Screw you, you damn stairstepper

When I was laid off, I was exercising up to five times a week. I'd head to the gym first thing in the morning and climb on the stairstepper. After 45 minutes, I'd do some lunges and pushups and arm work. Five times a week. That's pretty freakin' good.
Well, basically it was enough to keep the fat from creeping on because now that it's running season, I'm getting my (fat) ass kicked. No, my ass isn't that fat, but damn, I'm hurting.
I started a running class two weeks ago. A couple of years ago, when I was on mat leave, I was in the same running class and I was in the middle of the pack; some days, I was near the front.
Now, I'm last. Dead last. Way last. Completely last. Last last.
Today, I went out for a little five kilometre jog with my husband. Basically, we usually stop once for a one-minute walk. Today, I stopped 17 times. No guff. My lungs are hurting, my ass is jiggling and I'm out of shape - despite three months on the stairstepper.
And I've got just six weeks to get in shape for Beat Beethoven. Last year, just a couple of weeks before the race, I got a wicked virus and was too sick to function, much less run.
This year, I've got to do it.
Runners have to do eight-kilometres in less than 50 minutes - the time it takes the Kingston Symphony to finish playing. Two years ago, I did it in 45 minutes - 5:42 kilometres, which is pretty damn fast. I couldn't do that now.
So, for six weeks, there are no more easy workouts.
I will run three to five times a week. I will drink lots of water. I will ease off the carbs. And throw out the Easter chocolate I've been nibbling on. And I will start to take my asthma medications the way I'm supposed to.
I think I'm also going to get my ducts cleaned. And get that mattress cover the asthma educator told me I should get, whatever it takes to get my former-smoker lungs in top-notch shape.
And one more thing - screw you, stairstepper.
As Janet Jackson used to say: What have you done for me lately?
You suck. (Not you Janet, the stairstepper).

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Blood, black toenails and why you should always shovel your driveway

"What's wrong with your toenails?!" the paramedic said loudly enough that I could hear her upstairs.
She was in the top floor of our house, attending to my husband whose head was dripping blood on our floor. I was running around our kitchen, one floor below, trying to find my cellphone and where I'd dropped my car keys.
"He hurt his toes, too?" I thought.
"I'm coming!!!" I screamed as I ran up the steps to the paramedics and my sick and injured husband.
A few hours earlier, my husband and I had been enjoying a quiet day, relaxing on our one-year wedding anniversary. We'd celebrated with our family and friends the day before and, on our official anniversary, we were just taking it easy. After dinner, I tiptoed upstairs and put my husband's anniversary card on his pillow so he could open it when we were going to bed later that night. But a few minutes after dinner, he said he didn't feel good and went to rest on the couch. An hour later, he was much worse and so he went up to bed for the night. (This was really not the way I expected my anniversary night to go, but marriage is for better and for worse.) He'd put my anniversary card on my pillow, too.
"We'll open them tomorrow morning when you feel better, OK?" I told him.
I crawled into bed with my husband. He was clammy and restless - not feeling good. There was definitely no bow-chicka-bow-bow going on tonight.
Off to sleep I went, thinking warm thoughts about surviving our first year of marriage ...
BAM!
There was a loud thud in my house.
BAM!
Another one.
And then a crash.
I got up out of bed. In my tired brain, I thought my husband was crashing around in the kitchen, maybe do doing dishes – even though it just a little before 4 a.m. He wasn't there. He also wasn't in our bathroom.
And then I saw him, collapsed in the doorway of a bedroom.
His head was bleeding and he was unconscious.
I started yelling, screaming for him to wake up.
He didn't stir but my two-year-old son woke up.
I called 911. It was the first time I've ever had to do that in my life.
And then, probably from adrenaline, I went into a calm take-care-of-my-family zone.
I'd taken a CPR course a couple of years ago and I remembered the instructor said homeowners should always make sure paramedics can find their house, especially if it's dark and the weather is bad. I flew through my home, turning on every inside and outside light. Then I found my car keys and repeatedly hit the lock function on my keychain so my car's taillights would continually flash. I scooped up my son and put him on my bed with toys to keep him busy and then sat with my husband until the paramedics arrived (outrageously quickly).
(We got a good lesson in why you should always shovel your driveway. This was the weekend when Kingston had a major dump on Friday and then more snow Sunday morning and our driveway was full of snow, even though we'd shovelled it twice already that weekend. The paramedics could barely walk through our driveway and there was no chance of getting a stretcher up through the snow if there had been a serious problem.)
The paramedics checked out my husband and thought that he'd fallen and hit his head.
"So, he didn't have a heart attack? A stroke?" I asked.
They said they thought he was sick and had likely been lightheaded, fallen, and hit his head on a dresser. But they still wanted him to go emerg and get checked out.
Relieved, I set out through my home to find everything I needed to go to Kingston General Hospital - with a two-year-old at 4 a.m.
And then I heard one of the paramedics say: "What's wrong with your toenails?"
"I'm coming!!!" I screamed to everyone, bounding up the stairs, two at a time.
What could be wrong now?
And then, as soon as I got back to my husband, for the first time since the drama began half an hour earlier, I felt my family was going to be OK.
"Runner's toe," my husband said.
"It's from running a half marathon. Blood under the toenail."
"Well, that will teach you to do something silly like that then, won't it?" the paramedic said with a smile.
My husband smiled, too.
And I exhaled.
I've never been so happy to see his blood-filled, black and purple toenails.
In sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, in good toenails and bad.

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A well-heeled girl hits a low point

I've been having a low week. A very low week. I've felt flat. And my emotions have been constantly flip-flopping. I know what I need to elevate my mood; what I need to give myself a boost.
But I can't have them. Not yet.
My bad week started on Sunday when I met up with some girlfriends to go for a run. We met at one of their houses on a quiet, countryside road off Highway 15 in the city's east end.I was feeling good. It had rained the night before and the air felt damp and cool. My asthmatic lungs felt free. Breathe in. Breathe out.
I was so happy to be running and so happy to be chatting with my girlfriends, whom I don't get to see often.
And then - thud.
I had been running (and chatting) when my left foot hit the road's soft shoulder and I went down.
My left knee smacked loose gravel and my left hand automatically went down too to try and keep the rest of my body from tumbling. I heard my friend ask if I was OK.
Scraped hand. Dirt on my legs. Is that blood on my knee? Is that a piece of rock embedded in my hand? Wait, is that a second splotch of blood on my knee? I'm bleeding? From running?
Instead of having a motor mouth, I should have just been motoring and I wouldn't have fallen.
My pride kept me from stopping. I shook it off and kept going - another 9.5 kilometres in about an hour.
It wasn't until I finished the run and I was driving home that I realized it wasn't my knee or hand that was sore. It was my ankle.
When I got home, I limped into my house. Even when I've had low self-esteem, I've always, as silly as it sounds, loved my small ankles. No cankles here. (Dad: a cankle is when your calf doesn't taper at the ankle. Your leg looks like one long log. (Calf + ankle = cankle.)
But today, my plum-sized ankle had swollen to the size of an apple.
My husband ordered me to RICE it - rest, ice, compression and elevation.
(Did he forget we have an non-stop 22-month-old? I haven't had rest in two years. And I use all of our ice for my Diet Cokes. Compression? Decompression would be good. And elevation? Yes! That one I can definitely do if I can do it with shoes.)
I will always happily put on a pair of high-heel shoes to make myself feel better. Red patent-leather heels have chameleon-like powers. They can make you feel like a sophisticated lady or a sex machine.
"You know, Sarah," my husband said, while examining my ankle, "you're going to have to wear flat shoes to work tomorrow."
Not once, in nine years, have I worn flat shoes to work. Even when I was nine months pregnant, I wore my four-inch high heels every day (that's my wedding-day, high-heeled, happy foot in the photo above). And now, because of one fall, I have to wear flat shoes to work? Every day this week I had to wear running shoes or flip-flops.
I'm only five-foot-four (and a bit) and though I'm not now, I've been overweight - almost 50 pounds heavier sometimes - so heels have played an important role in my life.
Heels make you taller. When you look taller, you look leaner. And pointy-toed shoes elongate your body. Stacy London I'm not, but I've learned the tricks to make clothing slimming.
Am I shallow and insecure because I've let my footwear dictate my mood my all week? I don't think so. Some women get their confidence from dolling themselves up with makeup; some women like to accessorize with purses; some women love jewelry. I'm head over heels for high heels.
Don't understand the power of a heel? Spend a day walking in my shoes and you'll see.
And here is the rest of it.

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Chivalry Alive and Well in Kingston

So, a few of us mommies ran 15 kilometres on Sunday just for the heck of it.

But this blog is not all about me, as my biggest fan/anonymous poster will be relieved. (But seriously, you're still reading this every day. Why, I ask? Why?)

After our run, we returned to the parking lot where we'd left our cars. Our legs hurt. Our bodies were tired. Our minds were relieved the route had come to an end and we were all dreaming about what we'd eat for lunch. And I was dreaming about air conditioning because it was dang hot on Sunday.

Then, one of the runners realized she locked her keys in the car.

Her back window and her sunroof were open a little and we could see her keys on the passenger seat.

Oh no! What were us helpless ladies to do?

I ran (yes, I actually put my sore legs back in motion and ran - tho it was just across the street) to a bar and asked for a coat hanger while the other girls found down a man who, luck was obviously on our side, worked as a taxi driver in Montreal.

Not only did the bar give me the coat hanger, they gave me a guy to come over and demonstrate how to retrieve the keys.

A plan was devised. The coat hanger was stretched out so that the boys could pull a MacGyver and hook the keys onto the coat hanger. Then, they'd lift them up, ever so gently, and pull them out the open window.

All this manly man work drew two more men who wanted to come over and help/gawk and by the time we were done and had the keys back, we had four men, one coat hanger, and a firecracker to help us get the keys. (Don't ask about the firecracker. We really would've needed Richard Dean Anderson for that.)

The guys smiled, went back to what they were doing, and we were free to go home to our families and honeys.

I'm feeling optimistic. These were nice guys. Maybe there are nice guys left in the world because, let me put it to you this way: we were looking hot, not HOT so they obviously weren't doing it cause we were all dolled up, looking like we were interested, or something.

So thank you, gentlemen. Chivalry isn't dead.

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Yeah, I beat him

Every single year around March, I start to say that I'm going to run Kingston's Beat Beethoven race, a fundraiser for the Kingston Symphony.

The race is an eight-kilometre run through the city's street with the goal of making it to the finish before the symphony finishes playing a selection of his music.

You've got to make it in less than 50 minutes.

I've never tried the run because every year when the run would roll around I'd realize there was no way I could walk it, much less run it.

This year, I've been running since January and I was ready to beat Mr. Ludwig.

Last Sunday was blistering hot. We were all sweating before the race started. The Fiance was with our boy so I had to run by myself. I've never run a race alone. When I did the 10-kilometre a couple months ago, I ran with a friend.
This time, it was just me.

I had my heart set on beating Beethoven because I was sure this was the one time in my life when I knew I'd fit enough to actually take him on.

There were 400 runners registered this year. I didn't care if I came last, I just wanted to hear the symphony still playing when I crossed the finish line.

I've been training with Tracie Smith-Beyak since January, running twice a week plus doing two powerwalking sessions a week. We've learned to run downhill and downhill. We've worked on starts. We've worked on dips (I'll let you take one of Tracie's classes to figure that one out.) It was now or never.

I set off on a good pace and kept glancing at my watch to see how I was doing. I was cutting it close, I was sure.

It was so bloody hot that two people near me dropped and had to be helped by medical personnel but I had enough Diet Coke in me to keep me hydrated.

As I neared the finish line on Ontario Street, I was sure the clock said 49 minutes. I had just one minute to run all the way down the street and duck under the clock so I dug deep, all the way to brand new $170 running shoes and sprinted.

I don't know who it was but someone near the end was shouting "You can do it! Push it. Push it real good!" (Um, Ok, that sounds like Salt N' Pepa but you get my drift.)

I ducked under the clock and then threw up in my mouth.

But I made it in 45 minutes - (I mistook 44 for 49 minutes...) - and when you have a baby, you're used to a little barfy barf.




Check out my official stats here.

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Medusa and Me

I'm horribly afraid of snakes. They could give me a heart attack.
My fear is my father's fault. One day, when I was just a little innocent girl, I was in our old stationwagon with my dad at the cottage going to get wood for the fire.
We came to a large woodpile and started throwing logs into the back of the car.
I remember specifically asking: "Daddy, is there any way there could be snakes in these logs?"
"No," he said.
"Of course not."
"Don't be silly."
As we began the drive home, I felt something flutter on my leg. I swatted it away, thinking it was a mosquito. Again, I felt something tickling me. Again, I batted it away. When I felt it a third time though, I took a look.
There was a snake slithering around my feet and trying to climb my leg.
I screamed, my dad almost drove off the road into the lake, and I got out of the car and walked the rest of the way home.
Traumatic, I tell you.
Last week, I was powerwalking with a group of friends. I was heading toward our trainer when she yelled at me to stop. I thought I was just going too speedy. No.
In front of me were four massive charcoal grey snakes. No, they were not pussy garter snakes. These were the thickness of Twinkies and easily the length of a man's belt. The other women saw these devil creatures to verify this. I'm not exaggerating.
When we had to get on the ground later that session to do pushups and situps, I swear I almost fainted. I thought they were going to slither over my neck and get me.
Later that night, I went to a convenience store to buy a lottery ticket so I could win me $30 million. I was standing in line waiting for my turn when I felt like someone was standing too close to me.
I turned around to see just how close this shopper was. He looked normal enough for a young guy. He had dreadlocks, a sleeveless T, Doc Martens and a cute girl on his arm.
But wait - did I mention he had a freakin' snake around his neck?
True story - there was a man in a Kingston convenience store with a pet snake around his neck right behind me and he was sticking his little forked tongue out at me. The snake, not the man.
I almost died. And then I probably would have won the $30 million and not been able to collect it, seeing as I'd be dead.
My mother is ultra superstitious so we all believe things come in threes.
That meant I had another snake sighting to go.
The next day I checked out our front lawn before I got in the car.
Maybe I even checked the toilet to see if a snake was coming up out of our plumbing.
Maybe I even looked under my carseat just to make sure.
But I did see it.
Later that day, in front of me at a red light was a black Impala - and around its licence plate were metallic cobras.
I don't want to know what all these snakes mean. I asked my reverend friend and she didn't think God was out to get me so I'm not too panicked.
The morale of the story is always buy fake firewood.
Just don't get it at your local convenience store.





And here is the rest of it.

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No longer have a BF

Did you hear?
I fell off the face of the earth.
Well, that's not totally true. I just fell off the blogging world.

It's sorta like this: Tomatoes have always been my favourite food. I eat them on everything: bagels, potatoes, tacos, eggs, cheese. Then, starting in 2007, I just stopped buying them. All of a sudden they were acidic and just not that tasty.

Back in February, when I stopped blogging, it was beginning to feel like a chore. Family and friends were e-mailing and calling to question why I wasn't writing enough. More! they demanded.

So, of course, I gave them less.

Blogging, for awhile, seemed acidic. It was making me tired and irritable and I just didn't feel like doing it.

Today, for some reason, I felt like typing a tad.

So, I'll give you the quickie update and I promise to give you more in the days to come, OK?

1. Ran my first 10-kilometre race last weekend in 1 hour, 53 seconds. Damn those 53 seconds.

2. Went to the Ontario Newspaper Awards last month. I was nominated for best humour writing for my columns that appear in the Kingston Whig-Standard. Lost to a dad from Guelph who penned a piece on his vasectomy. I'm psychic though. I just knew I was going to lose to him. Still, I got a nice runner-up trophy. And I looked pretty. And looking pretty is all that matters. :)

3. Little Man is the cutest baby in the world. Fact.

4. Thought I was going to win the $38 million Lotto 649 last month. Obviously I didn't.

5. No longer have a BF. Shocking but true.

And, I still don't like tomatoes.

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Run, Sarah, Run!

If you had asked me anytime from 1996 to 2004 - the formative years I was a student at Queen's University and a new reporter at The Kingston Whig-Standard - I would have boasted that I loved smoking and I never regretted indulging in my habit.

I smoked off and on from the time I was 14 years old until the time I was 27.

I quit for good about two and a half years ago.

But when I was a smoker, especially when I was in my young 20s, I'd drive past (because I was a smoker I always drove, never walked) people running in their snazzy leggings and running jackets and would always secretly wish that I could run, too.

I would never have said it out loud but I secretly longed to be able to go back to those days in high school when the insecure part of me chose to take up hardcore smoking instead of pursuing team sports that I'd played all my life. Something in me back then thought it would be much cooler to be a party girl than an athlete.

And I never looked back.

Until my 20s when I lived in Kingston.

The thing about Kingston is that there are bloody runners everywhere. Runners around Queen's. Runners downtown. Runners in Portsmouth Village. Runners on Bath Road. Runners. Runners. Runners.

I tried running once when I was a super smoker. The very athletic ex-boyfriend could attest to the fact that I was a sad sack of poo that day just trying to run around the block. He ran behind me, singing Jennifer Lopez songs, trying to propel my fat ass up the hill. By the time I got home, I was wheezing so hard, I thought my lungs were going to implode or explode - basically disintegrate.

I'd decided over the past few years that I could be a nonsmoker but I was never going to be in shape. I could be a skinny size 10 but in shape? Not going to happen.

Then I got pregnant and gave birth.

Once you give birth - yes, it is miraculous - everything else seems unbelievably easy. Run a half marathon, you say? Hah! Bring it on.

I also decided I wanted the best for my baby and that means eating well and exercising so that when he is five, 10, 15 years old, he will also eat well and exercise. I want him to live the fullest, happiest and healthiest life he can.

I started running in the beginning of January with Tracie Smith-Beyak's Learn to Run group. Her company, Body Now 4 Mums, gets new mommies going - and going hard. We run seven or eight kilometres every week together.

And now the big news: Today, without the support of my running mamas, I took to the streets in Kingston's Twosome 5K race. It was the first time I've ever pinned a number to my chest. It's a high.

I had three goals today:

1) Not to come in last place;
2) To run in less than 35 minutes. Two weeks ago, I ran five kilometres in 36 minutes so I was hoping to shave off a minute;
3) To run, not walk once.

I can proudly say, today was a great day in my life - no, not nearly as exciting as giving birth, but nothing will ever top that. With just half a kilometre to go, I picked up the pace and passed a couple of people. I didn't come last.

I ran a good 33-minute race - two minutes less than I was hoping for.

And, I ran the entire thing.

Sure, I got my butt kicked by 99 per cent of the runners but I still did it.

Today, I was not that out-of-shape smoker staring at the runners from my car.

I was (am) a runner.

Next race: The 10-kilometre run in April.

And then maybe the half marathon this fall.

I know many of you don't actually believe I did it: So click here and check out number 123.

It's the new weight-loss-fitness secret no one has ever written about: Have a baby.

(Thanks, Little Man.)

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