Hydro Rider - Worth a Try?

For those of you who have never heard of Hydro Rider (like me), it is basically spin class in the shallow end of the pool.  The great thing about it is that it is easier on the joints.  As soon as I found out Hydro Rider was a real life exercise and that the Canada Games Centre in Halifax offered it (thanks Chatelaine!), I could not stop thinking about it.  I was so excited at the combination of two of my fave things - swimming/water and spin class - that I became obsessed.

Before I could go I had to answer the age-old question - what do I wear?!  I figured a bathing suit was a given, but what else?  I promptly launched a full-on Google search, complete with YouTube video analysis. I was not satisfied with the lack of coverage on this very important issue.  So, I finally settled on a bathing suit and wetsuit booties.  I must apologize if you were at the pool that day - it was perhaps the least fashionable hour of my life.  The booties go halfway up my calves and I was in my Nike racer-back one piece.  It is also winter and I am one pale redhead  - hope you were wearing sunglasses!  This was not all - ever prepared, I brought biker shorts - would I have to contend with a case of the plumber butt?

Finally, the day arrives, I enter the pool area in all my glory, and instead of the serious athlete-types I have come to expect in spin class, I was greeted with smiles likely from your gran.  And the outfit of choice? Generally floral in nature and non-racer back suits with water shoes.

The instructor threw a bike in the pool upon my arrival.  I dragged it into the remaining spot right up front.  It rocked on the bottom of the pool - which was to become my cross to bear for the next 60 minutes.  With the bikes all set-up - cue the Euro-pop.  Think Mr. Saxobeat, but not quite as catchy.  I have spent too much time listening to RPM tracks and become accustomed to the well-thought out tunes from our Tuesday/Thursday instructor, Cynthia, over at Spinning Music.

Perhaps my legs are strong from two to three spin classes a week, but I found the class less than challenging. I have a sneaking suspicion that I am not their target demographic.  This was further confirmed when we suddenly stopped pedaling to do odd arm movements for a whole song.  I believe this was the arm toning segment (completely unanticipated).  Honestly, the hardest part of the class was lifting the bikes out of the pool.  And the 20 laps I swam afterwards.  And trying to rein in my rogue water bottle that was determined to float away.

Needless to say, I will stick to spinning or swimming in the future!

Déjà vu or nostalgia?

Déjà vu is this week’s prompt for GBE2 (group blogging experience) … to be completely honest I had no idea how I was going to tackle this topic.  I was hesitant to share a moment where I can recall experiencing déjà vu; in fact, I am having trouble recalling a specific incident.  Instead, all I could think about was the word nostalgia, which is not quite the same as déjà vu.  Déjà vu expresses the sense of having seen or experienced something already – this can be related to either a positive or negative experience.  Nostalgia, however, is always associated with a positive recollection, perhaps a happier time.  

Nostalgia is often a sensory experience, triggered by smells, sounds, touch, taste or feel.  For example, the smell of someone’s home.  On a few rare occasions I have caught a fleeting whiff of something akin to the scent of my home in Angers, France with my dear French (host) mother Janine.  When I encounter this familiar scent I have a moment of pleasure and longing for that time, one of the happiest in my life.  

The smell of sunscreen is also a trigger for me, prompting memories of both my childhood and adolescence, spent, for the most part, on a beach swimming, lifeguarding, coaching and generally having a blast.  

People often associate music with certain moments or time periods in their lives.  When you hear a song on the radio that you used to listen to in high school, it generates memories from what feels like a lifetime ago.  In high school we used to listen to a lot of Dave Matthew’s Band while hanging out, participating in underage drinking and shuffleboard tournaments.  

Tonight I am headed to Citadel Hill in Halifax to catch Ben Harper in concert.  Ben Harper has been a staple in my life for as long as I can remember.  I have no idea who introduced me to his music, but it was likely during a summer of lifeguarding.  I have carried his music with me for the last 10 years and await his latest albums with eager anticipation.  I am lucky enough to be taking in this concert with a dear friend from my junior high and high school days, someone who has indulged my Benny obsession for as long as I can remember, my partner in crime from my time at the beach, or maybe just my partner in crime for life.  

Nostalgia can also be the feeling you get when you return to a place from your past.  My return to Angers during my honeymoon made me nostalgic for my carefree days of pastry eating, wine drinking, French speaking and new love.  Walking through the streets of Angers with my new husband (whom I met and fell in love with in Angers) was pleasurable, eerie and regretful.  Eerie because the people we once knew were, for the most part, no longer there.  It was the exact same and at the same time very different.  It was regretful because it made us yearn for that life, where we had no responsibilities, where everything was new and exciting, where food tasted so damn good, where the lifestyle is so unlike our life in North America.  

As a final thought on nostalgia, or déjà vu, or however you would like to term it, we are having a rocking good dinner tonight of roast chicken with vegetables.  As my husband and I debated over how to prepare it, we thought of the many times Janine made roast chicken for us in France.  She had a way of injecting flavour by putting cloves of garlic, butter and thyme under the skin of the chicken. 

We briefly reminisced and engaged in friendly debate as to how to prepare it.  My final thought is on that wonderful smell, which brings back so many memories of dinners shared with loved ones.  If only I could share that with you tonight!  

Swimming is my chocolate

You may or may not have noticed that my most positive, sarcasm-free posts are all related to swimming - not running.  I realize this is blasphemy on a running blog, but, to make it crystal clear, I Love Swimming.  I love swimming like I love chocolate - swimming is milk chocolate (my one true love) and running is dark chocolate (calculated and controlled).  I love swimming like I love the smell of gasoline, like the feeling of clean sheets (Egyptian cotton, 500+ thread count) after a nighttime shower.  I love swimming like I love my faithful Mr. Quackers nightie.

I love swimming like I love Jax Teller with short hair, or in that fight scene in Ireland.  I love swimming like I love Scarlett O'Hara and her forbidden love for Rhett Butler, or like Jon Bon singing Livin' On a Prayer in his leather pants.  But, most of all, I love swimming like I love my husband.

Swimming is comfort, refreshment.  Swimming is gliding, is weightless.  Swimming is a healer; swimming is tranquil.  Swimming allows me to attain that feeling of being wrung out, stripped, that moment of calm exhaustion as you slowly make your way out of the lake, legs unsteady, uncertain ... no thoughts.

My husband bought me a treat...

Let me first say that I love my husband dearly and that he is so very sweet and thoughtful, but ... he has an uncanny ability to surprise me with my favourite treats just as I decide to go back on the wagon.  By wagon I mean the summer daquiri season is coming to a close, along with the summer eats (ice cream) - all for the benefit of my IBS, my running and my desire for a more svelte physique.

Will drive for homemade ice cream - Lunenburg, Nova Scotia.

That being said, I definitely ate this football-sized chocolate croissant from Two If By Sea for dinner and it was without a doubt the highlight of my day.  They are so big that the first time I brought one home my husband thought it was a sandwich!

Length 7", Height 3", Width 5"

Now, to fully appreciate the naughtiness of this treat, it is important to note that rumour is at least a half block of butter goes into this flaky friend.  Let us be clear about one thing - there is absolutely no graceful way to eat these in public.  Do not wear nice clothes - grease is tough to get out, bibs or aprons are encouraged, a multitude of napkins are recommended, or at the very least, my personal favourite - the wet nap.

After you finish your last bite, you will finally understand what a beached whale must feel like.  A horizontal posture is normally required after such an indulgence and I certainly mastered that pose while digesting on the couch watching Coronation Street.  You might wonder how someone with IBS could possibly survive the ingestion of such a pastry, I am here to tell you that I do not know how I am not yet in the fetal position.  With IBS comes the great mystery as to how IBSers can possibly digest or not digest certain food groups.  I must admit that I am still in awe - awed by my guts of steel in the face of items such as Exhibit A and by my inability to digest key food staples such as vegetables.

After two hours of recovery, I decided it was time to work off at least a quarter of those calories and reluctantly got dressed for a run.  On my drive to the park (because thou shalt not run on pavement), I suddenly felt a burning desire to go for a swim, so I promptly turned down the nearest side street, drove home, ran into the apartment, threw on my suit and headed to the lake as sunset turned into twilight.  Surprisingly, the lake was a pretty happening spot, but luckily there were not nearly as many hooligans at that late hour.  What can I say about this swim?  It was blissful.  The water was calm and slightly cool as the lights from the houses danced across the lake.

The only drawback was my paranoia as I made my way through the wooded path to the parking lot - convinced there were coyotes or rabid raccoons just waiting to eat me.  Luckily I survived to tell that tale.  All in all, I came out pretty unscathed this evening, however, those are likely famous last words; as a rule food normally comes back to haunt you the next day.  Tomorrow I will be able to confirm whether or not I do indeed of guts of steel!

Swimming after silence

Swimming is one of those simple pleasures in life. Since becoming a runner earlier this winter I have been waiting for that moment when running feels just as natural and relaxing as swimming. I hope that one day I will be able to duplicate that feeling.

Living on the east coast of Canada, it is extremely difficult to avoid being near a body of water. Luckily, my parents recognized how important swimming would be in a province full of lakes and surrounded by ocean. From an early age I was in swimming lessons, followed by synchronized swimming and then eventually lifeguarding, teaching and coaching. Honestly, making swimming a priority was such an important choice. Through swimming I not only stayed active, but found a job, found volunteer opportunities, made lifelong friends and created amazing memories. Swimming is also an escape for me, and each year as summer approaches I anxiously await the moment when I either don my wetsuit or my bathing suit and take my first plunge into the water. There have been many a party-goer who has jumped at the sight of a wetsuit hanging on the back of my bathroom door.


Medford Beach, Nova Scotia

This year it was a little later than expected, June 21, but it did not disappoint. Each summer I spend as much time as humanly possible in the lake, a little less this year due to the injuries. I swim occasionally throughout the winter, normally when my back is bothering me or to prepare for summer swimming. However, nothing compares to swimming outside. My way to achieve serenity is to drive to the lake early in the morning when no one is there and go for a swim. At that hour the water is pristine. It is so calm there is barely a ripple. It is so quiet that the only sound is the slight splash your body creates as you glide through the water.



Early morning silence at the lake

Swimming is one of the gentlest forms of exercise on your body. It is low impact and serves as an ideal option for runners who are trying to crosstrain. If you are injured you should seriously consider going for a swim, especially if you have back or neck problems. This is one of the first things I do when I have an injury as it helps to promote healing.



Working at a lake each summer throughout high school and most of university completely spoiled me. I spent hours and hours each week in the water, and since starting my career I have been chasing after every spare moment to spend time swimming. I have become jaded though, I am forced to swim after work amidst all the young bucks and screaming children. I love children and have nothing against young adults, but, they cramp my style out in that lake. I want to swim in silence. I am selfish; I want the whole lake to myself, and call me crazy, I do not want to worry about a hooligan stealing my towel and car keys!



Chocolate Lake, Nova Scotia





What a pain in the ... bursa?

In recent weeks I have come to regard my 10k race as achievable, it is still extremely daunting, but I have acknowledged that I will be able to accomplish this.  A week or so ago I was able to fulfil my training requirements, exceed my own expectations, push through some plateaus and then bring my triumph to a screeching halt.  After two rest days it began to dawn on me that the pain I had been feeling was not, in fact, “the burn” that I attribute to exercising.  Instead, it is the pain of a premature geriatric.  You have all seen it, the hip swagger that is more of a stagger, the tentative shuffle, and … the waddle.  I injured my hip, and as a result, I no longer have the graceful run of a gazelle; I am full-on penguin.  It appears as though I have a case of bursitis, so I have been icing, stretching, and pill popping for over a week.  I can put in a valiant effort on a decent walk and I can suffer through some yoga, but I cannot run.  Yesterday I plunged into the pool for a long-overdue swim with the vain hope that it would help to calm things down, but, alas, it was not to be.  My 3.3k walk home probably did not help, and I am now wondering if the 60 flights of stairs I heaved myself up today were a bad idea.  So, as I write this I am covered in ice with pain pulsing from areas I did not know existed.  I believe this is where I make my bi-monthly emergency phone call to both my chiropractor and my massage therapist.  Every time I see my massage therapist she says “what did you do this time” and then “how did you manage to do that”.  I really have no idea.  She says I am overzealous, I say that I am trying not to wimp out; her recommendation is to strive to be about a notch below wimp so I can save myself some money.  Whenever I take up a new activity some sort of injury follows:

• pole dancing = lower back issues and bruised rib;
• running = shin splints and bursitis,
• ballroom dancing = stuck neck;
• yoga = muscle spasms;
• strawberry picking = muscle spasms in low back; and
• skiing = rotator cuff. 

Following all of these injuries my husband comes up with a new term of endearment for my injured body part, all of which appear to come from the menu at McDonald’s and/or KFC:  McRib, Chicken Wing (rotator cuff), Hoof (foot), and Drumstick (hip).  In conclusion, if you notice a lack of running-related commentary, it means I really did it this time; I finally injured my Biggie Fry.