if you're wondering if i want you to

Driving to Nova Scotia this summer changed my life. I think about those drives every single day. Every day. And today, I realized something.

Those drives were the happiest times in my life. Looking back, there is not one time in my life where I have been more elated.

Waking up at 4AM, packing up the car and heading out onto the road. I had a special playlist I made--it was 18 hours long, just in case--and I listened to it on both trips. Watching the sun start to rise in my rearview mirror across Quebec at 6AM was a pretty sight.

I love every single moment of those 4 fourteen hour drives I did. They were incredible. I remember every gas station I stopped at. I'd never let the tank go lower than 1/4, since sometimes the gas stations were few and far between. I'd get out, swing my torso side to side to crack my back, shake out my legs and start filling the tank. I'd yawn and give my joints a few cracks, getting loose again. I'd reach into the back seat, pull out my 10-cup thermos and fill my travel mug with another shot of coffee--then it was back in the car and off I went.

I remember the 10-mile stretch of construction in Eastern Quebec that slowed me down a bit. It seemed to go on forever, winding up a dirt mountain with no rails. I passed a town called "St-Louis de Ha!-Ha!" and proceeded to crack up over it. "Sleeping Sickness" by City and Colour was playing on the radio.

I slipped into New Brunswick without ever really being sure when I did, since all I saw was "New Brunswick Tourist Information" on a street sign. Some highway signs in New Brunswick are blue. It seemed calmer than the ugly green Quebec insists on using.

My GPS lost signal for two hours crossing through New Brunswick. On my first trip I panicked, but when it did it again on my second trip, I knew to just keep going straight. I was on the "2" autoroute, and as long as I kept seeing that, I knew it would turn into the 104 in Nova Scotia and then I'd be "home."

It's weird, but that's how I consider Nova Scotia. It feels like home.

New Brunswick has winding roads through deep pink, red and orange rock formations. I had been driving for about 7 hours already, only halfway there, when I noticed what was surrounding me. My ears popped a lot, since it's so hilly and just beautiful. The speed limit there was 110, but I cheated and stuck to 118. It's not that I wanted to get to my destination faster, but with a leg propped up against the door to stretch my hips, the sunroof open and my sunglasses on, I wanted to go faster. I turned my iPod off driving through New Brunswick. I wanted to hear the wind.

There's a good stretch of about 70 miles through New Brunswick with no gas station or rest stop. Throughout the entire thing, on my left was blue, beautiful ocean and trees. Just nature. The giant rock formations on my right were red and orange and pink, leading you up the mountains and back down again. There's not a trace of civilization in sight.

I like being the different licence plate. I still saw a fair bit of Quebec licence plates when I just crossed into New Brunswick, but as I got deeper into the province, it became all New Brunswick and Nova Scotia plates. People would honk and give me a thumbs up on the highway. When I stopped for gas in Moncton, NB, the guy beside me whistled.

"Helluva drive, eh?"

I laughed. I wasn't even halfway done yet.

At 1:00PM I had already been driving for 9 hours. In the early afternoon, I tend to get really sleepy. When I gassed up I pulled to the side, reclined my seat and lowered the windows to take a little nap. I love long drives, but they're hard on the eyes sometimes. After resting for 15 minutes, I was refreshed enough to keep going.

I hit Nova Scotia after 10 hours of driving. The entry to the province is presented by a big lighthouse and flower arrangement. The road suddenly turns light red, and the 2 autoroute becomes the 104 and has a little Scotland flag underneath every sign. The road sign said Amherst, and I was confused since I had seen an Amherst in New Brunswick. I thought I might have been going to wrong way, but the fog cleared up soon enough.

I remember the road signs approaching Cobequid Pass, telling you to get your $4 toll charge ready. I paid mine with a roll of quarters. Once I passed through, I had no idea which part of Nova Scotia I was in...I'm still not sure.

Even after 10 hours, I felt like I could have driven 10 more. The air is different in Nova Scotia. It's vibrant. Vivid. It's incredible. It smells like ocean and trees.

After another hour of driving on the two-lane 104 East, I started to recognize some towns that sounded familiar. Lower Sackville, Bedford, and finally, Halifax.

Before I knew it I was, somehow, driving right through Cole Harbour. I'm not sure how I pulled that off, but it happened on both trips and it doesn't make any sense. The route that I was driving, I should have ended up smack in Halifax. Instead, I ended up across the Harbour in Dartmouth and had to cross the Angus L. Macdonald bridge to get into Halifax.

The bridge toll is 75 cents. There are four lanes and the fog makes it a little scary at night, especially since I had to make a sharp right turn at the end of the bridge onto a road that quite literally spits you into the middle of busy downtown Halifax.

At 8:30PM Montreal time--9:30PM Halifax time-- I remember pulling up to the hotel and reluctantly handing the valet my keys. He put my luggage on the trolley, closed my trunk, and let out that low whistle when he saw my licence plate.

"What've you been driving for a week? Jeez!" he laughed heartily.

I wish I had been.

I don't remember much about the drives home, mostly because I was sad to be leaving. I always ended up leaving Nova Scotia later in the morning than planned because I over-accounted for the hour I'd gain on the way back, and simply because I just didn't want to go back. It poured rain at some point during the drive.

I remember stopping at a Tim Horton's when I was at the most northern tip in Nova Scotia, nearing New Brunswick--I think it might have been Truro. After walking back to the car with my bagel, I popped the back hatch and sat cross-legged in it, watching the cars whirl by on the highway. I had a few sips of coffee and a cookie dough cupcake I saved from Susie's Treats on Dresden Row. I had gotten it that morning because I knew I'd need a sugar rush.

I remember pulling back into my driveway after 14 hours and feeling like I had just driven 14 hours in the wrong direction. I shouldn't be in Montreal. This is not home.

One moment will stick with me forever. It was at 10:30 at night, on the Halifax Harbourfront near where the ships dock. I was polishing off a Sugar's maple fudge ice cream cone, sitting on a bench. I was all alone, it was dark out save for a few lights lining the harbour. The lights reflected off of the ocean below them, casting an eerie yet comforting glow. I listened to the sound of the small waves. The air smelled like saltwater and summer. This is home, I thought, this right here.

And then, the three words that haunted my entire second trip came into my head in a manner so clear that I thought somebody had spoken them aloud to me. I haven't told a soul what those three words were. But when they happen, I will.

Those drives, those trips, changed my life. They are the happiest times I've ever had, alone for 14 hours, with nothing but open road and a faraway concept of home.

I can't wait to move there this summer. I think a part of me will die if I have to fly there.

meet me halfway

The holidays always make me a little melancholy. In a world that seems to be made for coupledom, being single is not only annoying, but it's completely impractical.

the more I analyze and try to figure out what I want, the more I realize the type of relationship--the only type--that I could survive in probably doesn't exist.

I want things from all ends of the spectrum. Companionship. I want somebody to run their hands through my hair, somebody that knows how I take my coffee and surprises me with one in the morning.

But I don't want somebody who has to constantly touch me because I like my own bubble of space, and I can't stand being snuck up on. I don't like it when somebody comes up behind me and puts their arms around my waist--it makes me so squeemish and visibly uncomfortable. I want somebody who is okay with being physically affectionate only when I'm okay with it.

I'm just not sure how what I want could ever jive realistically, I have too many "things". My friends know to never whisper in my ear or touch my neck, because for some reason, those two actions cause me to irrationally lash out. My parents used to tickle my baby fat as a kid and no matter how much I kicked and screamed for them to stop because I hated it, they just thought it was funny. Pretty sure that scarred me for life. But try explaining to your significant other why you just wolloped him in the face because he got too close to the area.

I think the biggest issue is that I want companionship--a relationship, even though I choke on the word--on my terms. And as soon as somebody else is involved, it can never just be your terms.

And I've always been far too stubborn to compromise.

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.