We Live(d) Here

Our house never looked like this before. Like ever.

All the clutter was put away, save a few items.

Like the small artist’s sketch of Heart Mountain, where we got engaged, done in rough strokes of blues and browns.

The bronzey mirrored-glass vase that reflects the afternoon sun into shafts of light on the vaulted ceiling. Twinkling like stars.

I wondered why we don’t live this way all the time. Pared down. Simple. Uncluttered. Yeah, we’ll live like this next time. Next time, for sure.

The house will look great in the pictures, I thought. Weeks of work for 10 minutes of realtor pictures. Pictures of space and light. Just enough to give someone a  sense of whether their life could slip in here.  Someone will love this house. For all the reasons we have. It will be the perfect container for someone else’s gloriously perfect mess.

I sat in the silence and looked around the living room.

I noticed the Sand Fossil paint on the walls. It had been the perfect colour after all. We were right to insist it be re-painted after the painters got the shade slightly off 10 years ago. I didn’t think it would matter (isn’t tan tan?). But in a never-to-be-repeated flash of design prowess I thought it was too “hints of celery” when we wanted “warm sand”.

I saw the crisp white edging of the window trim and baseboards, that my husband installed himself.

And through the big picture window, the leaves of the tall aspen trees in the neighbour’s yard on the other side of the green belt danced in the breeze. It’s a perfect window. Utterly perfect.

I walked around main floor.

I touched the narrow wall leading into the kitchen. Nine years of kids’ heights written in smudged pencil, now painted over.

I scanned the smattering of little dents in the kitchen cherry hardwood. Especially the area where the high-chair used to sit. Messy, imperfect, plate-dropping life is in those dents. Beautiful little dents.

I wandered upstairs into the girls’ rooms. They were weirdly clean, the dirty laundry and stuffed animals hidden in their closets. I stared at those walls too. All the  stickers and scribbling now scrubbed off and touched up.

I recalled the endless hours in the middle of many nights sitting in these rooms staring at these walls, with a nursing or sleeping baby on my lap. That was way before any scribbles or stickers. I would sit in the big brown Lazy-Boy in the glow of the night light, hour upon hour…night after night. Noticing the window trim. The popcorn texture on the ceiling. The way the curtains hang just so. The edging of a photo frame.  The curl of her wee fingers and the curve of her cheek. Listening to her gentle breathing. And the click-click-whirr of the furnace going on and off.

On and off.

On and off.

God, I’ve loved this house.

I love this house.

We lived here.

We really lived here.

heart mtn

Our Greater Work

I don’t workout when I first wake-up anymore. Not necessarily, at least.

Instead, I do something creative or productive. I read or write. Meditate. Do one or two work tasks. I find focus and clarity of mind in the quiet morning hours, when the rest of the house slumbers. The air and energy illuminate.

The workout now often come later, as a welcome break when my mind and focus start to tire. I don’t need motivation or accountability or willpower. I don’t need to get it out of the way. A time always comes when I’ll want – be compelled – to move.

Focus on the detail of the workout has also faded. The how much of this and how fast of that simply doesn’t matter. Spending mental energy on that stuff doesn’t help my life. That immeasurably-valuable, but limited, vault of personal energy and focus is needed elsewhere. It simply matters that I move.

I am not a fitness professional. Or a competitive athlete. My greater work is elsewhere. I suspect most of us fall in that category. We are the people who workout because it fuels and energizes and supports our work in other areas. We move our bodies…then we get on with business. We clean windows, fly airplanes, care for children, do heart surgery, write newsletters, invent stuff, run committees, run companies, run for office.

It’s a paradox. Fitness is important and essential to our health. It can also be a joyous hobby. A source of community and passion and mental release. But there is a point of diminishing returns if we overly identify with it and non-health related outcomes.

The most important things I can get from a state of fitness are energy, longevity, clarity of mind, and body functionality. Nothing comes from running a certain time. Or lifting a certain weight. From looking a certain way. Or covering a certain distance. Such outcomes are – at best – neutral byproducts. They are like the footnotes in small text at the bottom that no-one ever reads.

I workout and move because it prepares me for my greater work.



When Running Isn’t About Running

Recently, I went for a Saturday run while Isabelle was at her swimming lesson. With limited time, the plan was to run out and back from the pool along the city trails. I was making time for fitness on a busy Saturday morning; I felt organized and in control.

It was a cool and grey April morning. The pathways were busy. People were walking, running, pushing strollers. There were kids on colourful bikes, dinging their bells.

I’d been running about 20 minutes when I found myself on a narrow stretch of path that was bordered by tall, dense, green bush. It created a sense of containment and quiet. This stretch was empty except for two people running ahead of me.

At some point, I noticed the two runners ahead of me had stopped. They were standing in the middle of the path, facing each other.

At next glance, I saw they were hugging. Maybe a quick, friendly, goodbye hug before they went their separate ways. But they continued to stand – unmoving – in the middle of the trail, in a full embrace. It felt like something else.

I kept running toward them.

I could feel myself getting closer to their zone. I sensed I was getting closer to something deeply personal, not meant for any witness.  I instinctively slowed down. I wanted to create more time for them.

About 10 feet away from them, I noticed more detail. I could see his arms gently moving over her bright pink running jacket, over her lower back and shoulder blades.  She was on her tip-toes, her white cap lowered over her eyes and arms gripped around his neck. Each of their faces was buried in the other’s shoulder. Silent. Hanging on.

Eventually I jogged by them, squeezing myself as quietly and respectfully as possible around the edges of their moment.

As I passed, I stole one last glance. They were still embracing. Still silent. Still hanging on. I’m sorry. I love you. It’s over. Never let me go.

Once past them, I picked up my pace. The emotional density of the air was somehow cleared. It was back to trail, bushes, random thoughts…and distant sounds of the city.

But the moment I witnessed between those two runners created a moment for me.

They reminded me that life is bigger than the run. Or the work-out. Or the Project. Or our various acts of busy-ness. The big life moments pop up in unexpected places. When the energy and air pressure is just right, they arrive.  Sometimes we are stopped in our tracks.

And maybe, just maybe, the running…the movement of the body…helps create a little more space for certain moments. In the physical shake up of the body, things fall away. And other things settle in. Layers are removed, and insights pop and stir. Then one day, little cracks open up. And what you need – and perhaps didn’t know you needed – has just enough room to step in.

So keep running. Keep moving. Have your goals and competitions and lists, if that’s your thing. But sometimes, just run and let things shake out. And watch what happens.

See what moments and insights arrive.

Because when they do, our job is to recognize them. And stop.

To turn toward them.

Embrace them.

And hang on.


Parenting Amateur Hour

So, we’re 2-for-4 with Sophie and the Tooth Fairy over here.

Tooth #1

Sophie’s (age 6) first tooth came out in her sleep about a year ago.

We assumed she swallowed it. I even did the rubber gloves in the toilet with a few bowel movements to see if I could find it. But to no avail.

(Don’t judge me. Parents do a lot of weird stuff. That was right up there).

That evening, she wrote a gorgeous note to the Tooth Fairy explaining the whole I-swallowed-my-tooth-but-please-leave-money-anyways situation.

tooth fairy note

It worked like a charm. The Tooth Fairy showed up as planned with a crisp $20 bill. It’s hard to forget the excitement of the first tooth.

(The Tooth Fairy also made a mental note to keep smaller bills on hand next time.)

Tooth #2

Tooth number two came out in regular fashion.

That evening, it was placed carefully in the little tooth-holder-pillow-contraption. Sophie went off to sleep. We went about our evening.

When Sophie came down the next morning, I was sitting at the kitchen table at my computer. She looked glum.

“The Tooth Fairy didn’t come,” she said, tears glistening in her little eyes. She was holding the little pillow and the tooth in her hands.

My heart skipped a beat. THE TOOTH FAIRY DIDN’T COME.

“Are you sure?” I asked, standing up and breaking into a light sweat. My mind scanned the inside of my wallet. Please God let there be a bill of some sort in there.

I listened to Sophie’s heart-breaking summation of what she didn’t find in her room. Full tears were flowing.

“Did you check on the floor?” I asked, pacing around. “Maybe it fell. You go and check under the blankets. I’ll be right up…”

A few minutes later, we magically…magically, I say…found a $20 bill wedged between the mattress and the headboard. It must have slipped out of the pillow, we figured.

Squeals of delight and laughter ensued.  Joy and belief was restored.

Tooth #3

A few months later, the next tooth dropped.

I went to bed early that night, leaving my husband in full responsibility of the Tooth-Fairy-pay-out-situation. Sophie had been very specific in her note to the Tooth Fairy that this time she would like a Toonie. We’re not clear on why the Toonie, but hey it worked for us.

I awoke early the next morning, as the house still slept. Before heading downstairs, I crept into Sophie’s room to double check the tooth pillow. It was on her nightstand. In the dark, I felt inside it.

The tooth was still there. I couldn’t detect any money. I slipped my hand as best I could under her pillow, beneath her sleeping head. Nothing.

Listen, I adore my husband, but COME ON, MAN.

So I went to my wallet and once again, only a $20. I crept upstairs and back into Sophie’s room and tucked the $20 bill in the pillow.

The kids awoke before my husband. Sophie presented herself in the living room, lip curled and tears twinkling in her eyes.

“Did the Tooth Fairy come??!!” I chirped. Why is her lip curled like that?

“Yes, but she didn’t bring me a Toonie,” Sophie whimpered.

“Oh. What did she bring you?” The weird fake-happy-are-you-kidding-me-sing-song tone I get sometimes rose in my voice.

“Twenty dollars,” Sophie cried. “But I wanted a Toonie!!” Once again, full tears were flowing.

We went and double checked the pillow, all the blankets, and around the mattress. Nothing. So we sat together in her raging river of disappointment.

My husband came down a short time later, awoken no doubt by the inconsolable crying. As he also tried to console Sophie, a wordless conversation was mouthed between us.

I put the Toonie there last night??!!

There’s no Toonie in the pillow.

I swear to God, I put it there.

It’s not there.



He and Sophie went up and searched the room again. A short-time later they emerged with the Toonie. They found it under the bed. We don’t have a theory how it got there.

Sophie soon was squealing with laughter and delight, through the tears. The Toonie, the Toonie!

(Uh, can I get my $20 back?).

Tooth #4

The fourth tooth dropped recently, her second front one. It had been hanging there like Nanny McPhee for weeks.

That evening, we [barely] remembered. And what was the smallest bill we had on hand at 11:00 p.m.? Right, a $20 bill. It was either that or a handful of pennies and nickels. Or a cheque.

Way to learn and be prepared.


All in all, the tooth fairy situation has been one big parenting amateur hour over here. We’re, like, nine years into this parenting gig and still flailing around half the time.

But I guess with parenting it’s always amateur hour. It’s a labour of love. You don’t get paid. You have no clue what you’re doing. Things rarely go as planned.

Plus, there are hecklers.

Changing Narratives

I’m deeply honoured that a version of this blog post (Written on the Bodywas published a few days ago in elephant journal. I love elephant journal. I especially love its tagline: dedicated to the mindful life.

This article (click here to read) is the beginnings of a new fitness narrative for me. And for anyone who wants one.

elephant journal article 2

What if we “exercised” and “trained” without attachment to outcomes or results?  What if we did it with no expectation of anything outward changing? What if we did it not to get faster? Or better? Or higher? Or bigger? Or smaller?

What if we moved, ran, climbed, lifted, rode, or  jumped for…say…joy?

For clarity of mind?

For longevity?

For the sense of being more alive?

To find new parts of ourselves?

Or to return ourselves to a place of gratitude?

What would the magazines write about? What would the advertisers come up with? The trainers and coaches prescribe? The doctors say? How would the athletes perform?

What would show up on our bodies? And present in our bodies? And in our hearts and minds?

What would show up in the world?

What would that be like?

What if instead of working out, we worked in?

We won’t know until we try.


Diary of a Detox

Amongst other things, I am a food-explorer.

What this means is that I’m super-interested in food and love food, but I don’t follow any particular dietary camp or dogma.  And that sometimes I find myself “exploring” a box of Girl Guide cookies. 

I’ve tried a lot of different food approaches, and what I’ve come to realize is this: there’s no right way. What’s right looks and feels different for everyone. These days, I tend to regularly eat veggies, fruit, whole grains, fish, eggs, chicken, dark chocolate (blah, blah, blah….whatever.) Sometimes I eat cheese and bread and cake (congratulations). I eat whatever strikes my fancy when out with family and friends and when on vacation (so what). Mostly I eat for energy, health, nutrition, stamina, longevity, joy, balance and social connection. Occasionally I eat for comfort and stress relief (see: Girl Guide cookies).  

Here’s a piece wrote about year ago, about going on a cleanse. I wouldn’t have written this today. The idea of needing a cleanse to “right some wrongs” resonates less for me. Because there is no “wrong”. There’s just life. And doing your best in each moment. And it’s just food. And we’ve all got other work to do. And frankly it’s all up in the goddamn air.


Recently, I did a cleanse. While this was part of my on-going process of investigative nutrition, let’s be frank, this was also about righting some wrongs after an all-inclusive Mexican vacation. I chose the Wild-Rose Herbal D-Tox, a 12-day protocol of herbal supplementation and foods to balance system acidity/alkalinity. It meant cutting out dairy, sugar/sweeteners, flour products, alcohol and tropical fruits. What’s left? Food was 80% from a prescribed list of vegetables, nuts, fruits, and select grains; and 20% protein sources. I jumped in with abandon, hoping the result would be a good old internal scrub down.  I was also hoping it would silence the part of my brain accustomed to eating churros twice a day.

Day T-1. Wildly excited about the cleanse. Feeling proud for having boiled vats of brown rice, baked chicken breasts, and for strategically removing (i.e., eating) hidden stashes of chocolate in advance. Very confident I’ll stick this out. Mostly because this cleanse involve eating lots. I can handle firm restrictions of food types, as long I don’t have to go hungry. I’m confident this won’t be like the last cleanse my husband and I tried. The one that required us to consume only diluted apple juice and celery water for the first several days. The one where my husband called me at 10:30 a.m. on the first day from the Wendy’s drive-thru with the slightly frantic declaration “I’m out”.

Day 1 – Seven minutes in, first major obstacle: the scourge that is black coffee. Mercifully, we had coconut milk. Coconuts are nuts, right? (Or fruit?).  Not on approved list; don’t care. Coconut milk happened. Other than that, day ticked along. Took batch of mysterious supplements twice daily. Low energy mid-afternoon. A few weird rumbles in the stomach, but nothing dramatic.

Day 2 – Worried about dinner at our friends’ house. Had cleanse-approved snack and supplements beforehand. Practiced ‘not for me, thanks’ mantra. But victory! Pretty much everything at dinner was cleanse-approved: chicken, broccolini, potatoes, kale salad.  Said no to ice cream and pie and stuck with strawberries. Am cleansing superstar! Home just in time for first cleanse-induced shuddering of the bowels in glorious privacy of own home.

Day 4 – Eating lots of lots of greens, brown rice, fish, yams, and almonds. Turns out eating apples, yams, and almond butter make me happy. Who knew?

Day 6 – Love affair with yams is deepening. Took 20 minute break during day specifically to “bake squash and yams” so readily available in fridge. I’m not even craving sweets or bread. Likely due to massive consumption of yams.

Day 7 – Date night. Menu navigation required. Had grilled salmon, vegetables and a baked potato with butter (cleanse allows butter!). I haven’t had a baked potato with butter in years. Why is this not harder?

Day 8 – I miss vinegar. And salsa.

Day 10 – New love affair happening: rice cakes with almond butter, raspberries and cinnamon.  Cannot get over that this is what I’m craving. Thought this was going to be brutal, but it’s not. I feel fantastic.

Day 12 –Wondering if I should carry on?

At the end of 12 days, my system felt calibrated, my body lighter, and my taste buds tuned. Just maybe, the body is meant to thrive on whole, simple food.  Go figure. I now see this style of eating as a tool kit for times when nutritional course-correction is required. I eased some things back in though. Like salsa on my eggs, vinegar in my dressings, dairy on occasion. But I’m still putting coconut milk in my coffee. And churros? Not yet, but we’ll see*.


*April 2015. Just back from Mexico again. Churros….check.

Upward, Toward the Light

I went out for a run last Saturday morning. It’s officially spring, but the air was hovering below zero. The sun, mercifully, was dazzling. The cold air caught my breath as I stepped onto my front porch and put on my shades.

I was going to run to GoodLife, do some weights, then run home. But I changed my mind. I needed to just run. Stay outdoors.  Don’t worry about destination, time, pace, heart rate. Run until it feels right.

So I started down my street. I found a good pace, as the creaks and twangs in my ankles and knees settled in and dissipated. I had no route in mind. I have been known to pre-plan even the simplest run. Like 12 minutes warm up, then 6 sets of stairs (resting for 2 minutes in between), then 12 minutes easy run home. This time, no. Just move the legs, girl. Open up your body and mind to the experience.

So I ran across the soccer fields, and up past the construction site. Then on from there. Mostly I ran towards the sunny patches.

At times I felt the cold of the air stinging my freshly-washed teeth. It felt better than mouthwash. As I ran across the school field, I fell into the direct path of a sunbeam. The sun glistened off the frost on the grass, like a carpet of glitter. Like what I glimpse on daughters’ cheeks and hands after they’ve been playing dress-up or doing crafts. Sparkles of indigo, gold, white.

From the school field, it was down the path, through the trees and into the shade. I cooled off quickly and picked up the pace. Get back to the light. So I rounded the corner and went up the wooden stairs behind the library. I kept going upwards. In absence of any other plan, this seemed like a good rule of thumb. Go upward, upward toward the light.

Makes sense for running. Makes sense for life.

At the top of the stairs, on the hillside ridge, it was breath-taking. The mountains were etched white on the blue morning sky. It was the perfect destination… for now.

Without knowing, I had brought myself to the right place.

I stood scanning the western horizon, catching my breath. Drinking it in.

I stayed until it felt right.

Then I turned for home.


This post was written as part of the GoodLife Fitness Blogger Ambassador Program, however all opinions expressed are my own,

Written on the Body

In one fell swoop I let it go. The driving sense that my body should be different than it is.

I also let go of any notion of “fitness”. I don’t even know what that word means. There’s a fitness narrative out there that doesn’t make sense to me. I got really caught up in it for a while: the food rules, the workout “programs”, the results. Like it’s a thing. It’s not a real thing. It’s a construct. If you’re not careful, it can leave you perpetually feeling like you should do more. Be more. Or be less. It took me a while to see it, but I was chasing myself in circles.

So in a breath, not so long ago, I stepped out of it. I thanked it for the experience. I took a few good lessons and bits of information. And I quietly moved on.

Here’s what I know.

I love to move and sweat. Each day, I don’t feel quite right unless I make it happen. Perhaps in another life I was a Spartan runner. Or a tribal warrior tasked with running through the night to get food. Dunno. But the act of moving and sweating creates a state of being which allows me to come home. It forces me to the present. In creating the physical sensation of work in my body, I create a meditative space to feel and be. It is an end in itself.

It also creates an enormous opening for gratitude.

My God, look at my body. Look at yours.

Look at me walking, and running, and lifting things. Moving the pedals. Breathing. Stretching. Waving my arms about. Walking up stairs. Lifting myself out of bed every morning. Touching people’s shoulders and backs. Wrapping my arms around my family.

This body has been serving this soul for 45 years. As I get older – and my knees crackle and pop a little more and I get twangs of this and that – I stand in amazement of it all. I declare the whole thing a miracle.

The fair, Irish skin, reminding me of my windswept ancestry.

The lines settling in around my eyes and mouth, born of a thousand careful-or-I-might-pee-my-pants laughs and my fair share of tears. The shadows that tell stories of the restless and relentless work of parenting. And many late nights working at my craft.

The hips, which allowed me to carry and fairly easily birth our two little miracles six and nine years ago.

The scars that are the marks of life…of childhood falls, adolescent growth spirts, and surgical incisions of adulthood and that one particular harrowing night.

And never mind the inside stuff. The bits and pieces that magically keep working. Like the remaining ovary that gave us the possibility of Sophie. The lungs that push air in and out. The blood that keeps circulating, circulating, circulating. The brain that keeps directing traffic. And the heart. Oh, my alive and beating heart.

The idea of it all is staggering. It’s all written on the body. Our experiences. How we move. What we eat. The stories, choices, ancestry, work, and the love. My body is my warrior canvas. As is yours for you. It’s a goddamn miracle.

So I move, sweat, and jump and run because I’m wired to. It’s my archetype. I now relax into it and let it show up on the body. No other reason is required.

This is the narrative where my sports and movement live.

The other stuff is gone.

City of Stories

New York City was as I remembered it.

Pulsing, packed, fast, colourful, alive. I love popping up to street level from the subway into such an intense stream of life.

photo 1


I find that when I step away from the architecture of my life for a minute, I can see myself more clearly. Is that weird? It happens often when I travel, but the pace at which stuff falls away is quickened in the big cities.  The minutiae of daily life drop instantly in the flashing and honking intensity of the dominating urban environment. And on this particular trip, this included the intensity of the effort required within the first hour to haul my massive suitcase up and down the steps of several subway stations. While secretly cursing my choice to wear high-heeled boots for the journey because they seemed more…well… New York. What I would discover that first evening, as the rain turned snow and the winter storm bared down, was that I really needed my Sorels. And my parka. That’s what the New Yorkers were wearing. Ridiculous Canadian tourist wearing her high heels.

photo 1

In my 20s and early 30s I used to fantasize about living in New York. As if life would be better there – more opportunity, more excitement, more…something. But now, in middle age, I recognize it would be no better or worse. It’d just be different. And now I think I’d miss the green, the expansive sky and quiet places to ride my bike. I remember when I moved back to Canada after living in London in the late-90s thinking: My God, look at the sky.

This trip I found myself thinking not about the city itself – or about the stuff it offers – but about its people. People who really live there. Who are these people?

The media-corrupted part of my brain was expecting (i.e., hoping) to see Sarah Jessica Parker while we had high tea at the Plaza. Or pass Hugh Jackman while running on that glorious, crisp, blue-skied morning in Central Park. Or perhaps that I’d slide up on a barstool in the little neighbourhood bar my friend Sandy and I claimed as our own to notice Kevin Spacey nursing a whiskey beside me.

nyc (1)

But mostly we saw just plain old you-and-me-people. A mass of humanity getting food, staring at their iPhones, dashing through traffic, carrying packages. Sometimes singing out loud, or applying mascara with laser precision, on the subway. Just doing their regular people things.

What are their stories?

There was the front-toothless – but perfectly manicured, lip-sticked, and blushed – 50-something Eric that we met on the first night. We laughed uproariously together with at the bar after dinner, as we explained the odd way in which the city kept delivering us “free stuff”. He gave us tips on how to get more free stuff, including a fake address and zip code in case we needed one to sign up for free stuff. And when we discussed our planned free spin class, he noted distaste for all the spin studios popping up all over the city. “We’re New Yorkers,” he said. “We walk. We don’t spin.”

photo 2

And then the next night we slid up at the same neighbourhood bar, not next to Kevin Spacey, but rather next to Jorge – a charming Latino man who works for a helicopter company – drinking Cosmopolitans waiting for his friend to get off work. His friend (Chris) finally arrived, all made up and glittered and ready to party. We learned – as Chris spun us through his iPhone camera roll –  about his love of baking in his stilettos. And sunbathing in his stilettos, as it turned out.  Holy man, we laughed with these two lovely gentlemen as we drank warm red wine.

This laughter continued as we joined Jorge and Chris an after-hours unmarked art gallery-slash-nightclub for an art-showing with a bunch of very artistic-looking New Yorkers. Now who are these people? And why are so many of them wearing fur coats, fedoras and wool neck scarves indoors? (it’s like a hundred degrees in here). The guy with the most outrageous fur coat turned out to be an ex-mountain avalanche rescuer. Could they all tell my friend and I are – amongst other things – moms, wives and professionals from Calgary? Calgary, which Chris opined, seemed like “the place where Jesus was killed”.

There was also the young homeless boy shivering without a hat or gloves on a street corner, his cardboard sign reading “I’m trying to get home…”. And the clean, well-dressed girl, out-of-her-mind-on-heroin on the packed Brooklyn subway, who kept calling out for help. Something tells me she’s trying to find her way home too.

New York is a city of people and stories – crammed on a soundstage of magnificent architecture and twinkling lights. Living, breathing stories. Just as any place is.

And who are these people? It’s impossible to tell. And perhaps it doesn’t matter. Yet it’s all that matters… the people we meet, the stories we glimpse.

This is what I’m learning to see now.


photo 3



Sweet smell of spring

I shouldn’t be saying this. But I can smell spring.

Yes, I know it’s March, and I live in Calgary. This typically means there will be several more major snow storms to endure before actual spring starts on about the 12th of August.

But it’s seriously beautiful here. Like be outside in shorts and a t-shirt beautiful.

These sorts of days make me crave outdoor sports, rather than the conceptual pursuit of fitness. These are the days I want to get out of the basement or the gym. I want to run outside. I want to grab my bike and head for the highway. Swim across a lake. Or just take my functioning, healthy body outside for a long, cobweb-clearing hike.

These kinds of days make me think about summer sports goals. Will I do some races, for fun and good measure? A triathlon? A 10k or two? A mud run? Things that will get me outside, with hordes of other crazies doing their own version of their best self? That’s always my favourite part about races, the throngs of people of all sizes and ages doing their thing. Plus all the free bananas.

I bet like many kids around here today, my daughter wanted to ride her bike after school. In the balmy afternoon sun, I hustled her purple bike down from the storage shelf in the garage so she and her little buddy could cruise around the cul-de-sac for a while. I saw my own bike hanging there. How long will it be, I wondered, until I bring her down? Is one whiff of spring enough? I know, people more dedicated than me have theirs down already. They have them down all year. But me, I always wait until it feels like winter has truly passed. Until it feels like there’s a good stretch of road-time ahead. Only then, it feels like “time”.

And given what I know about Calgary, I think my bike will stay up for a while. But after months and months of indoor workouts, I did run outside today. I have started to think about possible races. I will explore some spin classes at GoodLife to find my biking legs. Perhaps, crazy speak, I will even find my way to a pool.

So I tip my hat to these oddly and joyfully warm days of winter and thank mother nature for the reminder of the good things to come.

This post was written as part of the GoodLife Fitness Blogger Ambassador Program, however all opinions expressed are my own