with new people, with new things I cannot begin to imagine. I let more tears slide from under my eyelids. I let myself be afraid. And sad. Very, very sad. My phone buzzes, as if on cue.

"Thinking of you... missing you already. xo"

Me too, Hillary. Me too.

Progressive dinner, 2009

Grey Cup, 2009

Stampede 2010

Mon visage

2011-01-25T21:58:00.000-08:00

My strategy was to avoid the topic entirely. I find this particularly helpful in awkward social settings, to gently skirt around an issue not of moral or life threatening importance. Working as a guide were idle chit chat and epic meaning-of-life conversations are volleyed back and forth like my emotional stability, changing gears smoothly and efficiently is a must. I couldn't tell you the amount of deep, dark, life secrets revealed to me on the bike, in the van, on a trail of people who are on vacations I am guiding. I have learned to have a poker face in the best possible way. Eyebrows up, is the best I can let myself think, when someone delivers a sentence, thought or life event that would normally make me grimace, groan, or weep.

As such, I find myself expecting a higher level of sensitivity from the people I surround myself with. When I decided to go ahead with the treatment, I assumed that my slight change of face, albeit temporary, would be met with little more than curiosity. The woman told me "mild redness" and the dermatologist promised "a wonderful new change" something that went hand in hand with a wonderful new layer of skin (I now know). My lengthy online search had me scouring through reviews, possible side effects, customer satisfaction rankings and safety ratings. With the promise of a lecturing guest from the US at hand to safely and completely laser my skin to a new glow, a skin to carry me into my thirties, completely free of acne scaring that has danced on and off my face since my mid twenties, I laid down in the chair. A half a dozen dermatologists stood around me as I was subjected to twenty of the most painful minutes of my life, accompanied perfectly to the smell of burning skin. My burning skin.

I let my mind race during the procedure, and at the end made a mental note that ignorance is, in fact, beautiful bliss. Had anyone accurately described the feeling like a staple gun was going to be drilling your face with metal heated up to over 100 degrees, I probably would have been less inclined to volunteer. Even if the service was for free. At the end of the whole two hour ordeal I walked out of the office to my sister, typing away in the waiting room.

She drove me home and I took a quick peek at my skin in the rearview mirror. It was taking on a greyish tinge with the little staple marks - SORRY- profractorated laser marks- making small dots all over my chin and cheeks. The face started the throbbing pain, the pain you feel when you nail your shin on your coffee table in the middle of the night. We got home, she packed some ice around my face. I used my hoodie strings and tied them tight at the bottom of my chin to secure the two bags of ice. If I have ever had a sexy quotient, I am fairly certain that this moment was probably the lowest score of the low. My face, still frozen, my lips, still numb, struggled to chew, swallow and smile. This I was to discover was the least of my 'challenges'.

Waking up on Saturday morning I stumbled to the mirror, expecting to find myself a changed woman. I squinted in the morning darkness and instead fought a rising wave of panic. I look like a monster. The laser has tracked from ear to ear, like someone took a dozen of the fat, red sharpie markers and drew all over the lower part of my face. I am puffy. I am bright red. I am a total mess.

I sit on the floor and have what one might consider a minor breakdown. I was still in the fetal position when Hillary arrived home, aglow from cycling. She propped me up, assured me I was beautiful through my crocodile tears, and made me breakfast. I let the weekend slip through my fingers and then I woke up. The dreaded Monday.

As I prepared for work, my last of three working days here, I was trying to reassure myself. It's not that bad, I said out loud, curling my hair and applying mascara. Gingerly touching my cheeks. A bad sunburn, I said again. I sprayed some perfume. Crossed my fingers. Away we go.

What has happened in the last 48 hours has been a big mess of absolutely wonderful and absolutely awful. I can only juxtapose one with another, making this an amazing experience but also a shattering, humbling one. I have been greeted with stares, gapes, laughs, questions ENDLESS questions: what the hell happened to your face, did you have an accident, are you sunburned, did you have a breakout, are you having an allergic reaction, mommy what happened to her face, are you sick, did you get a face lift, when will you go back to normal, you must be horrified, you must be happy, did it hurt, what are the lasting side effects, and so on, and so on.

I decided early on to be upfront about the procedure. When it became clear that my first thought was NOT going to work (ie: avoidance) due to the transparency of my condition. I adjusted the story slightly for the audience but it is the same, at a basic level. I got a laser treatment, to fix my acne scaring, yes it's red but it will be better, soon I hope.

Amid the stares and raised eyebrows and unspoken words of certain people around me, I have been delighted by some of the other murmurings surfacing. For most women especially I find something particular happens when I use the words 'acne' and 'scaring'. It's as though suddenly I have joined an unnamed, unwritten club where everyone speaks to their own self-perceived down falls. Since Monday I have heard confessions of stretch marks, grey hairs, uneven limbs, crooked teeth, unloveable freckles and even, yes, a breast enhancement. The old saying, misery loves company, speaks well to this predicament. My current highly noticeable condition, when I explain it lights an 'ah ha!' in other people, that I wanted to fix a part of myself I don't love. As someone typically plump full of self confidence and self efficacy, the lengthy battle with my skin has been a trying and mostly private one. Until you get your face stapled, then it becomes open to anyone who asks.

I hang onto the hope that the cream and the vinegar soaks and patience are going to reveal a newer, cleaner, less acne-ful skin. In the interim, I am working on courage. And thick-skinned-ness.

Queen of the Desert

2011-01-22T10:52:00.000-08:00

a morning email that made me smile. big time. reprinted with permission from the author, swearing and un-neccesary extra chiding removed. HH

Subject: Queen of the Desert

Higgs,

Jeezzzzusss! I knew you'd been out there plenty but DAMN girl. Have you looked at the website lately? You're mug is EVERYWHERE for the photos of Death Valley. How many freaking four day-ers did you do there anyway? Still stopping at the Gas Station Brothel en route out? Nothing like the Cherry Patch to get everyone stoked on Nevada. Caffeinated to the nines from the 5:45am beat the window outside Starbucks in Boulder City Grandes to push through an 18 hour day?

We've been hollering over your ridiculous lets-find-a-five-dollar-black-jack-table-and-drink-for-free night in Vegas, the time you got us free Cirq tickets for cheap because you talked the guy into believing you were press. M and I still laugh at the time you dumped a load of snow on the guest from the trailer in Denali. Legendary Higgs, L-E-G-E-N-D-A-R-Y.

When you coming to see us folks, huh? Going to round yourself out in the company with the half decade in the desert, RIGHT?

Love: _________

PS. Get a F***ing new backpack woman! You're using the same orange one from '08. Gear is the new currency, it's time for you to get something that doesn't flop side to side.

The simple small sweet bit(e)s

2011-01-18T17:07:00.000-08:00

I heard on the radio that yesterday was declared, “The Most Depressing Day of the Year.” The announcers went on to cite that the joy and festivities of Christmas/ New Year were over, the debt from the aforementioned fun times was rolling in, the weather was dreary and spring seemed an impossibly far way away. “In short,” he announced, with confidence, “people have nothing to look forward to.”

At the very same time in the early morning hours Claire, at Bumpy’s, was encouraging me to go for a Pear Granola muffin. “I know you’ve tried the chocolate coconut, banana blueberry bran and lemon meringue,” she said, citing the daily muffin offering sitting on the counter. “I promise you, if you don’t like it I will buy you a muffin next time you’re in.” As I walked out of the door, Americano and Pear Granola muffin in hand, I find myself wondering. Is it bad that a barista knows your name AND your love of muffins? Not to mention the fact she knows what KIND of muffins you’ve tried and liked?

As I was chowing down on my Pear Granola muffin I found my mind wandering to my grocery list. I also found myself breezing through the Smitten Kitchen’s online desert section (kindly shared by Darling Friend and Amazing Chef Mat). I make a note to add White Chocolate Chips and sugar to the grocery list. I run through mentally the deserts I haven't made yet from my most-favorite-cookbook-ever The Happy Baker Chick (I don't get star struck but I think if I met Erin I might actually cry) and remind myself I will need a fabulous desert for Sunday Night.

What is going on with me? Why the sudden desire for all things sugar?

In the past few weeks there have been some small batches of tough stuff. A lovely woman from work, Soraya, passed away unexpectedly leaving shock waves to ripple through the company. The Mechanics called to tell me my car brakes will be $600 to fix. A job in Victoria fell through. I got passed up for an interview for a different job I wanted. Waking up in the mornings to darkness and walking home in the early evening hours to dark, and the temperature continued to fall further under the -20C mark on the barometer, things seemed a little gloomy indeed.

A co-worker of mine brought me a date square last Friday with a note. I am sorry about your friend, it read. I ate the date square slowly thinking of the kind gesture but also of Doug, because I know these are his favourite. I have to admit, it was delicious.

A couple of evenings ago I threw on my adorable apron my Grandma made me for Christmas and whipped up a batch of cookies: Peanut Butter Coconut Chocolate Chip cookies (in the Happy Baker Chick cook book this is “Erin’s Go To Cookie”). I turned on a rad online radio station for electronica, rocked out in the kitchen while baking, and then Hillary and I ate a few warm cookies right from the oven. I brought some cookies to work, and shared some with Jody and Grant.

On the “Most Depressing Day of The Year” as I drank my Americano and chewed slowly my delicious Pear Granola muffin I smiled. I don’t want every batch of sadness to be followed by an incredible binge pig out session. It is reassuring in a small, sweet, warm, fuzzy way that a little batch of sugar and love (in its simplest form) goes a long way.

I Love a Good Party

2011-01-10T15:26:00.000-08:00

I really do. It's probably the Event Planner in me that delights in details from what Wine and alcohol to serve down to finding napkins to match the plates. Decorations, guest lists, food making and preparation are just another part of the party process to delight in. In fact, sometimes I think the anticipation of the exciting events are almost as much fun as the Party itself.

Party used to have another meaning (see below, in fine form at Kin Games 2004).

The highlight of any party is the collective energy that comes together. The very word PARTY implies fun is going to be had! People are getting together! Laughs and beverages will be shared! You get to get dressed up, hopefully in costume but if not at least you can wear something cute and put your hair in hot rollers.

These past few weeks have felt much like one party after the next. Not one to turn down a social event, it seemed like we were bopping from one event to the next: dinner parties, open houses, pub nights, Christmas gatherings, etc. Having my full family in town created an extra tidal wave in this area, cramming in as much Higgins social time possible was delightful, albeit somewhat tiring.

This weekend was the zenith of all the Social Events that have been jamming my calender for weeks and making me want to doze off for a few hours at approximately 2:30pm each day. On Friday my lovely boyfriend took me to NOtaBLE, a restaurant I have been dying to try and has been packed from the day of the opening. We had superb service followed by a round of Oysters for desert left both of us seriously smiling into the night. Saturday morning was the usual Brick Class, except one of special note because it was Jon's "last" Saturday. Loud music, cheering that lit up the entire centre and a load full of people attending made it one of the funnest classes I have ever attended. I even held 500m over ANP a bunch of times and only felt mildly like vomit at the end.

Thanks for the great photos Cindy!

The worse thing about Parties is, well, The End. So much excitement, anticipation, planning comes to a pinnacle and is followed by, well, NORMAL LIFE. We all know I have somewhat an aversion to what I consider 'Normal Life' which is why I keep getting on airplanes, buying bikes and doing ridiculous things to keep everything EXCITING.

So I find myself plunking away at Un Fun Adult Chores (they should really teach you this stuff in High School) on a late Monday afternoon suffering from a Party Hangover of sorts, minus the headache, dry mouth or general feelings that my body hates me. Instead, I feel more of a sadness for all the fun things that have come and gone now leaving a cold month ahead where much of NORMAL LIFE is to be expected.

I dropped off my man at the airport, and in usual dramatic fashion cried all my makeup off, and sulked all the way home feeling tremendously sorry for myself. Not just because he is going to Hawaii, not just because these are my final weeks in this city, but for the change and growth and fun and scary and glut of emotions still waiting ahead.

All this being said, the little party planner in me is sitting right next to her pretty blue 2011 day timer, just itching to start filling it with stuff. Breakfasts at The Lane, Wine Dates, Weekend Rides, quick weekend trips. I can't help it... it's just the Party Girl in me.

Where Jon is going. It's fine, I'm not jealous.

Future-itis

2011-01-03T09:26:00.000-08:00

The small green and black card read, "My interest is in the future... because I am going to spend the rest of my life there." Clever. Like Churchill pronouncing that the future will be kind to him because he intended to write it. So I sit, somewhere in my late twenties (as my brother continues to remind me, LATE not MID), attempting to pen the next chapter of my life, feeling more like a cliche pop song than a confident, sure-footed woman.

Not that my pen is without ink or I am without ideas. My goals and visions flow freely from my mind to paper in the past few months. Believe me, on paper, I look freaking fantastic. Those parts aren't the challenge, it's the actualization of events, people and things to create the steps to the bridge to the path that will take me there. I dreamt of myself in my late twenties, orange matching rain boots and umbrella, khaki trench and a perfect smile, career, body and life, walking strongly into the drizzling rain, unscathed, unfazed. I didn't exactly imagine I would be the girl with the orange rain boots and umbrella that couldn't completely open, hair and face getting more and more drenched by the minute as she struggles to open the umbrella, answer her phone, pay her bills and find a new career. Not quite as fabulous.

As I watch people rev up and ramp up their New Years Resolutions (a word that has had me shuttering for years... even in my undergrad) I am even more aware of the questions that lie ahead in the New Year. Out there people are going to get fit, quit smoking, enjoy life more, change their career, spend more time with family and friends (etc. etc. etc.) 2011 feels like an endless wave of change, so completely new that planning must happen in short small bursts, to keep me from crying in short, small bursts and feeling completely overwhelmed.

Yes, these are exciting times. So Much to Look Forward To. Many Questions will be Answered. New Trails Will be Blazed. A New Adventure to be Had.

Future-itis is a small, simple ailment that can befall anyone at anytime. It can last for short bursts or long months. It sits, a small pocket of unknown, inside your head and heart. Sometimes it is helpful, sometimes it is harmful. You just want to make sure you use it for what you can, and not make too good a friend with it. And above all, know that everyone suffers from it a little bit at certain times. If every little part of your life was completely known, would that really be any fun anyway?

Back to struggling to hold open the umbrella. At least it is Orange.

The Annual Questionnaire

2010-12-31T08:02:00.001-08:00

I’m not really sure how or why we got going on our annual Question tradition. I only know it started in 2004 (we have the original papers to prove it).

The years have varied, as years tend to do. There are squeals and giggles when reading past year’s thoughts, proud moments and tragedies. The Annual Questionnaire has been incredible on the part of my entire family and those other tremendous souls who have participated. Despite the usual loud groans of my younger brother, I am always delighted, surprised and astounded at the answers that come about when we share our worksheets together at the end.

2010/ 2011

1. What are three big highlights of 2010?

2. What is a setback or adversity you have had this year? If you had to handle it again, what would you do differently?

3. Who is someone you met for the first time this year who became special to you?

4. What is something you are planning on doing for the first time in 2011?

5. What is one proud moment you had this year?

6. Describe this year in 1-3 words.

7. If you had to choose a day to repeat this year, what would it be? (Little Brother’s Question)

8. One word theme for 2011. (Little Sister’s Question)

9. If you could re-connect with one person from your past who would it be, and how would you do it? (Mum’s Question)

10. What is something you are going to do next year you haven’t told anyone about yet? (Dad’s Question)

So if this year is a melting chunk of ice statue, old man 2010, and tomorrow is a sharp iced freshly carved statue of a wee baby, ready to mature through the year, what exactly might this year hold? It’s like the very best riddle of them all, to ask that question but to know the only way to find out is to keep breathing, keep working, keep playing, keep thinking, keep loving, keep trying, keep crying, keep riding, keep writing, keep walking day by day into the future.

“I beg of you…to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms of books written in a very foreign language. Don’t search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without ever noticing it, live your way into the answer.” –Rainer Maria Rilke

In & Out (of Spirit)

2010-12-22T17:50:00.000-08:00

OUT OF SPIRIT (Bah Humbug)

A small girl in pigtails, stood up in church two weekends ago and announced she was getting an iPhone for Christmas. She smugly smiles to all of us and mentions that her sister is getting an iPad. Sitting in the pew, wringing my hands tightly together against my jeans I inwardly groan. Oh God, I thought. Here I am, sitting, attempting to be inspired on this Sunday of Peace and I am instead grinding my teeth against each other, eyes rolling into the back of my head.

I pull into the parking lot at Chinook, going back for the one little tiny thing I forgot to get the last time. I see from a quick scan the lot is beyond full. I park near Grandma's house and walk over. In the lot there are two women screaming at each other, their fight is over a parking stall impossibly far away from the front. One woman calls the other a Bitch. The other woman responds by screaming a string of profanities that would make a pro NBA player proud.

I am working Coat Check at a large, fancy Engineering firm's Christmas Party. The drunk man is defending his so-drunk-she-can't-stand-or-speak-wife. That is her coat, he says, pushing me aside grabbing the brown jacket. No it isn't, I repeat over and over again more firmly than the last. A tug of war breaks out between Drunky and Me. He gets louder and more enraged. I am unyielding. THIS IS NOT YOUR JACKET SIR, I tell him, losing the ability to be kind, charitable, social. He punches me in the shoulder and throws his business card at me, running away into the night. Several phone calls later, a huge search of the firm and a kind taxi driver ends the Christmas jacket fiasco happily. The man's final words to me on the phone? You Suck, he says, slurring the words so they actually sound more like yewsick. But I got the point.

IN SPIRIT (Christmas Merriment)

Hillary and I were walking through Kensington, deep in discussion about something very important happening in our lives when, suddenly, she stopped. My twenty five year old, finance super star, CFA candidate sister pointed. Her face lit up and my gazed matched to where she was pointing. She let out a huge exhale with a smile. SANTA. She said. We both paused. I laughed as a twenty foot inflatable santa blew gently in the wind in between Starbucks and Higher Ground. We giggled like little kids and repeated this a whole bunch of times, and together we remembered when the three of us would make a map the night before Christmas every year. A literal map and a plan for 'What To Do if You See Santa."

On the tree lot a small boy asks us if we need help. We are looking for a pretty tree for our condo, we tell the small boy. He smiles and proudly walks us through the Boy Scout Tree Lot. He shows us a few before picking one out, a tall skinny one with a lot of promise. I like this one, he tells us, and happily marches us to the front with our purchase. We bring him home, feed him water, and despite *some* peoples notion that he is too lean to be a beautiful tree, Hillary and I love him. We named him Douglas, after Douglas Fir. We lovingly water him daily, and he as a result has opened up his tight branches just a wee bit.

I am popping bits of candy into my mouth, as we decorate our Gingerbread house. The other team's roof collapses, so they make a dance floor with gummy bears partying hard. There are many laughs, icing licking, a Gingerbread person with their gender in question, and many photos taken. The girls create a 'Euro Roof' on ours, which we think is beautiful and creative. Also a backyard. We felt like we were the winning team.

I am composing the annual list, the one my brother groans loudly about each year. The title at the top is simple: 2010/2011. It follows the last eights years we -as a family, and sometimes others- have done this annual question/reflection worksheet. Created lovingly by me, designed to ask, challenge, provoke and think about the year past and what lies ahead. There is sometimes wistful words, pouring out of relief, re-living of incredible moments. Memories are shared, tears are shed, laughs are had (much too often at my expense). I find myself casually twirling my pen in between my fingers, looking at the blank page I have entitled, "End of 2010, Beginning of 2011- A Year in Review". I put down my pen for a minute and stretch my arms up and watch the other people bustling around Bumpy's. In this moment I am happy, satisfied, content with the blank page that will be filled.

Big + Tall + Athletic

2010-12-14T14:05:00.000-08:00

I have a Big Daddy.

This is an important opening statement not for the guffaw of other things 'Big Daddy' can entail, but rather the literal importance of this post is knowing I have a big (size: tall, broad, muscular) Daddy (father, to whom I was born).

As a little girl I never gave this much thought. Whatever situation you are born into is simply normal to you. One of my elementary school teachers once commented on this to me. I was in Grade Five.

"I wouldn't want to meet your Dad in a dark alley," she said to me, smiling, after Dad had been in to talk to my class about Football.

I was confused. Why, I asked, my ten year old brain attempting to connect the pieces why my kind, lovely, middle-aged teacher wouldn't want to say hello to my Dad on a dark night.

"Why, because your father can take care of himself," she replies smiling. "He is big, full of muscle and strong."

I went home and stood in my parents bedroom that afternoon, looking at their wedding photo. My Dad, wearing a jacket size 56 Tall, his broad shoulders almost double the size of my tiny toothpick of a mother. I decided Mrs. M was right, I had a big, strong, scary Daddy. This thought made me smile. Ha, Ha! Forget that my fathers feats of strength included double, triple, quadruple plates on the bench press, or lifting up myself and my siblings all in one fell swoop. Big Daddy. Strong Daddy. I was happy to have a Big Strong Dad. Hooray for me.

Later through Psychology 101, Family Studies and my own research I became to understand that women are attracted to men that remind them, in some capacity, of their fathers. The theories behind this are plentiful: provider, comforter, support listed among the reason women fall for certain kinds of men. Having a particular attraction to big, tall athletes, I came to understand that for me, Big + Tall + Athletic = Holly Likes. Call it a reminder of my big, scary muscle-bound father, protector, provider, hero.

During my tenure at University of Alberta, the Physical Education girls had a venture that furthered my "thing" with Big + Tall + Athletic men. Our faculty women would borrow, swipe, steal their big boyfriends clothes and wear them around proudly. Borrow his Hockey hoodie, emblazoned with U of A Golden Bears? Sweet. Get his big U of A XL green sweat pants? Baller. Show up to the gym in an oversized Tee with some athletic ownership on it gave you the street credibility in PE equivalent to an Oscar in the film world. I AM DATING AN ATHLETIC DUDE, the code said, without saying anything at all. Smugly you would sit in the PE lounge, rocking out said look, other girls enviously eyeing you up as you remembered coyly how last night you mentioned before the movie you were cold. Viola, a hoodie appeared to be held in your possession, to be worn, washed as many times as you liked until _________ asked for it back, because the team would be going on a road trip and he would be needing it.

Many years later upon a particularly perilous break up, I was "coping" with this by writing long discourses in my journal. In the days, weeks and months following this mans absence from my life I made a list. It was entitled, "Things I Want in Boyfriend/ Husband." The opening bullet point statement was "Tall, Athletic". I went on to write many other bullet points, most of them not as shallow as my opening bullet point. I had neglected to mention also 'BIG', as for me big was simply implied in this statement. I thought of my friend Amanda (5'11) who used to always tell me, Holly, no girl wants to spend her life as Big Spoon. It's just not cool.

Props to Mop and of course I agreed whole-heartedly. Big Spoon = Not Cool.

Years after that list was composed I fell in love with a Professional Triathlete. He DID happen to make the bullets on the list, only when compared months after our relationship turned 'serious'. I borrowed a few tee-shirts here and there, and a jacket once or twice. His large shoulders made for several sizeable pieces of athletic clothing I did sport on a few occasions, proudly showing off (like I had many years earlier) that I had borrowed the gear of my athletic dude.

What I didn't count on though, or specify exactly, was that my boyfriend's athleticism didn't exactly match up to the triple plate squatting Dad. Put the man on a bicycle and let him blow your mind, but the bulk I had come to as associate with "athletic" doesn't apply in Triathlon. At all. Building pounds of muscle would be counter-intiutive to running a 10km in 31:00 minutes, after railing yourself for a previous 41.5km in the water and on the road. Beat yourself against a wall for around two hours, in attempt to win out against all the other slim, lean, super fit and fast guys who are amped up to do the same isn't a cause for one rep max weight training.

Post cycle workout one night a few weeks back on a -35C night I suggested to Jon a hot tub, and he frowned at me because he didn't have anything to wear into the tub at Talisman Centre. I said to him, half jokingly, that he could maybe wear a pair of my board shorts. He agreed, seriously. I brought to him a pair of black and pink polka dotted girl board shorts, Women's size 9. So imagine my surprise when I walk out on the pool deck to see my smiling boyfriend, wearing my board shorts. I exhaled. This role reversal wasn't exactly what I had expected. Are they small on you? I asked, my voice full of hope and possibility. Nope, he said, pulling on the drawstring cord. They are just right.

Last night, as we were driving downtown he realized he didn't have any clothing to wear to cycle workout that night. I sat for a few moments in my head, weighing the options of lending him cycle clothing. Be a helping girlfriend? Swallow my pride and admit my 6'3 Pro Triathlete Boyfriend can wear my clothing? Try not to take it as a slight to me, athletic and fit in my own right?

You could borrow my stuff, I mumbled, half hoping it would be much too small and not fit him. Perfect, he grins and I pull put of my rubbermaid full of cycle gear a pair of bib shorts (Mens, they fit me perfectly) and a matching jersey. I came up the stairs later that evening to Cycle training, finding him, grinning, wearing his blue matching outfit. My blue matching outfit. I quickly got busy fixing my busted wheel, trying to ignore the adorable blue outfit I have worn dozens of times being rocked out by my boyfriend, smiling, completely oblivious to my soliloquy forming as to the transformation from Big+ Tall + Athletic to Tall + Athletic.

We walked out of cycling that night, into the cold darkness, hauling our bikes. As we got into the car I could see his big green hoodie hanging up over his head. Are you OK? He would ask me later over quinoa. I could only smile. Deep in thought, rolling through the events of the day, past week, past month.

I assured him I was fine and he went back to cleaning his plate and I went forward in my head, delighting in my Tall + Athletic man. I let myself change my mind about the Big part, smiled back at him and sat with this. It feels good to change my mind and forget about the Big. Tall + Athletic = Damn Good, even if he can wear my clothes.

Couple Beers and a Banana Nut Muffin

2010-12-08T21:18:00.000-08:00

I tried to write this blog opening with a haiku.

I tried to write this blog comparing the video content to surfing.

I tried to write this blog with a lengthy discourse on vulnerability, wholeheartedness and leaning into discomfort.

I tried to write this blog about why this is worth 20 minutes of your time.

I tried, but sadly came up short.

So.

I decided to post the video, let Brene do the inspirational talking and see what unfolds.

But I couldn't help to wonder about that haiku. If I had only stuck with the Creative Writing minor I was dreaming about while struggling through Advanced Exercise Physiology.

And folks remember, BREAKDOWN actually = Spiritual Awakening.

The Good Girl Letter

2010-12-01T08:21:00.000-08:00

Father Christmas,

I would like to open this letter with the reminder of how Good I have been this year. I am not talking ‘Nice Girl’ good in terms of the classic Naughty or otherwise behaviour barometer, rather GOOD like helping the homeless, baking for church and otherwise spreading good will sort of good. Listening to crying girlfriends, donating old clothes, bending over backwards for people at work. Wait, that is work and I get paid- never mind. I digress Santa, hear me out.

In my late teens and early twenties my liberal mind was growing in leaps and bounds through my cultural and sociological studies at University. I continued to broaden my worldview and at the same time stopped consuming at Walmart, as if somehow this was actually going to change the world. I began to write letters to you where my list included lofty presents like, ‘No More War in Iraq’ and ‘Disparity of Wealth between The Rich and The Poor.’ My parents must have been confused by this sudden change in list, as before it read more like, ‘I’d like some new books and sneakers for Christmas’.

I cannot forget the Christmas you brought Hillary and I the Barbie Dream House, because for some reason that one sticks particularly strong in my mind. So although Pink Plastic Walls might not appease me for this year, I thought I would send you a list of the things I would like for Christmas this year. For your ultimate understanding I have divided the items up into two catergories: Material and Non Material.

For the Material Girl:

-A Time Trial Bike. Carbon Fiber please with a component set no less than 105s. If you could also possibly get one where the new shifters snap back into place that would be great. But other than those few things, I am not fussy.

- A pair of John Fluevog shoes, I’d prefer the yellow ones with orange buckles but I will happily take the big red boots with buttons. I am a huge fan of his shoes, not just because I think I am the "unique soles for unique souls" he speaks of, but because of his fresh, funky, totally different style of shoe. I noticed the styles I am looking at are even on sale on Granville in Vancouver, so maybe check there for a size 9.5s

-Please fix my car so the engine light will turn off and she stops squeeling. The squeeling noise hurts my feelings and makes me feel ridiculous waves of panic every time I hear it.

-I would like a full set of matching dishes, cups, cutlery, and big bowls, preferably in Orange. Maybe a crock pot too.

The Non Material Reach for the Sky Gifts:

-Please take Jason off the list to go back to Afghanistan. I don’t want him to go and neither does Mat.

-Please send Crystal and Apoorve a lovely, healthy baby girl that sleeps through the night. I don’t know too much about babies but apparently this is a nice feature to have in them.

-Can you get North and South Korea to cool their jets? I am tired of worrying about that.

-Can you help my Mum and Dad sell their condo in Toronto because they really want to move.

-There are several people in my life that need new jobs, new opportunities, new hope, new beginnings, assistance with tying off loose ends, moving cities, looking for love, starting over. In short, please send these people to therapy. Or you could send them some extra love and support. That would be great.

Based on my life performance in 2010, I don’t feel this is too much to ask, Papa Noel. Fill me with that Christmas hope and spirit. The same feeling I get when I drink Eggnog and eat Grandma’s shortbread cookies, lay under a decorated Christmas tree or see a beautiful Poinsettia.

Very Sincerely,

Holly M. Higgins

With Love, to Commonwealth

2010-11-27T07:44:00.000-08:00

Drive the number two for three hours,
stop half way for tea and a change of scenery.
Go all the way North...
to where you spent eleven years of your life.
To a Stadium you belonged to for all those years.

There.
You became a teenager, and then a woman in her twenties,
that same Stadium.
The first place you got stitches,
learned how to drive in its parking lot.
Surprise 16th Birthday held in its dressing room.
Your dog ran the stairs there.
It was there you grieved, with your family
the ending of many football seasons.
It was there you celebrated
when one ended with a new poster for the Grey Cup wall
at the far end of the stadium.
In those cement walls, went from to Jr. High
to High School
to University
to another life
three hours south of that Stadium.

So is it any surprise
that a return to that stadium
would make you hum
Thank God I'm a Country Boy
then Happy Trails
because that is what was always played
every game
every end.

That going back to that stadium swells you full of a love
for the seats and walls and field
McMahon never could
for that Stadium permanently holds
a big part of your life.
A part of who you are.
To celebrate that Stadium,
this Sunday's game.
Is to celebrate You.
Your Life.
Your Journey.

--------
I couldn't resist adding this to the bottom.

Caution: Errant Golf Ball may ruin your Record Breaking Day

2010-11-22T20:26:00.000-08:00

I am riding my bike by the ocean. The date? November 21st.

My brain funnels quickly through the Last Time I Rode by The Ocean. California Coast? Maybe. Ireland? Surely not. I strum through the files of bike riding locations while trying to distract myself from the fact my fully finger gloves are beginning to get numb from the cold. I exhale a long thread of hot air from my lips into the brisk air. My nose is pink. I can't see it, but I am sure of it.

I wiggle my toes inside my mountain bike shoes and water, wind and bullet proof booties. I do a lot of coasting. My overloaded brain cannot seem to take the idea that I want to work my body really hard outside. In the winter air and light snow covering the streets of Victoria as the local residents panic, completely PANIC at the sight of the white stuff. I aim to miss the potholes, laugh at the heavily layered local people and try to picture myself living here.

I had to beat my 2009 record of cycling up Little Cottonwood Canyon on November 15th in Salt Lake City. Alternating tucking my fingers inside my armpits while using the other hand to balance the bike. Sometimes the hand will sneak up to my lips for a large puff of heated air. I curse myself for not wearing sunglasses to protect my eyeballs from the wind. I should be excited for beating my last years outdoor cycling record, but I am not. I am cold, and ready for the tiny 600 square feet we are staying. A hot bath. A change of perspective.

I decide to turn around at the next self-appointed 'appropriate' point.

I pedal half heartedly and my old bike, my baby Alex, heaves. Her rear derailleur refuses to shift smoothly, despite my tightening and coaxing. She coughs and my chain changes location on its own. I see a sign.

CAUTION: ERRANT GOLF BALLS MAY CAUSE BODILY HARM.

I glance at the green rollers of the playing field, the grey sky and rolling clouds above. I can feel the cold ocean wind whipping the surfaces of my body. It's time to head the sign, turn around and head back along the water.

Cream of Greens

2010-11-09T16:06:00.000-08:00

My family has mocked me for as long as I remember for my cooking skills. Perhaps some of my earlier efforts in baking and cooking turned up such disasters as The World’s Easiest Chocolate Cake without cocoa, Cinnamon Buns that have a strange hazelnut flavor in the icing, or inadequately cooked Rice and Bean casserole that is crunchy to the tooth. This teasing has mostly been taken in stride (by me) and the longer I practice (Years. Years of practice) the more I find success, or at least palatability, in my creations.

I find baking produces a happy vibration in my brain similar to exercise, and the reward of churning out fresh baked cookies that are warm and slightly chewy, but still have the melt in your mouth feel, thrills me in the same way that crossing a finish line does. Having someone eat a piece of your banana bread to look you in the eyes and say, “Wow! This is really good!” evokes in me the same sort of a post-yoga blissful glow. The happiest feeling from baking perhaps comes in the delivery of it. Who isn’t thrilled when peanut butter chocolate chip cookies find their way onto your desk, front doorstep, or in a Ziplock baggie post swim practice? Exactly.

Cooking is a slightly different beast. Whereas baking has the structure of a recipe, the time to turn on the oven and to what degree, I find cooking a more adventurous and sometimes dangerous experience. Following recipes for cakes seems to be no problem, but following them for Twice-Baked Lemon Salmon, Chickpea Curry or Wild Rice Pilaf seems to be a completely different challenge for me. Often I end up with a slightly wilted, slightly over or under cooked piece that isn’t exactly the prize I am hoping it will be.

As my darling boyfriend carries on his journey into athletics, his discoveries of new, innovative, cutting edge things never ceases to surprise or amaze me. This pedal. That shoe. Those laces! This supplement or drink. When he pulled out two cookbooks revealing The Primal Diet I was intrigued and interested. Who doesn’t want the benefits from a healthy, clean, fabulous diet? I borrowed the books and read through a good chunk of the first one. Although some of it will take some time to adjust to, I liked some of the ideas. I leafed through the cookbook and decided to give a try to the Cream of Green Soup.

My motive was two fold. One. Show my boyfriend I was committed to the idea of trying some new food ideas with him, that I whole-heartedly support all his endeavours. Two. To wow him with my excellent cooking skills and therein show also how much I care/ what a stellar girlfriend I am. Doesn’t warm soup on a cool day bring the idea of happy children sledding, couples holding hands and snuggling by the fireplace? I was sure I would be well on my way to winning G.O.Y (Girlfriend of the Year) by producing this soup for him post- cycle last night.

Buying the ingredients and practically running home, I got right to work on the soup. Meticulously following the recipe, I cook the onion. The garlic. I add the broth, the greens. It smells really good. I stir. I am practically grinning from ear to ear. I am such a good girlfriend. And dammnit! I am a good chef too. I whirl around the kitchen in my brown apron with a cupcake on front, singing along to the radio and stirring my Primal Soup.

The part of the recipe comes to say “put the hot soup into the blender and cream until smooth and green.” I look at the photo in the book and take note. I carefully pour some of the soup into the blender (minding the hot splashes, like the book suggests) hold down the top and turn on the blender.

What happens next is a cross between a horror film and fireworks. The scalding hot liquid comes blasting out the top of the blender, shooting the lid to the ceiling and burning both my hands as I scream and try to hold down the lid. I force the lid back down, pull the plug on the blender and run to the sink to put my hands under the cold water. There is soup absolutely everywhere. I spend the next fifteen minutes wiping down surfaces, including the ceiling. I scowl at my luck. Stupid error. No matter. Back to the blending.

Second time around has better luck with the lid, but at the end of several moments of blending the soup looks like lake water. It is light brownish/ yellow in color with the Swiss Chard floating around on top like sea weed. I am repulsed at the sight of my own soup. I sigh. I continue to stir. Well.

I add the final ingredients and taste it. It’s OK. Not my best. I feel baffled by the lack of looking like the recipe photo but also in taste. Is Primal Dieting going to be like this? Ew. I make a list in my head of all the delicious food I love that I will be eating on my cheat meals. Bah. I choke down a half a bowl and rush to cycling.

I bring back Jon for a bowl of soup post cycling, nervous about him testing my creation. He takes a sip, doesn’t look too long at the recipe photo, and after adding salt turns to me, shrugs and says, “Yea, it’s good.”

Not exactly the jumping up and down response I was hopeful for, but based on the lead up to the soup I am really happy that it is quality enough to swallow. I take some myself and take one more glance at the book.

Add a quart of broth, says the recipe.

Wait a second. A quart?

I do the math in my head and realize I thought the recipe had asked for a GALLON. Four liters of broth I had put in; when a quart would be actually ONE liter. I had put four times the amount of broth in, well no wonder it looked like a polluted lake instead of a green, creamy wonder.

I slam the recipe book shut and think for a few minutes about telling him my mistake. He is sitting at the counter, smiling at me, and I decide not. Why fuel the fire so there can be more to make fun of me at over Christmas dinner? I quickly Tupperware up the soup, change the subject and carry on into the evening. I had a bowl this afternoon and I smiled.

For lake water, it isn’t half bad.

Time to Shine

2010-11-03T11:22:00.000-07:00

In transition currently (aren't we always evolving?) feels to me like you're sitting on the sidelines waiting for your time to shine.

Gathering your strength slowly, plugging back in, coming to the mirror to face yourself. A time for bolstering your spirit, your gumption, your energy. You harness your plans and goals and visions. You ask yourself big, bold, necessary questions. You walk on the journey towards these beautiful ideas, sometimes taking only little steps. It's as though in order bask in the glory of what you create in your life you first need to lay the foundation, putting the bricks together to make your glorious (albeit figurative) House of Higgins.

So I had to chuckle this morning when I read the parental wisdom that has reached me across the country, without me even asking, but needed it anyway.

Well said, Mum. Well said.

She loved her life and it loved her back. -Kobi Yamada

The Fall Chronicles

2010-11-02T11:11:00.000-07:00

Assorted Journal Entries: August 23, 2010- November 2, 2010

August 25, 2010
Going back to Europe was the dumbest idea I have had lately. I am miserable in the scorching heat, I am covered in mosquito bites and I have been lost in the wilderness for three days straight trying to get ready for this walking trip. I haven't slept through the night yet. Dumb. Dumb.

August 29, 2010
Got a postcard from Mindy AND my Grandma. Things are looking up.

August 30, 2010
46 days until Jon comes.

September 1, 2010
Today I took a group 2 kilometers down the wrong road on our hike towards lunch. When confronted with the fact I was clearly lost I smiled and asked the group if now or later was a good time for everyone else to share times they'd screwed up at work. I actually didn't do the last part, but it would have been funny if I did. I smiled. I also lied.

September 7, 2010
An old man scolded me in Italian at Iper Coop today. I think it was a scolding, he frowned a lot and waved his cane around but unfortunately I couldn't understand him.

September 9, 2010
SCORE! I found soy milk in Italy. Things are looking up for Holly Higgins.

September 12, 2010
I think I had too much espresso this morning. Just one double but my hands wont stop shaking and I just spent three hours cleaning the leader house, went on a 70km bike ride and followed that up with an hour of running. It is only 11:35am.

September 15, 2010
One month until Jon comes. One month and ten days until I am home.

September 18, 2010

A man on trip bullied me into letting him wear my shoes. Then he rode 110km in them barefoot in the 30degree heat. I think this is a FML moment.

September 24, 2010
A woman watched me drool over her cliff bars she brought from the USA all week on trip. On the last day she gave me her remaining four! I did a happy dance! I put them into my messenger bag. Ten minutes later she came back and told me she made a mistake and that she would need them back. I gave them to her. But weren't they a gift...? I don't know if I should laugh or cry.

September 28, 2010
A really rad birthday abroad. Tons of phone calls, emails and texts from all over the planet. I am so lucky. I even witnessed a stage race WHILE I was cycling.

October 1, 2010
25 people on this next trip. I am tired. Today I prepped 31 bikes. Not happy.

October 3, 2010
This trip is ridiculously busy. But I love my Italian co-leader. She is really funny.

October 8, 2010
Cried myself to sleep because I can't believe I saw my whole family on skype in Toronto and I wasn't there.

October 12, 2010
I am sicker than I have been in years with a cold that has bowled me over. Sometimes I ride my bike for 15 km then hide behind a garbage can while praying I will see the van so I can get a secret lift forward.

October 15, 2010
Jon is here and I am so happy! I am still very sick.

October 18, 2010
I made Jon really sick. Oops.

October 19, 2010
Cinque Terra was amazing! I am thrilled I got to see a new part of the country.

October 24, 2010
I can't believe we're already going home. I can't wait to be back in Calgary.

October 27, 2010
This transition home is flawless! I can't believe I was worried.

October 30, 2010
This transition home has been harder than I thought. I am tired and not sleeping through the night yet. I am plauged with endless questions about the future! I also tried to train like I hadn't just taken seven weeks easy. The result is a body so sore that daily tasks like dish washing, hair shampooing and car driving are painful.

November 2, 2010
What a fun weekend. I love the Halloween spirit... ever since my Mom dressed up and scared children into peeing their pants on our front porch in St. Albert (true story). Hillary and I got into the spirit with a small orange pumpkin, some old decorations bequeathed to us from Mum and some entertaining. I went to a Barn Party in De Winton on Saturday. Also awesome.

I do not know what this month will hold. Certainly more random journal entries.

That Friend

2010-10-25T07:45:00.000-07:00

We all had them in our lives. Maybe you still do.

It's that friend you really want to love. She is beautiful, strong, smart and savvy. She is worldy, amusing, entertaining and makes good pastries. She is musical. She is athletic. She is full of all sorts of information, ambition and wisdom. She is just someone you want to be near.

The problem with her is that she is completely unreliable. She constantly and consistently lets you down. She cancels plans, shows up late, arrives underdressed and unprepared for occasions. She gets too drunk at parties, loudly swaying inbetween your other sober guests, telling them embarrasing stories and insisting on another round of shots. She flirts with your boyfriend, reads your mail, borrows your clothes and then ruins them. She is That Friend.

You swing between loving her and hating her. She has all these enduring characteristics that should make her not only a fabulous human being, an all round good gal, a Jane of many talents, a woman of good moral fabric. And she sits and holds your hand through a difficult period, and the very next day she wont return your calls or texts, borrows a huge sum of cash from your wallet without you knowing and slaps you in the face when you see her next.

Your Friend is Italy.

So many people love her. Rave about her. Are romanced by her delicious liquids and rich history. She has chruned out Politicians, Artists, Philosophers, Architects of note. She attracts people globally to come and play in her vast and stupefyingly beautiful backyard. She is loving, patient and kind.

She is an also an absolute bitch.

She produced mobs, gangs and men who enjoy grabbing womens asses on crowded trains. She produced poor drivers and angry people who scorn you for not knowing their language. She produced vegetables served only doused in ridiculous amounts of oil. She throws her unusual weather patterns from extremely hot still sticky to gusting wind and fog that will change in a heart beat according to her own mood and desires. She loves to laugh haughtily at the scores of people in her home. Fools, she mocks them at times, drifting in just enough to produce a prolific head wind on a 10km, 10% hill climb.

As I depart from her, standing at the airport leaving me with a luke warm cappuccino, a poor excuse for a pastry and the aching desire for a North American breakfast, and the sight of words written in english I pause. Her send off is a lurid mix of a big hug and kisses on the checks to a swift kick in the ass, a middle finger in the air and a big old F*** YOU.

Rolling back into the warm arms of Canada I know I will spend some time pondering and reflecting on our friendship and its relevance, impact and importance of these last two months. Coming off of a foreign escapade always finds me a little nostalgic, a little sad, a little puzzled, very happy, incredibly excited and somewhat relieved. I can't think too much about her and yet she demands my attention and thought, still. I don't understand her cunning ways and secretive smile, and yet she leaves me with more to chew, swallow and digest.

Or, to borrow the words from Sarah Mwila, after I spend some time contemplating, I will "remerge after time and will focus on making me a better form of me."

Well said by an actual girlfriend.

Actigrip

2010-10-16T08:29:00.000-07:00

Mum once bought me drugs from a Walmart in Mexico (please note that despite the rampant flu ravaging my body, I still refused to enter the store) when I was under the weather on a family trip we took. The only thing she told me was that the yellow pill was for day, green for night. I took a green and slept thirteen of the most solid hours of my life.

I was reminded of this moment as I stood inside the Farmacia at the train station trying to describe my symptoms (sadly, both 'Homesick' and 'Decongested' are not words listed in my Italian dictionary) to a tired looking lady. I pulled out of my pocket an empty pill package and asked for "This".

One of the other sick leaders in the house had given me the pill and the empty package was all I had left. That small pill gave me several hours of relief from the cold that has been tearing me apart for the last few days during the final lengthy work stretch in Italy. The fact that the Universe would bestow on me such a gnarly cold was poetic justice for my ending to my time here in Italy.

She produced the box of pills, and with regular drugging since last night I am happy to report I feel somewhat like a human again and not a robot although the last fourteen days have been a long haul. The two trips back to back finished without too much heartache, hassle or overall ruckus. My mental well-being took a serious nose dive mid way through the first trip and it became a crawl to the end, the finish line I crossed uneventfully yesterday at the leader house. I looked to my co- leader of the week. "We Good?" "Yup." And just like that, my fourth year of guiding comes to a close.

I took a train into Florence, discovered the joy of Actigrip and continue to pop the pills. Not a pill popper by habit, the thought of not treating a cold with lemon ginger honey tea, loads of vitamin c, sleep, and girly moves is outweighed by trying to have a fabulous time with the man I have missed like crazy for the last two months.

So pop the pill I do, out the door we step, into a petite Italian Holiday before the journey back home.

The Wall

2010-10-09T10:22:00.000-07:00

Triathlete magazine had a brilliant article about it a couple months ago titled, 'What Quits First, The Body or The Mind?' The article went on to argue that the physiological capacity exists to in your body to continue, finish or complete a physical task but the brain can and will override the entire system. It's just like a daily limit on your bank account; you might know you have enough funds to continue withdrawing cash, but the machine says No.

Having Bonked as an athlete, student, while working in marketing and as a leader, I can say (with great pride) I haven't been to that place too many times. But when I arrive the feeling is all too familiar.

One leg won't go in front of the other. You cannot swallow, throw up or think. You notice your audible breathing. You are light headed and seeing stars or you are dizzy and seeing dark. All reasonable, logical, complete thought ceases to exist. You are at the mercy of your emotions, your brain reduced to one single thought.

You Can't Do It.

It doesn't matter what IT is, physical, emotional, tangable task. Body Says No. Mind Says No. Everything stops working. Life is insurmountable and you are a oozy ball of goo that can't make anything happen.

Laying on the granite floor in the bedroom I can count the dustbunnies under the bed. I can feel my eyebrows knitted in tension. It's Saturday in my world but I have stopped knowing the Days, only the number I have left. Days. Nothing exists outside my small mind huddled in its own misery. I have my knees curled up in fetal positon and the only thought I possess is that I Can't Do It. I can't finish prep day I can't lead this trip, I can't be a good leader, I won't make it to Friday, I can't move from this position on the ground.

I Can't.

I lay on the floor until my phone rings. There is still hours of work to be done. It is my sister.

She raw raw raws me and I cry cry cry on the floor. My mind says No. We finish the conversation and I sit up for a moment.

With every ounce of energy I can gather up I walk to the bathroom and run cold water through my platinum bleach blonde hair (another blog for another time, this is what happens when you go to a hair dresser that speaks no English and you try to explain in detail what you want using your extremely limited communication skills) put eye cream under the huge dark circles and recall every major get up and go song ever played in a football stadium. And then I move.

There is still work to be done.

Lago de la awesomeness

2010-10-01T14:58:00.000-07:00

LAGO, that's LAKE in Italian.

When I walked along the Italian Lakes with Jayne we talked and laughed and talked and contemplated and talked.

My throat got sore from talking and I was tired. Fourteen days of straight work will do that to a girl. The ol' body anticipates the same again. Starting Saturday. Fourteen days of Working Straight. Balance that. Find time to call home, eat well, go running, keep smiling, serve the folks: good, bad, ugly and otherwise. They might borrow your precious shoes and go barefooted. They might give you a gift and ask for it back. They might share their stories, kind words, acts of hope and wisdom.

Or, they might not.

Funny because Fourteen Days of Holiday goes by in a blink or two; fourteen days of straight work is a hellish blend of time laughing in your face and you reaching for the light at the end of the tunnel on October 15th.

Your journey to the Lago el awesomeness was via Autostrada. Gas Stations. More talking, the act of being away more important than any other current act. Refuelling the tank entirely seems impossible improbable and completely unlikely.

Lake Orta was beautiful. Lake Como was busy. You bought chocolate though, and that was sweet (in more ways than one).

The tank was refuelled, maybe by half. Or a third. No, let us go with a half.

Life in Italy is Complicated. You can't even understand the signs.

You rolled over and August became October and somewhere in there you turned Twenty Seven; somewhere in there you participated in an unplanned wine crawl over Florence that left you running for a regional train and praying to God above that you wont vomit on Trentalia, because that seems like something a Twenty Seven year old probably shouldn't do. But the kind people in Italy made cards and chocolate and notes and you got messages and love from all over the world. The nice house people made you special Birthday desert. YUM.

You miss the connection from Como in Milano to Firenze so you check your baggage with your choppy nasty minimal Italian and hoof the streets for a couple hours. You see a woman riding a bike in Louboutin boots and think of sister. One photo on a dreary afternoon is the only evidence to suggest the existence of this afternoon.

Think excessively about Death Valley and how much the Desert misses you. Maybe how you miss the Desert. Think about the year. Worry in small doses about winter employment. Think often of British Columbia. Think often about buying a new bike. Think of how you are sneakily and illegally going to park your car for free in the parkade of the PLACE THAT YOU ACTUALLY LIVE.

There are ups. There are downs. There is an emptiness in the loneliness that comes from missing hugs and loves and simple dinners where you don't have to dress up and sit for three hours at a time. There is the twisting in your guts every time you think about missing Thanksgiving. Not just the sweet potatoes because they are your favorite and NOT only BECAUSE they are orange.

There is a longing for sweat pants and mindless books to read. There is a longing to go for a walk at night, be in bed before 10pm and trashy TV. To spend time with people you CHOOSE to spend time with. For actually crossing things off the 'Current Projects' list. For movement. Not lateral. Not jumping. Forward. And that walk you like that takes you to that park that shows off the Calgary skyline at night at winter in dark it is the most beautiful.

This week you also found your Mom a new dog. Buddy. Or... in Italy, Piccolino (little guy).

You are strong for this. Strong like bull. Mind strong. Like all the weeks during University when you color coded every day every moment filled with things. These lessons and others translating into a beautiful experience. Fortitude. Effort. Attitude. Inner strength. Soul Strength. Choice.

Onto the train. On ward home. Like a hike that has a stream crossing. Or like a narrow drive you navigate through.

The only way out is through it.

Really Bad Start

2010-09-23T10:09:00.000-07:00

At 4:10am Sunday morning I woke up with a curious problem. My head was wet. Not wet, I have had a nightmare and sweat a little. Half my head, my hair was soaking wet, as though I dunked my head under the sink. Half my head. I fumble for my head lamp on the top bunk that I have cleverly rigged to hang off the cheap iron. I light up my small upper sleep nest to discover the open window has flung open in the storm and drenched half my bed. Half, not all.

Another curious problem I discover at this particular moment, as my room is illuminated with lightening as the storm rages outside is that I am being bitten by mosquitos. I can hear them buzzing around my head. I get up, change clothes, get earplugs, spray myself down with bug repellent. And go back to bed where I sleep fitfully until 6:40am- I have overslept my alarm on day one of a cycle tuscany by twenty minutes.

I frantically rush around in the small light of my headlamp when our house alarm goes off. Someone has opened a window without disarming it. Chaos continues as people fumble to turn off the screeching siren. I work quickly to pull myself together. My co-worker and I put bikes on top of the van. It is raining. I go to pull out of our narrow, slightly uphill driveway to a sickening crunch. Sickening because although I am going 5km an hour, I have hit the side of the house with the side of the van. I slowly back up. I slowly pull forward. We drag the awkward Euro trailer up the driveway and hitch on the street. I mourn the loss of my somewhat perfect driving record and we make short work of getting on the road. I turn the ignition over. The van is empty.

I want to swear for every good cuss word I have ever used, but my brain moves forward at rocket speed; I don't even have time to swear. The situations deteriorates as I remember today is Sunday and we live in hickville Tuscany were nothing is open. Gas stations require attendants to pump, "open 24 hrs" is virtually impossible. I drive around San G looking for a rare pay at the pump before I decide to hit the autostrada in hopes for a gas station and a seemless drive 1.5 hours to the cheese farm where our first day picnic is.

I take the turn for the autostrada and in my frantic, frazzled moment, realize I have pulled forward into a line that is a 'fast pass' when I need to pull a ticket. I throw on the hazards, beg forgiveness the very best can in Italian to the cars behind me who make lurid hand jestures as I back up a van and trailer down a steel walled que. Into new line. Get ticket. Go. Find an Auto Stop, do the worlds fastest van fill. Go. Go. Go.

The country side whizzes by at rocket speed and it begins to rain. First there are little drops and then it begins pouring, Ireland-style. I turn on the window washers and try to watch for my exit signs. I manage to turn off once, twice, three times correctly. The day is looking up. And then... a flock of birds decend on my car. I try to yell at them because I see them headed to suicide on my bikes on the roof. I hear a sickening CLUNK and I see that a bird has flown into the side of the bikes, whirled off the roof and died. I pull over in the rain and go running to the dead body of the bird. I might look like a terrified herione in a horror movie, drenched in rain, screaming in the dark morning at the top of her lungs over the bird that has died. Because I love Birds I am especially choked. I wish I could do something for it. It lays at the side of the road. In this moment, I completely hate my life.

I get back in the car, now soaking wet, and finish the drive and cry all the way to the picnic site. I set up the picnic under the small shelter and then lay out 18 bikes in the pouring, soaking rain. I go to the bathroom and look at my face, I look like I have stood under the shower in my clothes all morning. I am exhausted. I am wet. I am very, very weary... and I haven't even met any of the people on our trip yet. I look myself in the eyes in the mirror. It's time for a pep talk. I give my dark eyed circled, ravenous, tired self the very best self- motivating talk I can come up with. I was in the middle of pointing at myself in a very convincing soliloquy on why I am awesome and should get my shit together when I farmer walks into the bathroom carrying a wet dog and we exchange a glance wherein we both understood no words need to be spoken. He looks at me. I look at him. I hear the bus pull up outside with the vacation folks. Time to begin the week.

Effect vs. Event

2010-09-18T06:54:00.000-07:00

Often times guests will ask me what about home I am missing. Sometimes the answers come quickly and easily (I don't even count family and friends as an answer, this is simply a given) and often times I will remain stumped at this very simple query.

Among recent answers I have given: taps that turn in the "proper" (ie: North American) direction, newspapers in english, door knobs not handles, not having to translate every word, sign and paper you see/ read/ touch/ encounter (albeit likely this would change in time with more language lessons) crunchy natural peanut butter and raspberry jam on spelt grain bread sandwiches, and coffee.

In the land of all things 'cafe' (cited as both the name of the institute and what it serves) as a coffee and caffine lover I should be in absolute heaven. After all, nothing delights me more than a small dark americano or a soy coffee misto. Even a small dark roast coffee with a bit of cream and brown sugar can put a serious smile on my face and a spring in my step. However missing "coffee" here isn't the delicious drink itself I refer to, but the actual social intercourse in which I like to enjoy it in.

We didn't grow up with coffee being part of our daily routines, my parents were infrequent coffee drinkers although they come from stock where coffee is an integral part of the daily routine. To me, the presence of the coffee pot meant something special was coming: Christmas morning, a long weekend with my Aunts, Uncles and cousins, a friend or two coming over for a visit. I came to associate coffee with special moments, events or occasions. Waking up to the smell of coffee brewing for me brings about the pavlov dog response of immediate happiness. Surely something special must be occurring outside my bedroom door as the heavenly aroma wafts upward to my sleepy self if coffee is in the air.

My Grandma and I will frequently have a coffee date, a time where we will walk, drive or meet somewhere to visit over a hot cup. My siblings, various friends and I will do the same, "going for coffee" evolving into the social interaction of sitting together, opening a conversation, starting a thought or idea, sharing our lives. It means lingering somewhere to laugh, cry, visit and banter. Alternatively, I can render just as much enjoyment out of walking to a coffee shop with a journal, pen and book, sitting with a cup of coffee, writing, jotting ideas, people watching. This little pause in my day sometimes is just the period I need to break away from the routine I find myself in, and grab a little piece of time for me alone. I find it soothing. I find it a happy moment. I walk away from that break refreshed, refocused and with a lift in my step.

I would be lying if I said I didn't at times drink coffee for the effect (I still try to self regulate to three cups a week or less) but I would have to argue the way it is consumed is as much a part of the enjoyment as the warm buzz it can give me.

In Italy, I find myself fumbling with this very discourse I have come to understand as part of my North American life. We are not to sit, linger, visit, laugh over a steaming cappuccino, in fact this is strongly discouraged by often increasing the price for a cup if you choose to stay (copeto- cover charge) and the tables are often small and not readily accessible. Almost all Italians take their coffee small, short, dark and standing. Come in, shoot, leave. Like being pushed towards a bar in a nightclub while all chaos breaks loose around you, except it is little old Italian ladies, women with strollers, men in suits, kids on skateboards shove, push, chatter and press forward to the bar. Shoot an espresso. Walk away.

This past week on our seventeen person cycling trip, mid way through the trip my co-leader and I find ourselves on a short, blissful break from our people. We plow through lunch and walk to the nearest bar (read: cafe) and order. I ask for Cafe Americano (espresso with hot water), add a small amount of milk and sugar and stand akwardly in my sweaty bike clothes, flanked by other folks hovering around the bar, feeling pressured to put back my cup at a speed. I sip back the last of the liquid quickly, the hotness stinging the back of my throat, not enjoying any moment of the swallow but rather in fifteen minutes relishing in the effect the caffeine has on my system.

Somehow what I miss about this is the event of it all, not the effect of what it does to my body. In all of what I miss, I am very much looking forward to returning home, walking to Bumpy's, Beano or HG for a hot cup of coffee. More so, I am looking forward to whoever might be waiting for me on the other end to share it with.