Cat Party

For the past two years, my answer to Devan's annual "What do you want for Christmas/your birthday/our anniversary?" question has been "A cat." Sort of jokingly, mostly not: Digby has been so lonely! He needed a brother! I've even been trolling the stray cats that live in the brush near our house, trying to lure them inside using Temptations treats.

I guess my nattering finally paid off, because Devan decided to surprise* me** with a cat for our anniversary this year.

Oxford! Some people give their pets proper names, beer names, stupid names, made-up names, Twilight names--but we prefer haughty sounding place names. We got Oxford through Toronto Cat Rescue which I can't recommend enough. There are so many rescue kittens in need of homes across the city (especially the black ones) and, really, what's wrong with owning two cats? Think of all the cuteness that could ensue. Think of the cuddles! Thanks for finally caving, Devan.

* He actually ruined the surprise by telling me in advance.
* This is clearly not a present 'just for me'. I now live in a tiny apartment with three dirty boys.

twenty one point one: Toronto Waterfront Half Marathon Recap

So here it is: 1:49:26.

I barely slept the night before. The starting line was freezing. My blood sugar was 7.0. I snuck into the blue corral (1:45-1:59 finishers) and lined up behind a guy with a giant Foo Fighters tattoo on the back of his calf. It took me four minutes to cross the starting mat. I snaked past people for the first few kilometres (how'd they get all the way up here?) and tried to ignore the fact that I was dying to pee. I hit 5k in exactly 26 minutes--exactly on target. I hit a really good rhythm. The pee just disappeared, I guess?

I spotted Christie Blatchford clapping in a small group of spectators along the Lakeshore. Her heart didn't really seem into it, though--maybe the spectacle was too public for her.

I made sure to stay ahead of the 3:45 marathon pacer. I hit 10k in 52 minutes flat. No shit. I drank all the Gatorade. My shin splints, which had been bothering me for weeks, never showed up for the party. My IT band, though--dormant for four months!--decided to tighten up near 16k. I ran through it. My splits were frighteningly consistent (I guess all those Yasso 800s paid off). The 1:50 pacer caught up to me with a kilometre to go and I pushed hard to stay ahead of him.

I got the sub 1:50. And when I checked my blood sugar on the curb after the race? 7.0. (Okay, there may have been some crazy post-race high sugars but those don't count! It's the 1:49 that counts.)

Phew.

21km and Type 1: Tomorrow

My race is tomorrow. I registered for it way back in March. A lot has changed since then: I've had three injuries (IT band, twisted ankle, and some persistent shin splints), I'm faster overall, and my attitude to racing has changed. Back in March this half marathon seemed like a really, really big deal. And, okay, it is, but I know now that it's just the first step for me. If I can finish tomorrow in a decent time, I can definitely run a marathon in the next year or so with some extra training. 42.2 and Type 1: it's not so far off.

Back in March I put myself in the starting corral for 2:00-2:15 half finishers. I had no idea of pacing for this kind of distance; I thought if I could break 2 hours I'd be proud. Now, I'm gunning for sub 1:50. That might be aiming too high, but I do know that (barring some horrible accident or injury) I will definitely come in under two. I don't doubt myself as much anymore. Truth be stretched, I've been training for this race for the past 13 years. I'm scared as shit, but I know I can do it.

I've got a basal insulin reduction plan and gels to keep my blood sugars in range. I don't expect them to be perfect--I don't need them to be. I just need my diabetes to work with me tomorrow. I don't want any fighting.

21.1? I'm going to kill it. And then I'm just going to keep on going.

Lessons, Learned

Yesterday I set out for 18k, my longest long training run yet, fully prepared. I couldn't believe how prepared I looked as I passed the hall mirror on my way out the door: Spibelt AND wristlet AND water bottle? I was dripping gear. I had a new route all plotted out in my head, but also mapped out on my computer in case Devan needed to send out a search party. Even my blood sugars were conciliatory: 8.0 and steady, a perfect starting number.

I ended up running 22k completely by mistake.

My Google training calendar was not pleased with me, not at all.

My plan was to run north and east, catch the Belt Line, loop through Mt. Pleasant cemetery, enter the ravine system, let it dump me back onto St. Clair and end up around Bathurst. Then I'd grab the streetcar and head home--1:30 mins, 1:40 tops. And it would have worked out that way (near perfect!) if I hadn't forgotten my Metropass at home. 8k into the run I realized I didn't have my pass or enough change to get myself home. I balked. In an effort to shorten the overall distance, I just headed north, thinking that I'd run into the cemetery sooner or later. This became my 1st Time Getting Lost. Who knew the UCC campus could be so confusing?

I finally found the Belt Line, and then the cemetery. I thought things were smoothing out until I hit my 2nd Time Getting Lost. Mount Pleasant is all curvy roads that lead NOWHERE. I did come across a map...one that had two separate 'You Are Here' dots marked on it. I walked in circles for at least fifteen minutes. Ghosts were moving faster than me.

Finally, finally, I found Moore Park Ravine. This trail, at least, was consistent, even if I had absolutely no clue where I was in the city. I checked my blood sugar somewhere past the Brick Works and realized I'd been cruising along with a blood sugar of 3.5. This is probably the point where I started to cry: lost in the east end, dangerously low blood sugar, no phone, no Metropass, and miles to go. Assumed I'd see Death but all I saw were golden retrievers.

I kept going, and kept GUing. I made it to St. Clair and Bathurst, my original end point, and conceded to keep running. I'd hoped to run this one at an easy pace, but the longer it went on the more I just wanted to be back home--so I ran fast. Really fast. Too fast?

In the end, according to mapmyrun and my shitty watch, I ran 22.2k in about 1:55. That is definitely NOT easy long run pace, but it does give me hope for the Scotiabank Half and future races. I'm wiped out today, but my legs don't ache very much. And, apart from my panic attacks, I felt good the whole time.

Lessons I learned:
1. Bring Metropass if planning a route that requires a Metropass to get home.
2. Bring phone, why not.
3. The east end is terrifying.

Longboat Toronto Island 10k

Man, what a mess.

Not my race, necessarily. That one started out messy (old splinty) but turned itself around near the end. No, the race itself was a mess. From start to finish, ferry to island, beginning to end.

This was the race's biggest year to date, selling out a few days before. Unfortunately, that meant that this once small, once sweet race was now way too big for its britches.

Even though the race instructions encouraged us to take the 9:30am ferry, we decided it made more sense to wait until the subway opened at 9 and chance the 10am ferry. Not my smartest decision: the ticket booth lineup stretched well past the Westin, all the way onto Queen's Quay. Hundreds of people deep. I knew I wasn't totally screwed since the line was full of people wearing race bibs, but there were no race volunteers in sight to help us out. I really didn't want to be forced onto the 10:30 ferry--the race was supposed to start at 11:15, and I still needed multiple chances to pee. People were getting frantic. The ferry to Hanlan's Point was out of service that morning--maybe they could have arranged for it to carry racers, exclusively? Hell, even a sign would've helped.

We managed to find a slightly shorter line, buy our tickets, and eventually jostle onto the 10am boat. I may or may not have shoved a stroller in the process; I definitely smacked a dog out of my way. The ferry was at least 10 minutes late, as it is wont to do. We chugged along. Things were not going swimmingly.

Once we got to the race site we were told that the first event, the 5k, would be delayed by "15 minutes or so". A few minutes later we were told the 10k would start "in about 25 minutes". This was not ideal. I had lowered my basal rate over an hour before, which meant that my blood sugars were only on the rise. I needed to start running, fast.

I started walking to the starting line when a volunteer ran past and screamed "hurry up! We're holding the start for you!" Um, what? 25 minutes became 2 minutes instantaneously.

A ridiculously narrow starting line filled with 1000 runners left me weaving and dodging slow bodies for the first 2k or so. The next 3k I spent battling shin splints. Once that pain faded, as it always does, I ran on my own for the rest of the race. I managed a negative split, which was lovely, and finished just over my goal time in 50:27. Yes, again, not bad.

It was a beautiful day, a nice little loop around the island, and a decent effort. But had this race been smaller, it would have made all the difference. My time, when compared to last year's results, would have netted me 4th place in my age category in 2010. This year, with the higher number of runners, it only got me to 14th place.

We left quickly to avoid more chaos on the ferry back downtown. Didn't even get to go on the swan ride.

Bits and Bobs, Watches and Water

I hate carrying things when I run. In the good old days, I used to head out on runs with almost nothing; sometimes not even my keys, banking instead on the goodwill of my roommates not to lock me out (this rarely worked out the way I hoped). Runners aren't supposed to need the extra bits and bobs, right?

But I caved and started toting a wristlet, stuffed with glucose tablets lest I go low. When it became clear that I needed my blood sugar meter for longer runs, I tried stuffing it inside my wristlet as well. My wristlet is now dead: yellowed from sweat, punctured by lancets, ripped in two places.

So I caved and bought a SpiBelt. It makes me sad just to look at the thing, but I can see the value of carrying it on runs longer than 10km. Once my training ramped up, I realized that carrying my supplies wasn't enough; I needed to start measuring my pace, assessing my times, if I wanted to get faster.

So I caved and picked up a cheapo watch, because I'm not in any position to afford a Garmin (Christmas, mom?). The thing scratches up my arm but it does the trick. So now I'm carrying both a fanny pack and a watch, but it still feels like I'm missing something--especially since my runs are only going to get longer.

So I caved and bought a handheld water bottle. I hate this! It's terrible! But here we are. Runners, especially those with type 1 diabetes, can't afford to go "free" for hours at a time. I used to love the freedom of disconnecting from my pump for a short run, leaving it all behind. As my kilometers keep stacking up, though, the risks of going without gear far outweigh the bliss of feeling free.

I'd like to think that hydration is only an issue during the summer, but that's not the case. In the fall I'm planning some of my longest runs--20km +--and I'd be insane not to drink water before, during, and after those. So, handheld water bottle, I concede to you.

Now somebody just needs to get that information across to this bimbo: http://runningmagazine.ca/2011/08/sections/training/blogs/water-belt-or-fanny-pack-whats-cuter/
I'm still amazed that this girl was able to finagle a "style" running blog on such a respected site. (If you'd prefer to post a blog about running and disease, CR, I'm your girl!) She has decided not to wear a fuel belt or carry a water bottle because "honouring [her] body [is] the most important thing". Well, have fun with that. I've decided to honour my body by strapping three heavy, separate things onto it--because not dying is way more stylish than dying.  

Acura 10 Miler Recap

Last Sunday I ran the Acura 10 Miler, the longest distance I've ever raced. I still find that hard to believe: I've been running half my life (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RHBikURKkUM) and I've only started serious road racing now? Luckily, I think I'm off to a good start. I've only got longer distances and faster times from here.

I've always wanted to run the Leslie St Spit (Tommy Thompson Park) but had never made it down there before this race. It's a real trek just to get to the spit, let alone run it. This course started in the Distillery--a place I'd also never been to, west end girl through and through--along the Lakeshore, out into the park and then back. The Spit wasn't nearly as exciting as I'd hoped it would be, but maybe I just didn't spend enough time looking back at the skyline.

This was my first race on an insulin pump. I had trained, prepared, considered all the options--but still felt like I was going into it blind. Would nerves affect my blood sugars? Would I soar, would I plummet? I had a sense of what my chip time should be, but it was vague; my blood sugars were even more up in the air.

My pre-race blood sugar was a not-good 14.4, but I decided it was best to err on the high side. I set a temporary basal rate an hour before the gun and made sure I had at least two gels in hand. I tried following my brother's advice to stay consistent, mile by mile (spoiler alert: my brother, freakish, finished nearly 30 minutes ahead of me). I came through 5km in roughly 25 minutes, mostly on track. I was feeling strong through 8km, until I finally took note of the Gatorade at the water station and knew: my blood sugar was dipping low. Way, way low.

From then on I ran the race from one Gatorade station to the next. I never pulled out my blood sugar meter to check--I thought it would eat away at my time goal. I never touched a single Gu--I thought it would impede my pace, even temporarily. Around 15km I started to really feel the effects of my low: shaking hands, starry vision. I faded when I should have powered through, finishing just over 1:25. Yeah, sure, not bad. 

There were a lot of take-aways, and I don't just mean the tech shirt:
- With steady blood sugars my time would have easily been 2-3 minutes faster.  
- I need to learn how to prick my finger while in motion, without spraying the person next to me with blood.
- Next time I need to take in carbs after 60 minutes, no matter how I'm feeling. The Gatorade was good for temporary sugar spikes, but the speed+pressure of racing demands more long-lasting carbs to keep my blood sugar stable.
- If I can run this race in a decent pace, I can definitely run the Scotiabank half under 1:50.

I'm finally starting to feel like a runner again. Bout time.

On J. Crew

When I was younger, 10 or so, I got into the (totally bizarre) habit of ordering J. Crew catalogues in the mail, then cutting animal heads out of old Owl magazines and pasting them over the model's faces. It was a brief summer craft project that turned into a full-blown obsession. I wish I still had a few of these kicking around--sadly, all of my outsider art was thrown away as kid crafts gave way to teen diaries. Back then, J. Crew was all crinkled khakis and pastel polos; it was more dockside, less desirable. It was the age of Dawson's Creek, what can I say?

(photo via stayinginwithvlada.com)

As much as I love Pacey Witter (which, to be fair--to this day--is a lot) J. Crew had to grow up eventually. And, year by year, it's been getting better and better. Under the creative direction of Jenna Lyons, she of the heavy framed eyeglasses and little boy nail polish controversy, the brand has become more classic and more daring at once.

They've been teasing an entry into the Canadian market for years, but next week it's finally going to happen: at Yorkdale on August 18th. I don't think this will damper my bi-monthly road trips to Buffalo, NY, but it's still a bright spot in a crowded mall. Now we just need to start pulling Madewell up past the border--gently, gently.

From the J. Crew fall 2011 lookbook:

Not so much the pants, but definitely the trench. 

I don't enjoy being swathed in black all fall/winter long, but my coloring (red hair, freckles) usually doesn't give me much choice. This is a combination I can get behind, though. Mint and burgundy? So pretty. Reminiscent of one of my favorite snacks: mint chip ice cream with blueberries. Tastes awful, looks delicious. 

Yes please. 

(photos via fashionolgie.com)

Ikea Kitchen Cart DIY

Truth: I've never wanted a Bekvam cart, that Ikea staple of a million undergrad kitchens.

It's a functional size and shape, but the untreated wood isn't very appealing. Last month, during a DIY drought--our apartment is running out of projects, how will I live?--I decided to give in, buy the Bekvam, lug the box home and start staining. Our existing kitchen "cart" needed to eat it, after all:

I mean, look at that thing. Purchased on sale at Canadian Tire in 2008 for $10. It could barely even stand up straight.  

Staining and painting are hard tasks when you live in a cramped apartment, so I opted to get the job done outside on our (equally cramped) front porch. Let's just say, I spent a lot of time yelling at wind.

After:

(Please ignore the disgusting switch plate. This ain't my house, so I ain't DIY-ing that thing.)

It looks like a million bucks--or like $249.00, which is the price of Ikea's similar Stenstorp cart. 

I'm currently living cheaper than Ikea. I didn't think it could be done. 

Also!

A gift from Devan's mom, or, a book salvaged from a basement in London, ON. Yes, those are goblets of milk on the front cover. 

I may have to start a series of blog posts testing out these recipes. Nay, will. 

My City of Internships

I've been nursing a quarter-life crisis for some time now. It's the culmination of a number of factors: this city, the job market, social media constantly making me feel inadequate, and my own tendency to sweat the small and big stuff. This past week I was mulling over how best to explain my woes through words. Then, today, this article appears: Unpaid interns, working for free

The Globe gets it. And it sucks.

I opted to apply to Masters programs following undergrad, for reasons I can't even remember now. I managed to get accepted to all of the schools I applied to, which only made things worse; it was fuel for my fire, confidence for my crazy. I knew that I liked writing fiction, and that I was good at it. I didn't consider my options-- in my mind, the only option was to get my MFA.

Two years later, I have a surplus of short stories, a rough draft of a "novel", and practically no employable skills.

My biggest problem is that I don't know what I want to do. At age 25, I still don't know what I want to do. I do want to write, but "writer" isn't a real job anymore; it certainly isn't a job that pays. In the world of fiction writing, my age is a positive thing (I'm only 25!). In the real world, the one filled with jobs and expenses and debts, my age is a liability (I'm already 25).

I know what fields I'd thrive in: arts and media in broad strokes, but specifically publishing, advertising, editorial, communications. None of those fields want me as is, though, because I haven't followed the standard path. Haven't you heard about The Path?

The Path: Get a BA--> get a post-grad diploma or certificate--> take an unpaid internship (or several)--> fight to the death with thousands of other kids just like you for the same small handful of jobs.

This city has a dearth of arts-related jobs, yet it's awash in unpaid internships. As the Globe article points out, these internships don't just take advantage of students and recent graduates; they're also inherently classist.

"One of Mr. Perlin’s chief critiques of unpaid internships is they are classist. While they may be a stepping stone to gainful employment, students who cannot afford to spend a summer without pay are shut out from such opportunities."

From my perspective, I can't afford to go to a post-grad college program let alone take a string of unpaid internships. I've cleared all my debts from undergrad and grad school, but it seems like the only way I can get a stimulating job is by putting myself back into the red.


I'm 25. I'm not sure if I have enough fight left in me.