I hate running outside in the -30 degree weather, so I got a membership at the community league in our neighborhood and started swimming in the evenings.  It was a great workout and didn’t require me to wear all of the cold weather gear that I owned.

Then people started asking questions.  “What are you training for?”

My mouth opened and what came out shocked even me.  “Umm…a triathlon.”

Apparently I was ashamed about my desire to wear size 8 pants and completing a triathlon sounded so much better.  Before I knew what was happening, most of my friends and family heard that I was going to compete in a triathlon

I found myself cross training, weight lifting, and completing workouts that involved swimming, biking, AND running.  That’s the thing with words…once they are out there, you can’t get them back.  So I decided to go for it.  After all, how hard could it actually be?  Right?

The big day came in the middle of summer and was sunny and full of promise.  I was grouchy and full of fear.  I braided my hair, donned my Speedo swimsuit and biking/running outfit, and begrudgingly got in the car.

Upon arrival, I encountered hundreds of spandex clad people excitedly jumping around and stretching.  I went directly to the tent to pick up my race package and have a strange man use the biggest sharpie I have ever seen in my life to write my race number, 803, on my calves and arms.

What the heck have I gotten myself into?!

After being branded, we were herded like cattle down to the waterfront where I got news that there were leeches in the lake.  My stomach was already queasy and the toast that I had for breakfast threatened to come up as an unexplainable fear gripped my heart.  I started to look for an escape route, but ducking under the pylons and running at top speed past my husband and best friend would probably be noticed, so I tried to breathe while I waited for the race to start.

Before the swim....oh so nervous!

When the starting gun finally went off, all of the women aged 24 – 29 ran towards the leech infested water like their lives depended on it.  After avoiding being trampled, I jogged cautiously towards the waterfront and dove into the very shallow lake.  The water broiled with body parts and after a near kick to the head and getting a bird’s eye view of a very large armpit, I decided to hold back.  I waited in the ankle deep, leech infested silt for the crazed athletic women to swim by before I started up again.

To my immediate dismay, I couldn’t see a darn thing in the water!  It was like sticking your head into a bowl of chocolate pudding.  Panic set in and I employed the doggie paddle while my mind feverishly worked out a solution.  I started to hear a high-pitched whine and then realized I was the one making the noise.  I was officially hyperventilating and even the doggie paddle was too much.  I didn’t want to be disqualified, so I employed a panic inspired back float.  While looking up into the sky, wondering what the world I was going to do, the heads of two men in a canoe came into my view.

Two Men in a Canoe:  “Miss, are you ok?  Would you like us to help you?”
DL: (awkwardly treading the waist deep water) YES!  But wait!  Does that mean I am disqualified?
Two Men in a Canoe:  Well, yes…but if you’re struggling, perhaps we should take you out.
DL: (tears starting to fill up the goggles) I have worked so hard to get here!!  I have to finish.  I have to keep going.  Can you just row next to me, just to make sure I don’t die?
Two Men in a Canoe: Well…umm, there are a lot more people in the race and we have to watch all of them.  Uhh…we can check on you later though…
DL:  (in a very wobbly voice) Ok….thank you?
Two Men in a Canoe: And by the way, you’re floating off course.  You’re going to want to go that way….

The longest swim of my life ensued.  Battling panic, hyperventilation, and being lapped by a group of men swimmers took every single ounce of energy that I had.  Jon and Nancy were forced to watch a floundering woman use a doggie paddle and back float method to complete a swim that took 6 times longer than it should have.

When I finally emerged victorious from the leech infested, waist deep lake I could barely walk.  There were three canoes with men paddling alongside of me, cheering me on.  It was the most cheerleaders I have ever had for one of the most embarrassing moments of my life.

I hobbled over to the transition area to get ready for the bike.  Most people pull on shorts and get biking.  I plopped to the ground, ate a granola bar, and drank a ton of water.  There was no active recovery happening at this point, just relief that I was still alive.

The very hilly bike ride was surprisingly uneventful.  I made good time and even passed some people.  It felt good to not need any supervision to complete this leg of the race.

I entered the run tired, but the finish line was visible.  I was actually going to live through this adventure!  Much to the surprise of my athletic husband, I took off with a fresh burst of energy.  He was so impressed by my sudden energy that he decided to run alongside of me and interview me on video.  His focus was on me and not the street signs that were on the road.  Suddenly he ran head first into one and went down.  Blood was coming from his temple and the medical team was called.

I just kept running.  I mean, what was I supposed to do?  I had already lost 40 minutes in the swim, I didn’t want to lose more time in the run.  I decided that Jon would understand.

Sore, tired, and somewhat demoralized, but almost done!

He was fine and before I knew it, he was running alongside of me again.

Crossing the finish line was one of the most glorious feelings in the world.  I completed a huge feat and lived.  Sure, there was no one else crossing the finish line with me, but who cares?  I finished.

We enjoyed the rest of the hot summer day and watched the professional tri-athletes complete the course.  None of them used the doggie paddle / back float method to complete the swim.

That evening I used a strong soap to wash the ‘803’ off of my arms and calves.  Within about 30 seconds it became very obvious that I should have applied waterproof sunscreen that morning.  I was VERY burnt.  Did you know that sharpies are a great sunscreen? ‘803” was branded into both of my upper arms and calves.  Due to the way they wrote the numbers it actually looked more like ‘BOB’ than ‘803’.

Sunscreen really is a great invention....

The stiffness in my legs, especially my left leg was intense after the race.  The next morning I could barely walk without screaming in pain.  That wouldn’t have been enough to keep me from work, but I couldn’t even put my left heel on the ground and my calf was the size of a small basketball.

This didn’t seem like normal triathlon wear and tear, so off to the hospital I went.

I hobbled into the ER and waited.  Then I continued to wait 6 hours while random people with very random illnesses came in.  Some even came in with buckets of specimens to show the admitting clerk in an effort to gain quicker access to a doctor.  I just looked away and hoped they would go away.

There was concern that I had a blood clot, so I was sent for an ultrasound.  Have I mentioned that I am ticklish?  Screaming out in painful laughter while an ultrasound tech is shoving an ultrasound wand in your leg joint is apparently frowned upon.  I just couldn’t help it.  It was either laugh or cry, so I opted to laugh and laugh quite loudly.

Due to my big mouth I got crutches and a cast, a torn calf muscle, and a summer of strangers asking me, “Who’s Bob?”.

THIS is not size 8 pants!

Honesty really is the best policy.  Next time someone asks me something, I am going to just tell the truth even if it’s as ridiculous as ‘Size 8 pants”.

When my left eye finally cracked open, I saw three blurry numbers glaring back at me.

5:27

Apparently it was time to get up. In a moment of weakness, I had promised a girlfriend that I would meet her at the YMCA at 6:30 to go for an early morning run.

The only part of my body that was able to move was my left arm as it slapped the snooze button with authority.

Eight seconds later I was back into a solid REM cycle.

5:36

The loud voice of my favorite radio personality, Garner Andrews, was suddenly blaring in my ear. In that moment he was no longer my favorite.

I dragged my lazy self out of bed and finally opened both eyes. It wouldn’t do to be late for my early morning run. After all, today was my girlfriend’s first day back from a seven week absence due to injury.

As we ran in the cool -12 Celsius weather we caught up on each other’s lives. We shared the joys, trials, and funny moments since we had last seen each other.

Due to her injury, she was much slower than her usual pace; but it didn’t bother me at all. There have been many times when I was the slower one. The important thing was that we were out running.

You can’t do life alone; it is meant to be run together.

Who do you run the path of life with? Who makes sure you get your lazy self out of bed in the morning? Who are you sharing your life with, no matter what the pace?

When you do, you will find yourself doing things you never thought possible.

He claimed it is ‘fun’.

Most women already know this, but I am going to restate it for those that don’t.

Men are liars.  They lie to get women to do things they want.  In this case, it was yoga.

Upon entering the ‘fun’ yoga studio, I was greeted by bendy people wearing very tight clothing.  I felt like the chubby girl that tries out for cheerleading; awkward, out of place, and not sure what to do next.

While clutching my Pilates mat to my chest, I noticed the lithe yoga people were gathering yoga supplies of blocks, mats, blankets, pillows, cords, and bolsters from a cart on the wall. This was my first real yoga class – no one told me I needed to bring along a yoga checklist!

Luckily the instructor noticed my blank stare and got me all the necessary supplies.

Then the torture began.

While she had us bent up like some sort of contortionist and seated on the floor, she told us to rest our head lightly on the floor in front of us.  I was bending as far as womanly possible and my head was a good two feet from even coming close to the floor.  It was so absurd that I started to giggle.  I had a sense that laughing in the calm, unhurried space of yoga class would be unacceptable so I desperately tried to hold it in.  Unfortunately, the laughter came out in pressured bursts with large amounts of spit.

My uncontrollable giggling was not appreciated.  I quickly sobered up by thinking about sad things like never being able to have chocolate ever again.

She had us try to do things that are completely impossible while saying all manner of words that had more vowels than consonants and at least 12 syllables.  Due to my lack of fluency in the yoga language, I just watched to see what the rest of the class did and desperately tried to mimick their movements.

At the end of class we did some final stretches to ‘completely loosen up’ all our tight muscles.  She led us through a stretch that involved putting your left foot on your right knee, bending into a squat, leaning forward, and then merely doing a handstand to deepen the stretch.  Simple.  Right?

I couldn’t get past step two in the task.  There was no way a pretzel handstand was up next.  There are only so many times a woman should risk her life doing stupid things and this was not one of those times for me!

Yoga is for masochists. It’s an hour and a half of doing torturous things that are impossible for the average woman.

Apparently I fall into this group because I am toying with the idea of going back.

Perhaps it was the sense of satisfaction of not being dead at the end that hooked me.  Who knows?  All I know is that I better keep the giggles under control if I go back!

While I struggled to sit up for the 37^th time, he posed an interesting question.

“What would you pay to wake up tomorrow and have the perfect body?”

Immediately I wondered if the bank would give me a line of credit for such a thing.  Perhaps I could say it was a business venture.  Or I could sell all my shoes…how much would my shoe collection bring on Ebay?  Hmmm….

Right away I realized I would have to sell some organs on the black market to make this dream a reality.

A hundred thousand?  Two hundred-fifty thousand?  What would it be worth? Would you pay more than what your car was worth brand new?

After thinking about it, I don’t think I would pay much at all.

I would wake up being the same exact woman I was on the inside with an outside that was my idea of perfect.  Nothing would change what I dislike about who I am, my confidence, or my fear of chasing my dreams.  I would merely be a very hot woman that has all the same issues, problems, insecurities, and psychoses.

“What would you pay to wake up tomorrow and be confident in who you are?”

That’s the real question.

The wonderful thing is that you don’t have to pay a dime.  You could wake up tomorrow and choose to be satisfied in yourself and know that everything about you is worth enjoying.

Today I am choosing to like everything about myself; even the muffin top.

Being fully you and proud of yourself is gorgeous.

Paying to wake up beautiful is what Hollywood does…and let’s be honest, they really don’t have it together over there.

Dear young, skinny chick at the YMCA,

Please don’t flaunt your skinny body in your tight yoga pants while eating deep fried white carbs in the YMCA women’s locker room.  There are those of us that don’t have the metabolism of a cheetah and can’t lounge around and eat bad foods and stay skinny by merely making an appearance at the gym.

I just finished running several miles at an incline and only ate fruits, vegetables, and tuna fish yesterday.

Severely Annoyed,

Donloree

Who eats McDonalds at the gym anyways?  Anyone else see something wrong with this picture?

• Don’t work out to lose weight, eat to lose weight.
• Work out to shape your body into what you want it to be.
• If it’s a fruit, vegetable, or you can kill it; eat it.

I immediately implemented the Primal Eating plan. I went home, baked some brownies, and KILLED them.

Then I felt bad. For the next 3 days leading up to my first training session I followed the eating plan without fault. An hour before I left to get my muffin top’s butt kicked, I consumed a heaping plate of spring mix, bell peppers, cucumbers, tomatoes, and half an avocado. I was stuffed and proud of myself.

I went to the gym early to warm up so that I wouldn’t pull anything during the training session. The gym was freezing, so I kept my sweat pants and warm up jacket on during my brisk jog. At the one-mile point on the run I was on the verge of heat stroke. In order to cool down, I attempted to strip off the outer layer of clothing while running.

Word of advice: Press pause on the treadmill before taking off any warm up clothing. It results in less near death experiences.

We started the training session, which turned out to be a circuit of weight lifting with running mixed in. I anxiously completed the first exercise and started to feel rather nauseated. I really, really wanted to do well.

Then came the step-ups.

I was pouring sweat and we were only 3 minutes into the work out. Upon completion of the step-ups I started to see black dots and had to sit down. Then lay down.

My trainer looked quite concerned. I looked quite pale, deathly pale.

I drank some water and tried to get a grip.

Muffin Top Slayer: Are you ok? Do you need some Gatorade? You look really pale.
DL: I’m good. I just need a minute. GOSH.  Apparently I am totally out of shape.
MTS: It’s always eye opening for people, but I am surprised seeing how you workout every day. What did you eat today?
DL: I did really well. I even had a huge salad an hour ago.
MTS: Ahh…that’s the problem. You should eat a piece of fruit before a work out. Here eat my apple.

I sheepishly ate the Gala while sitting on an exercise bike and chatted about random things.  The black spots slowly disappeared and five minutes later I felt like a new woman. I completed the rest of the work out like a woman on a mission and felt fabulous at the end.

Another valuable lesson learned from the school of hard knocks. Eat an apple a day to keep the ambulance away!

Can you only imagine the chaos that would have ensued if I had fainted? Am I the only one that these things happen to?

The mountains are absolutely gorgeous this time of year, so I was easily convinced to go for a run in them with my friends despite their superior fitness.

Gorgeous town nestled in the foothills.

Halfway through the run, they noticed I was lagging behind.  They slowed down to let me huff and puff my way to them.  At that point I realized, despite the gorgeous view, I had to let them go on without me.

I bravely accepted the key for the condo and headed back the way I came.  My girlfriend let me know the condo was on 6^th and 3^rd.  Ave, Street, Boulevard?  Heck as if I knew or asked for that matter!  So I just kept running…wondering when I needed to turn.

Unfortunately for me, I did not pay attention to the path we took.  I had been enjoying the mountains and river whenever I was able to take full breath in.  After about 20 minutes on the journey back, I found myself on a lonely path with some strange men on it.  My heart jumped into my throat.

To avoid being raped and pillaged while running without a phone, ID, or any sort of defense mechanism; I quickly pulled a switchback.

Now completely lost, the beauty of the mountains mocked me as I ran about wondering where in heavens name I was.  A peppy looking young blonde wandered onto the path, so I asked her for directions.

DL – Hello.  Can you tell me how to get to 6^th and 3^rd?
Peppy Looking Young Blonde – Ummm…no.  I have lived here my whole life, but have no idea where that is.  Is that by the park?
DL – Not too sure.  I am totally lost and just need to get back to the condo before my girlfriends arrive back.  I have the key.
PLYB – I can’t help you.  I don’t know any of the street numbers.

Ok, Canmore is a very small mountain town.  How is it possible that a life long resident wouldn’t know the street numbers of where she lives?

Somewhat frantic at this point, I ran through the trees and into the town only to scare a nice looking couple.  I can only imagine that the frazzled, sweaty, lost DL isn’t a woman you want to encounter on a romantic walk.  They also lived in the town but had no concept of addresses, only landmarks.

I finally used my own navigating skills to get back to the condo using a new route, without the help of any mountain-esque people.  As I turned the corner after my jaunt through most of the town, I saw my girlfriends about 800 meters ahead of me heading down the home stretch to the condo.

Out of breath, tired, and embarrassed, I started to close the gap while they cooled down.  We arrived at nearly the same time.  I was completely worn out while they looked energized and happy.

All I could do was blame the happy, directionally challenged people of the mountains for my tour of the town on my way back to the condo while gasping for air.

Now I know; if you can’t keep up…maybe you shouldn’t go in the first place.  No matter how fantastic the view is!

For the first time in my life, I have suffered from a lingering back problem that persisted throughout the whole summer. When a person lives in the arctic as I do, the summer is the time to live! As soon as the snow starts to melt, we throw on shorts and tank tops and start enjoying the outdoors with gusto. It’s as though we are finally able to breathe and feel it all the way to the bottom of our lungs. Edmontonians start running, walking, cycling, picnicking, bbq-ing, and playing all manner of sports outdoors once the ground begins to thaw.

Instead of cycling, running, and pretending to be able to play tennis this summer, I have been walking slower than a slug while bent awkwardly at the waist. If I dropped something on the floor, instead of bending over to pick it up, I would merely stare at it and utter, “huh.” My patience was tested while I waited for Jon to come home from work so he could pick something up for me. It was horrible. A girl just wants to be able to put her own socks on!

In order to get me back into shape, I enlisted the help of an athletic therapist. I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. Upon arrival, I shook the very firm hand of a man with a cheerful disposition and determined focus.

He immediately asked me to do things that weren’t possible without white hot pain shooting throughout my whole body. Things like touching my toes and standing up straight. Then he tested on my flexibility, which made me want to scream out in pain. Since I wasn’t the only one at physio, I clenched my teeth hard enough to hear them grinding together in order to keep the screams from escaping.

After I was able to breathe normally, he let me know that I was all out of alignment and that ‘pressure points’ were going to happen. Lying on the table, a small amount of panic gripped my heart. I looked around at the other patients and they seemed to be fine, so I didn’t run away in terror.

The first pressure point was my hip flexors. This involves the therapist finding a pressure point UNDER your hip bone to release it.

Have I mentioned that I am EXTREMELY ticklish?

Suddenly, I was laughing hysterically and in an epic amount of pain as a hand went wrist deep under my hip bone to release the tension. I have never felt such incredible pain and ticklishness at the same time in my life. I was no longer able to keep the screams in, and inadvertently caused the man to bleed a bit from the scratches I gave him while trying to free myself from the “pressure points”. It was intense to say the least.

The next pressure points were on my lower back and butt. I couldn’t see what was happening, but he must have been at least elbow deep on those ones. I managed not to scream, but felt a bit like dying for those few moments of my life.

Amazingly enough, after the torture was over, I could actually stand up straight and touch my toes. Unfortunately, my back was so messed up that it wouldn’t last for more than a day.

After three weeks of physio and pressure points, things weren’t getting better because I refused to just lie around and ice my back as directed by the cheerful, yet determined athletic therapist. I went to work, sat all day, and even put my own socks on. Apparently the ‘Donloree Puts Her Socks On While Her Back Is Hurt’ is horrible to watch. I had women at the gym offering to help me put my socks on because it was painful to watch me struggle to reach my toes.

During the third week of physio, I was in extreme pain and very low. I was unable to do any of the exercises and was near tears most of the time due to pain and discouragement. After not being able to complete leg lifts, bridges, or squats, I was instructed to do back raises.

Athletic Therapist – Lift up, squeeze your shoulder blades together and count to five.
DL – Ok. Onetwothreefourfive!
Athletic Therapist – Um…I only counted to 2. Was that five seconds?
DL – I counted to five. You didn’t specify seconds.
Athletic Therapist – (laughing) Ok. Five SECONDS. 20 reps. Go.

At this point, I got the giggles. It was either sob, or laugh. So laugh I did, hysterically.

I desperately tried to stop laughing while doing back raises on the table while a man did leg lifts and I woman rode a stationary bike. I am sure they thought I had lost my mind.

I was finally able to hold the laughter in after a few reps. I relaxed, took a deep breath, and burst into hysterical giggles and spit all over a stack of fitness magazines. I just couldn’t get a handle on the laughter. I did all 20 back raises while silent laughter made my shoulders shake uncontrollably.

I was so ashamed of my inability to keep the emotions under control that I nearly bailed on the next appointment. I am glad I kept the appointment, as it only got better from that day forward.

There are very few people that I don’t want to ever see again in my life. It’s a relatively short list, and now the cheerful, yet determined man is on the list. It’s nothing personal, but I don’t want to endure any more pressure points, and if I have to see him it’s most likely because I can’t stand or walk. I will be happy to never see him again, despite his cheerful, yet determined disposition.

I grimaced as I felt it hit my head, slide down my arm, and land on my leg that was partially in the car. I think I may have sworn a little bit under my breath.

As I stomped back into the office, everyone looked up to see who was storming past them.  I announced that I just got pooped on and hate all birds.  Everyone tried not to laugh, but there was much snickering.

I finally made it to physiotherapy and passed all my strength tests with flying colors.  During my first set of exercises which involved balancing on a large ball on my hands and knees, I was asked how I was doing.

Due to the happiness of how well my back was doing, I announced, “I’m doing great, I can even do one arm!”  As soon as the words flew out of my mouth, I realized I was being rather cocky about my skills while the rest of the patients struggled with their exercises.  

The physiotherapist responded with, “Well, it does look way too easy.  Let’s do something hard.”

As penance for having a big mouth, I was forced to do lunges backwards, squats on stability balls, and other things that should be reserved as torture methods for terrorists.  I found myself shaking like crazy while trying to  to complete the new exercises.  I was reduced to a weak, sweaty woman that was gasping for breath.  Who’s doing great now?

I suppose I deserve to be pooped on for being a physiotherapist braggart.  If I promise to keep my mouth shut at my next physiotherapy appointment, will the birds decide NOT to poop on my head?

I was reading through the Edmonton Journal and ran across an article, ‘Rankled by Cankles?’  The title twigged my interest, so I clicked and started to read.  Apparently, women don’t have enough issues fighting the muffin top, the double wave arm fat, cellulite, gravity, crow’s feet, and grey hair.  We also need to be concerned about the possibility of developing cankles!

A cankle, for those of you that don’t know, is when your calf goes straight down into your ankle.  It’s unclear how a cankle comes to be, but society has decided that beautiful women shouldn’t have cankles.  Women have even gone so far as to dub themselves ‘cankle survivors’ and trainers are making money off of cankle busting workouts.

Dear gracious!  Can’t we accept that real women may in fact have a cankle or two and just enjoy the cankles of life as they come?  I think we have more important things to worry about than the possibility of developing cankles!