climbing up on solsbury hill

I don't believe in monogamy.

That's not to say that I don't believe it exists, but rather I don't believe it works.

This is not to excuse cheating by any means. Cheating is a cowardly, dirty act and shouldn't be excused under any, ANY circumstances. I don't care how horrible your significant other is, break it off before you stoop low enough to cheat.

I don't believe in monogamy because people lie. More to themselves, which is probably more dangerous.

People lie to themselves that they're happy, satisfied. They lie and tell themselves that hey, it's okay to settle.

For awhile now, I have been surrounded with hockey players from the NHL and various other pro, semi pro and minor leagues. Hockey players can be great friends that will always make you laugh, but as trusted significant others, there's probably no worse scum out there.

I hate to generalize. But it's hard not to, when it's all I see day in and day out. There may be a few good--truly good--guys buried in the boondocks of the hockey world. But until I meet them, I'm entitled to generalize. I've seen enough to earn the right to.

Guys that you think are good can fool you. I've had some fantastic, intelligent conversations with ones that I thought had good hearts, a good head on their shoulders, only to have them come to me the next day and let me know that a newspaper might be publishing a sexually explicit photo of him and 3 other women in a comprimising position, taken the night before and please not to let his wife see it.

These men have wives. Kids. Families.

And they lie.

It's a little unnerving that so many of the wives know about the infidelities and hang around anyway, for the money. Almost every married NHLer has a pre-nup clause where the wife gets a few million if he's caught cheating. A few extra million if they have kids.

I'm no sap. I'm not even a romantic. But I've gotta feel something if I'm going to stick around--and that feeling has nothing to do with money or gold or luxury cars.

Then again, the people you choose to hang out with are a reflection of yourself. A guy who is no damn good isn't going to have a great woman at his side. he's going to have his female equal.

Being in that world jaded me.

People lie.

And yeah, maybe it's worth the try anyway. But to me, it isn't. I'm not going to jump off a cliff if I know my parachute isn't going to open.

It can be even simpler. The girl that falls in love with a guy she's been dating for 2 weeks. She's lying to herself, and to him. But hey, lying to yourself in that case is better than sitting down and trying to figure out why you form attachments so suddenly, almost desperately.

Because nobody wants to think about that. That's not pleasant. It's much happier to smack the "love at first sight" label on it than try to figure out what the hell is making you lie to yourself.

The girl that "chooses" to be single because there's no prospects right now. She's lying to herself. She's not choosing to be single--she's being forced to be single, and it drives her so nuts that she lies and pretends it's voluntary.

People lie. And until they stop, monogamy, relationships, trust isn't going to work.

I don't believe in forever, because I've never seen it. And if you
do believe in forever without ever having witnessed or experienced it, then guess what?

You're lying.

it's my biggest wish

I love baking for people. It was something I started a few years ago. I was never much of a baker, my cakes and cookies would somehow turn out gooey in the middle yet completely burnt on the bottom. When you're not good at something, you tend to give it up.

I poured my heart into it, and slowly I developed the baker's knack. The knack for altering recipes if something doesn't seem quite right, a knack for decorating, and more importantly I reached a truce with my oven when it stopped ruining my delicious endeavours.

Baking slowly started to make me very zen. There's something lovely about mushy butter and bright colours for frosting, about the whir of an electric mixer and licking the wooden spoon. Something about the smell of cookies or cakes in your house. About meticulously placing eery sprinkle and non-pareil so that it looks just perfect. I've never been a good artist, but decorating the treats is my favourite part.

I love giving them to people, too. It gets to a point where I just have far too many cupcakes and cookies lining my counters--more than I could ever dream of eating. When I used to travel with the boys on the team, I'd bring them all of my baked goods and they'd annihilate everything in 30 seconds flat. They'd get buttercream all over their silk ties and have chocolate smudged on their noses, but it made them so happy. It's what earned me the affectionate "Cookie" nickname. They all swear that my chocolate chip delights are the best.

I still pop in to practice every now and then and drop off some boxes of treats. I love the look on their faces and their groans of approval. One particular player was recovering from shoulder surgery when we visited him in the hospital. When the nurse had left, I gently pushed a single chocolate cupcake with raspberry buttercream into his hand. He bit into it and swore it was the best thing he had ever tasted. Moments like that make me happy.

If I didn't have a career goal set in stone, I'd open up my own bakery. I am completely blissful when covered in flour and concentrating intently on tinting the frosting to just the right colour. It makes me zen. I've been known to spend entire days in the kitchen, spending hours alone on decorating a mere dozen cupcakes. I'd open up a chocolatier and pastry shop, all in one. I love making my own chocolate truffles and chocolate cake and turnovers and it would just be so joyous.

I could spend hours in bakeries. Because of my insatiable sweet tooth, I try not to for obvious reasons. But I love ogling the bright pastel colours of crisp Macarons, or wanting to lightly squeeze a dense chocolate brownie to judge the degree of squishy. I love staring at decorated cakes and smelling the butter chocolatines.

It's all so wonderfully decadent.

i used to be love drunk, now i'm hungover

So much negativity lately. A torn hip labrum that put me off the running map for 2 weeks is giving me a heavy heart.

Bring on the cold weather and the ticking time limit on my days of running outside, and it's almost torture.

Fall is my 2nd favourite season, but I dread this time each year because it means one thing: winter is on its way. I appreciate all seasons, but the darkness of winter gets me every year. I go to class in the morning and it's pitch black, and return from class in the evening with the same gloomy view. So much darkness isn't good for the mind.

The thought of turning 23 on Friday is bumming me out, for the mere fact that I'm wondering where the 7 years went from the time I was 16. It's crazy.

Crazy to think how much I've changed...and how much I haven't.

To beat the blues, it's time to acknowledge the little things that count. What makes my day, each time:

(*) That first sip of piping hot coffee in the morning.
(*) A heated blanket.
(*) Sour candy.
(*) A nice-smelling boy.
(*) A big, comfy sweatshirt.
(*) A banana split. With exta chopped nuts.
(*) A huge swig of ice cold Gatorade after a tough workout.
(*) Running as fast as you can for 100 feet.
(*) Warm rain.
(*) Being barefoot.
(*) Running barefoot.
(*) Oozing into consciousness without an alarm.
(*) Gooey pizza eaten straight from the box.
(*) Steaming coffee served in dark mugs.
(*) A pumpkin spice latte, with whipped cream, from Starbucks.
(*) Fun socks.
(*) The smell of coconut.
(*) Flip-flops.
(*) Ice cold beer.
(*) Big, dangly earrings.
(*) Driving standard.
(*) Thunderstorms.
(*) Salty ocean air.
(*) Warm muffins with butter.
(*) Staying in bed all day.
(*) The smell of fabric softener on clothes.
(*) The post-race meal.
(*) Worn-in, muddy cross-country spikes.
(*) Smores.
(*) A morning stretch and back crack.
(*) Hugs.
(*) Nothing but open road and a tankful of gas.

what i mean is all i need is a little emotion

Funny how I used to despise running on the mountain. Now it's become my little (big?) sanctuary. There's no denying that the 15 minutes STEEP STEEP hilly run to get to the mountain is a pain in the ass--I don't think I'll ever like that one. And the fact that it gets death-defyingly steep at the very end--when your quads are all WTF ARE YOU DOING--is just brutal.

But once you're on the mountain, it's gravel roads, thick greenery and various dirt/rock trails intertwining. It really is something. I run to the lookout a lot--the place near the top of the mountain that gives you the best view of downtown Montreal.

Of course, I look crazy there. It's a place a lot of people go to for dates. It seems really romantic until you make it a stop along your workout path, but whatever.

There's a trail that leads right to the center of the lookout. So everybody's dressed snazzy and smelling nice, making lovey eyes at each other--and every night at the same time I trip and spastically flail my way out of the trail (that last tree root always gets me) red-faced, heaving, sweating, hands-on-knees in short shorts and a tank top. I'm sure it literally looks like the forest just spat out this crazy-lookin', curly haired, gleamin' eyes goon from the deep. They all just cease what they're doing and stare at me while I gasp for air--it never fails. Everytime, I scare the hell out of everyone.

I'm like the creature from the deep. Loch Ness of the forest. Only it's not a forest. It's the Monument trail. But they don't know that.

After a short pause I guzzle some water, inevitably snort because I get some up my nose, and trot off. It leaves everyone quite confused.

I AM GLAMOROUS.

Although I suppose the trail got its revenge on me today. I was pretty fixated on a particularly large tree root and rock about 50 metres ahead. I was doing a tempo run, so I was keeping a pretty fast pace. I was so focused on getting ready to leep over the big rock, that I failed to notice the little one. My toe caught and I went flying ONTO the big rock. I crushed my hand pretty good and my right knee is totally banged up and scraped. Ho hum.

I don't feel very girly anymore. It's kind of depressing me. I'm always in work out gear. My hair never stays nice because I tie it up when I'm running and I'm always running. And because I'm always running I also don't wear make up. My legs are big. My shoulders ache.

Boo.

i am capable of really anything

When did my life become one giant training log? Jeez. Sometimes I look at the upcoming week's workouts and my stomach sinks with dread. It can all get pretty overhwelming sometimes. Nobody enjoys running fast intervals up a steep hill. But then I flip through my actual training diary and see myself getting faster and stronger--better times, higher pace, and I think it's all worth it.


It's strange to think that I'm actually running a lot LESS, distance wise, than I was before-but my runs now are so much more challenging. Hills and intervals and fast fast fast pace. I'm adding stuff to the workout plan, too. I know my coach knows what he's talking about, but when he puts "40-minute jog" on my workout plan, I'm not going to do that. I'm going to do an hour easy jog with a few intervals at the end. It can't hurt.

I came to a realization the other day that I haven't come to in awhile.

I like to run. That thought has evaded me for almost 3 months now. Before I joined the team I got into a pretty serious running rut--I hated the daily drudgery. I lost my will to do it, I no longer looked forward to it anymore. But running in the mountain, listening to my feet and my own rhythmic breathing(I leave my iPod at home now), I've re-discovered my joy for it. Running is fun for me. That's why, 6 years ago, I laced up my shoes a second time. And a third. And a fourth.

A lot of people don't talk about the weird things that happen to your body though, when you run a lot. Like, run a lot. I addressed a lot of these issues with my coach because y'know, it freaked me out. But apparently it's all normal.

And I want to be real so let's TALK ABOUT THIS.

First off, you get struck with sudden, panicky bouts of thirst where you feel like you'll melt if you don't consume a litre of water RIGHT NOW. The thirst gets so bad that it will wake you up at night. I have bottles of water stashed in my car, in my room, and in every purse.

You get wicked cravings for salt. Wicked cravings, and I hate salt. You sweat so much running that a million bottles of Gatorade don't have enough sodium to replenish your supply, and craving salty foods is your body's way of letting you know it needs something.

That's another thing, too. You start to crave weird things, like a pregnant lady. Pickled beets. Sesame crackers--and I hate those darned things glued together with honey. But now I can't get enough. Coach says to always, always let your body have what it craves. Runners have this insane ability to always put mind over matter--running is damn painful--so when your body wants something insane, you have to follow it and heed it's demand. It's your body's way of trying to tell you you're not getting enough of something. For instance--those sesame crackers? Wicked huge sugars in them. But I don't eat dessert and sugars are still a form of carb that your body needs as fuel. Not a good carb to get too much of, but you still need some.

You fall asleep. Everywhere. I used to be an insomniac. Sleep is your body's way of repairing itself--muscle fibers, tissues, everything is regenerated when you're asleep. Train yourself into the ground and you'll have a lot of repairing to do.

You'll feel enough pain to eventually just go numb. Accumulated tiredness and fatigue is what ends up getting a runner in the end. You can sprint up a hill all you want for two, three days. By the fourth day, you're lucky if you can clear a mile. The fifth day, you don't even know your own name. A constant ache has been ever-present in my quads, hamstrings, shoulders and hips since I started running competitively. It just always hurts. I look like an old lady when I get up from a chair or climb the stairs. Everything is sore and tender--but you learn to get over it. Because in the end, you have two choices: you can dwell on the pain, or you can shut up and pretend it doesn't hurt. It's sure as hell not going away, so why dwell on it?

Saying that you're constantly hungry is an understatement. After my run yesterday, I had two humongous bowls of pasta for dinner. An hour after that, I was hungry again so I had a chicken sandwich. Half an hour later, when I was ravishing, I had a bagel and cottage cheese before bed. This morning, I woke up feeling as if I hadn't eaten in weeks. Food is digested in a half hour flat, and you're starving again.

Your body starts to do weird things, some of which are gross, some are not. That ankle never cracked like that before. Was my pinky toe always blue? My quad never bulged like that. The skin on your toes isn't skin anymore, it's rough, rubbery, leathery callouses that are pretty gross to touch. It's like rawhide. And let's face it--you've got sweaty, techno-fabric rubbing tightly against your skin for extended periods of time in extreme heat. That's going to cause some issues. My sports bras started irritating the hell out of the inside of my arms, where it rubs as I run. You know what I had to do? I had to go out and buy lube. I'm not even kidding. It's called Body Glide. It's a special sports lube. But still. Ew. The guys on my team wear nipple guards.

My muscles twitch like crazy when I sleep. Rather violently, too. A lot of the time my own thrashing will wake me up. It's odd, but it's fast-twitch fibers repairing and cells regenerating and just sheer power and energy trying to expend and rest. I pity the next person I share a bed with.

You start to hear your own heartbeat--and I mean hear it. Anymore, I get kinda nervous when a place goes really quiet because I can hear my own heart beating, and I'm wondering if anybody else does. The heart gets so much stronger when you push it. It beats slower, but it beats with authority. I can feel it in my chest now, and I can often hear it when I lie down at night.

SO, all in all, being an athlete is kind of gross. And I'm trying to say that more. I'm an athlete. I never thought I was one and I still have qualms with saying it, but I think it's good for my confidence and self-image if I stop denying that I am one.

she's gonna get her way

We ran the timed mile tonight.

The mile is one of the toughest distances ever to race because it's too short to pace yourself, but too damn long to sprint the whole way through. It's 4 times around most track circuits. You can sprint one lap. All of a sudden, you're starting the second lap and you're winded. The third lap, you want to die. The fourth lap you run the life right out of you, and promptly heave when you're done.

I have no pride left, so let me just say I got owned again.

Going in, I had a goal not to come in last.

I totally came in last. I came in last by half the damn track--a good 200 feet. It was pretty degrading. We were split into two groups, the faster guys and the "slower" ones. The fast guys went first and were jogging slow laps around the track while we went at it. They kept cheering me on and saying "Keep at it Lisa!" and "You're almost there!" but it made me feel even worse because it was pity cheering.

Pity cheering is really discouraging.

I came in dead last, but man did I run my heart out on that one. I gave it everything I had and held nothing back.

I'm pretty sure the coach has no idea what to make of me. I suck, there's really no hiding that, but at the same time I am damn determined. Usually people that really suck get discouraged enough and quit, go on to something else. I'm still hanging around, getting my ass handed to me on a daily basis and maintaining a semi-positive outlook.

Oh well. I have heart, you have to give me that. It had rained for awhile and we run on a dirt track. By the time we were done, everybody was sweaty and covered head to toe in mud. Running back downtown from the track covered in dirt and grime and sludge, I felt more like a runner than I had in years.

And the good news about this running process is that the more I do it, the better I will become. Barring injury, if I run like this for a few weeks, I am not going to get worse.

The tough part is keeping it up for the next few weeks. It's a really, really tough workout. But I'll get there.I may not have the lungs or the legs or the V02 maxx or the anaerobic capacity--yet.

But I have the heart. And so help me god, that's all I need.

"I may never be the fastest runner, but I can always be the hardest worker."

in between the moon and you

Self realization #287492838:

I love, love, love swanky hotels.

Make no mistake, I can totally slum it. I backpacked across Europe for three weeks, sleeping in overnight trains and youth hostels across Germany, Switzerland, Italy, Rome, France, Austria--everywhere. There's something really earthy and neat about travelling on a penny.

But man, there is something about a ritzy, luxurious hotel that makes me swoon. I've loved hotels since I was a kid, but the really plush ones give me such a thrill that it's shameful. This all started awhile ago, but I think it intensified when I went to Halifax a few weeks ago. After two nights of sleeping on the wooden-board-lke beds in residence at Dalhousie University, I checked into the Marriott all alone. The giant, soft, feathery beds with a million pillows and blankets, the giant rainfall showers...ohhh all of it.

I can't wait to get out of this city again and just drive into the sunset. If all things go according to plan and exams don't get in the way, I'll be leaving on Friday.