"Wipeout" Doesn't Even Begin to Describe it...

Warm tears spilled down my face as I dragged myself out of the ocean and up the bridge to camp, thankful for the unrelenting rain that was still spattering from the sky, a watery camouflage to mask my choking sobs.

It doesn’t fucking make sense. I swore angrily at myself, unable to grasp the reasons behind my piss poor performance in this morning’s lesson. Two times I had stood up for longer than a couple of seconds. Two times in a goddamn hour and a half.

Pathetic.

“I don’t understand, you should be turning by now,” John had said to me, after what seemed like my 257^th wipeout. He’d meant well, he’d wanted to rile me up, help me channel my anger and frustration into surfing. But I was too far gone. I felt like a failure.

The lesson had been only half finished, but he’d seen the exhaustion nestling in behind my eyes and sent me out of the water before I could get hurt, or worse, grow more disheartened.

“You and I are going to get in a lot of arguments,” he’d said yesterday, a comforting smile painted across his face. “Because I think I have more faith in your feet than you do.”

His words played over in my mind as I stood eyes closed under the shower, willing the scalding water to wash away my salty tears. I wanted to have faith in my feet, I really did. I wanted to “just jump up” and “look forward” and “keep your weight over your toes” and “don’t think about it” and ahhhh there was just so much to remember and I couldn’t. Stop. Thinking.

I collapsed into bed with heavy eyes and a gloomy spirit, and fell asleep the instant my head felt the soft give of my candy-striped pillow.

***

“It’s really nice outside,” Curtis said, waking me up. I’d been asleep for a few hours and I could see the sun streaming across a bright blue sky through the window in our cosy bedroom. “Want to come for a surf? See if you feel better?”

I rolled over, away from his touch. “I hate the ocean,” I mumbled, still groggy and feeling no less miserable.

But as he changed into his boardies and pulled on his favorite Rip Curl rashie I bought for $7 at a thrift store in Melbourne, I wondered if maybe a surf was what I needed. A chance to put back together the pieces of my shattered ego, and remind myself that I actually could surf.

I changed in a hurry and followed Curtis out to the surfboard racks. After selecting the two best boards and rummaging around for some wax, we headed out to the water, and I finally caught some waves.

It wasn’t my best surf, the waves were messy and, though small in size, came pounding in one after another making it difficult to paddle out. But I stood up. I stood, and I turned, and I kept my weight over my toes and my gaze on the tree line in front of me. And even though I’m pretty sure I was still “thinking about it,” I could feel the confidence creeping cautiously back into my body.

I didn’t realize when I signed up, but in addition to a surf course, the Academy is going to be an all out war inside my head. Each day—each session—a battle of its own, some (like this morning’s) resulting in mental destruction, and others more victorious.

I am not a quitter, but I’ve come to realize I can be easily discouraged, and I have a feeling that tackling this mental obstacle will be my most difficult undertaking in the eight weeks to come.

So to my brain I say, bring it on.

ts…

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"I Surf Because... What Else Would I Do in My Backyard?"

So there are some things I need to finish. Updates that beg desperately to be made. Stories that nag at me, pulling impatiently at the hems of my mind. Post me tomorrow, they say, tugging. But I have things to do, I protest, stomping my foot. I have a life to live, a soul to search, and so in turn, this blog suffers and has remained highly uninformative about my journey. And for that I apologize, to the both of us.

The missing posts will materialize (hopefully) and the stories with endings untold will arrive (in time) at their conclusions.

But right now, I want to tell you about TODAY.

After weeks of waffling over whether or not to stay here at Spot X, after warm, salty days of trying to sort out a plan without the help of my ever-trustworthy To Do Lists (because what did I even have to put on them?), and after nights spent dreaming about the thrill of adventure and tossing in hot nightmares over the binding chains of responsibility and time… Curtis and I decided to stay and begin a two-month long Surf Academy to become qualified surf instructors.

How random is that? And yet, fitting.

Day One of (Surf) School

There is supposed to be a beach here...

Here there was a volleyball net. Oh ya, and a field.

The rain pelted down from an unrelenting sky as we huddled around what seemed to be the only dry picnic table in the eating area, plates piled high with eggs, bacon, pancakes, watermelon and an assortment of other breakfast tidbits. “There’s no way he’ll make us go surfing in this weather, right?” one of us wondered aloud. A dozen heads turned in unison towards the ocean to watch the angry waves, murky brown with storm debris, crash chaotically into one another.

Around 8am, our instructor John strolled into the eating area, totally unfazed by the messy weather. He shook his head casually, sending beads of water flying off the hood of his sleek Rip Curl rain jacket. “All right, let’s get into it,” he said in a thick Aussie accent, and waved us inside the adjoining movie room.  

For the first couple of hours we trudged through usual start-of-a-new-class obligations; paperwork was passed around, names and details were recorded, class structures and schedules were outlined, and tea and coffee was sipped noiselessly as the rain pounded on the roof, stubbornly refusing to yield.

“Who’s ever been caught in a rip?” He asked, watching a couple of hands shoot up in affirmation. “Well that’s what we’re going to do today.” His voice was matter-of-fact but his smile was cheeky and I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that staying for the Academy had been the right decision.

We sprinted back to our cabins, speed our only ally against the driving rain, and changed into our boardies and bathing suits. I struggled into my skin-tight thermal, a moisture wicking long sleeve surfing top I bought on impulse in Byron Bay (which has surprisingly turned out to be one of the most useful purchases I’ve made in Oz) as the rest of the crew wrestled their bodies into rain-soaked wetsuits.

We grabbed surfboards and made our way down to the creek that feeds into the ocean, which, though calm and stagnant on most days, was raging wildly this morning and looked very much like a Class V rapids. The rain stung my face and my exposed legs, like being pelted with handfuls of pointy icicle tips, an assault on my already chilled skin.

“Mind that your leg rope doesn’t get caught on the rocks,” John cautioned, before tossing his surfboard into the rushing water and launching his body on top of it. In a matter of seconds, he was flying towards the ocean, grinning wildly and beckoning us in for the ride.

Like penguins on the edge of an iceberg, we tumbled in one by one after our fearless leader, leaping onto our boards and into the vacuum of muddy water. The lesson this morning was to get a feel for the way the water moves. We rode the rip out to the waves, then turned the board around and, while still lying on our stomachs, rode the waves back to where we entered the rip.

It was a chair lift-ski slope cycle of sorts. Only, more salt and less clothing.

It was unbelievably fun, and I laughed for just about the entire hour in the water, despite being tossed around like I was stuck inside a really wet tumble dryer. When it was time to go, I rode my last wave in to the beach, and struggled to pick up my board. The wind howled back, nearly knocking me over as I fought my way to the bridge back to camp.

“I’m going to leave my leg rope around my ankle,” I yelled over the elements to Anne and Anna as they looped their leggies over their boards. “Knowing me the wind will catch the board and I’d have to run after it!”

I reached the bridge shortly behind Anna, and watched as she waded up to her waist before making it safely up the stairs. I stepped into the water and felt the current rush around me, threatening to carry me back out to sea. I approached the bridge steps and passed the nose of my board into Anna’s outstretched hands, and in that instant, my legs buckled under the weight of the rushing water.

I struggled for balance, grasping for stability with my feet, and clawing at rocks with my hands until soon the leg rope grew taught and my left ankle was jerked to the surface by the tension. 

I looked up to see Anna doubled over, arms outstretched and clinging with all their might to the nose of my surfboard, to which, 15 feet away, I was still attached by the leg. I exploded into a fit of giggles, which, of course, made standing all the more difficult, but eventually (and not so gracefully, I would say) I managed to climb to my feet and wade to the bridge, and to safety.

I am salty, sandy, and soaked to the bone, but above all, I am filled with excitement and anticipation about learning to surf and about where this course might take me. And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t excited to be postponing real life for just a little longer.

Emblazoned in bright pink on the back of my Spot X hoodie is the company slogan. Find Your Mojo, it says. And that’s exactly what I plan to do.

So much love,

the traveling stahr...

** Title quote courtesy of Andy Irons

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Run for Mum

The clock read 5:23 in the morning. I sat up in bed; my alarm would be ringing soon. I hadn’t slept a wink all night, but I didn’t care. I was bubbling over with anticipation and nerves.

After seven weeks of training, it was finally Race Day.

Could I make it across the finish line? I had never run 8 kilometers before. The most we ran in training was 7.6 and I had stopped for a water break halfway though… Could I run the whole way without stopping? Would I cramp up? My head was spinning with anxiety.

I jumped in a cab at 6:12am (public transportation is non-existent that early on a Sunday morning), and after a brief altercation with the cabbie, wherein I attempted to tell him how to get to the track and he proceeded to go entirely the wrong way, I arrived at the steps of the Arts Centre to meet the rest of the gals from my Lululemon Run Group.

As the sun began to creep over the horizon, our gang grew in numbers. Some of the girls who work at Lululemon came out to support the running group – there were signs, fake tattoos, pom-poms, even music streamed from a backpack with speakers. We had our own cheer group, and it felt wonderful.

And best of all?

We got free shirts!

With fun rainbow stitching!

And a place to write your own personal goal!

(Apparently I am running a half marathon by May 2011… funny what one decides when they are sleep deprived and high on excitement.)

Eventually, we followed the crowd down to the warm-up field, where a record 40,000 people were turning up to walk, skip, dance and run for Breast Cancer research.

It was still early, and the sun was reflecting majestically against the city skyline.

Just kidding, that’s a streetlamp…

Down on the warm-up field, a wonderfully lively woman was leading pre-race stretch sessions. We danced and stretched and waved around our red balloons as the Black Eyed Peas Boom Boom Pow-ed in the background, energizing the enormous crowd.

It was so beautiful to be a part of such a heartwarming event.

Everywhere you looked there was pink: pink shorts, pink tops, pink hair, pink wings (yes, wings), pink body paint. It was vivid and bright and hopeful.

Here’s my superfun shirt again! Woohoo for free Lulu swag. I’m also wearing a Lulu running visor, which is one of my favorite things to jog in because the built in sweatband keeps all my fly-away hairs tucked out of my eyes. (And it comes in normal colors like black and grey for those who actually possess fashion sense).

No, I don’t have an addiction to expensive yoga-clothing, why do you ask?

We had the option of running with a “Tribute Card” honoring all those who fought, and are currently fighting, the gut-wrenchingly terrible disease that is Breast Cancer.

I dedicated my race to a family friend, Alison Freeman, who is currently recovering from surgery after the doctors discovered a lump in her breast. My thoughts are with you and your family, Alison.

Soon after warm-up, it was announced that all 8k participants should make their way to the start line. I gulped down the contents of my water bottle (I had decided not to run with it, but was terrified of getting dehydrated), and went for a quick bathroom break before joining the masses and funneling my way down to the road.

We were jumping around and jittering as they went through the course guidelines on the loudspeaker. My running buddy, Tanya, and I were both first time racers, and excited to get started. Finally, the countdown began.

10… 9… 8… 7… 6… 5… 4… three… two…. ONE.

The horn sounded, and we were off!

At the lightning speed of… ok, well, we were still walking. Because we hadn’t actually gotten to the start line. Because there were thousands of people in front of us. Also walking.

Eventually, however, space opened up and Tanya and I passed the starting line and began our race.

But then, disaster struck.

I had to pee. Badly. And we hadn’t yet run a kilometer. This was going to be one looong hour. Ah well… C’est la vie!

Tanya and I were setting a good steady pace and in what seemed like no time, we approached the 4k marker. Up ahead was our Lululemon Cheer Squad, whooping and hollering loud encouragements and holding up cheeky signs like this one:

Feeling revitalized, we ran straight through to the finish line without stopping. It was difficult, to be sure, especially when it came time to tackle the giant hill. Again. But we made it! (Question: why do those last two kilometers feel sooooo looooong?)

3268^th place. Not too shabby... And I had finished in under an hour, which was the goal I had set for myself. I was ecstatic.

Imagine what I could have done with an empty bladder!

Here are some of us, exhausted yet exhilarated, after the race.

As the morning drew to a close, I collected my bags, and pinned my tribute card to the dedication wall.

It was a beautiful, hopeful, joyful morning. I had finished the race! We had all finished the race. I lost the ability to walk after about an hour, but that seems like a negligible price to pay for such a moving experience. Plus I had Curtis to carry me, so I didn’t really need my legs anyhow.

He even got me a walker so I could move about the apartment. (Needless to say, the next day = ouch.)

Half marathon, here I come!

With so much love,

the traveling (and running) stahr…

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The Start of Something Good...

I get inspired easily—a bit of Alison Krauss music on my iPod, a Piet Mondrian painting at the Guggenheim, a modern dance piece on So You Think You Can Dance—and that’s it! I’ve discovered my life’s true calling. I take up singing, buy blank canvases, and browse Capezio for cute dance shoes.

But more often than not, with these big ideas, comes poor follow-through. The excitement fades, the planning stops, and I return to my norm (whatever that is) and declare to resume these various fantasies when I have more time.

At the inception of The Australia Plan (or lack thereof), I wondered if this too was going to be one of those things I wanted so desperately to do but just couldn’t fit together with my life. But for some reason or another, it wasn’t. And somehow, I’m here.

It was Allison who first inspired me to run a race, when she completed the CIBC Run for the Cure in Montreal in freshman year. A family friend, Dawn, had recently lost a fierce battle with breast cancer, and I thought it would be nice to inscribe her name on my number tag for the race. But my economics course was intent on kicking my butt—or at least that was the excuse I came up with at the time—and I said I would surely make time the following year. (I didn’t.)

Living here, in Australia, I have no norm to return to, no time constraints to consider, no excuses to place in my way.

So, when I found out the local Lululemon was starting a beginner run group to train for the 8k Mother's Day Classic in May, I was there that first Saturday morning at 9am. And when the tram cars were re-routed last weekend to attend to the Australian Grand Prix, and I had to walk the four kilometers to and from training, I hauled my tired butt up Fitzroy Street (and saw F1 driver Lewis Hamilton on the way!).

Although I have to fight a battery of excuses that cloud my head when I wake each Saturday morning (I could skip this week, just once… I didn’t get enough sleep last night, I shouldn’t over exert myself…), I look forward to seeing familiar faces, to jogging with a group of chatty girls almost entirely clad in Lulu gear (I’m a bit of a sore thumb with my Target tank top and Adidas track shorts, but what can you do…).

And on May 9^th, at six in the morning (gasp! that's early.) I will follow through. I will finally run a race for breast cancer research and for myself, in memory of Dawn.

UPDATE
After chatting with my mum this morning, I learned that another family friend, Alison, has just been released from the hospital after a double. mastectomy. These next few months are bound to be both physically and emotionally turbulent, but the doctors were able to remove all of the cancer, which is wonderful news. My thoughts are with her and her family, and I hope she makes a speedy recovery!

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