kindness makes the world go round

Since I arrived in Vancouver, I've had some pretty awesome things happen. Some of them have been minor, such as a customer giving me a beautiful plant that became my makeshift Christmas tree and brightened my holiday season. Others have been incredibly kind, such as my friend who offered his apartment for me to house sit while he's in Montreal for a few months. Those around me have remarked how "lucky" I am. But I'm not one to believe in luck. However I am beginning to see some value in Karma and that if you do good things, good things will happen to you. I'm not naive enough to think the universe is playing along with my theory, but it's working out for me.

How often do you see someone walking down the street struggling with their bags? Do you offer to help? Do you give change to beggers? Do you hold the door for the person behind you? Your answer may well be yes. But is it always yes? A few months ago, feeling very humbled by the generousity from which I've benefited, I decided I wanted my answer to be yes as often as it can be. 

My little acts of kindness have been tiny. Helping a woman carry her suitcase down the stairs at the train station. Pulling the cord to stop the bus at the next stop so the woman I saw sprinting down the street would be able to get on. Leaving my spare ticket for the Ash Grunwald gig at the door and telling the seller to give it to the next person who walked in. Pushing the button at the traffic lights so the cars waiting at the side streets can get onto the main road. Giving my bus pass to a co-worker to use for the rest of the month while I'm away. I'm not changing the world, but hopefully I'm making someones day a little bit better.

Today I came across a guy who kicks my actions out of the water. Ryan, from Chicago, has a website called 366 Days of Random Acts of Kindness. Each day he posts a new act of kindness that he will do that day. They have included giving out compliments, buying someone breakfast, letting EVERYONE go in front of him for a day, leading a discussion at a halfway house and giving out free hugs. Some help lots of people, some just one (Ryan cleaned the entire house for his wife). Often it's not about helping people - just making them smile counts.

Ryan is doing a random act of kindness every day. It's something I'd love to be able to say I do. But I don't. I don't think many of us do. Imagine what sort of world it would be if we all did.

Challenge to my rather small readership circle: Do something kind for someone today. And tomorrow.

and the winner is....me!

10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, GUN.
Nothing happens.
Talk about an anti-climax.
But when you have 2000 people waiting to get over a start line it takes a while for something to happen.
Then the sea of people in front of me started to move. It was like a Mexican wave. Bit by bit the mass started moving and my stomach churned as the movement got closer. "No, no, no, no....Ok"

So I've run a half marathon. Three months ago when I signed up for the First-Half Half Marathon it seemed a lifetime away. Part of me doubted if I'd end up doing it. But I think most people are capable of more than they think and today that was true for me.

Before the race I thought my main challenge would be my energy levels given my workload in the past two weeks. I think my body has forgotten what a good night's sleep was and I can't remember the last time I went to bed without my feet throbbing (I'm actually starting to miss my office job). The morning didn't help with that. I woke up a few minutes before my alarm and used the extra time to reset the alarm for 15 minutes later.

Finally I dragged myself out of bed, scoffed some breakfast and got dressed. My game plan was to do nothing different to what I normally do. It seemed to work. Outside it was drizzling. By the time I lined up at the start, the rain was down to a few drops. No wind, not too cold. Perfect running weather.

Soon enough the race was on. We did a little loop downtown before heading out to the Seawall. We crossed back over the start line only a few minutes after leaving. It crossed my mind to maybe just stop there. That wasn't the first time I thought about stopping. When the course neared my house I thought about how nice it would be to be home instead of facing 9 more miles of running. I had my keys on me too. But I kept running. A lot of people tell me they "can't run" or "can't run that far". I had one CouchSurfer ask me for some tips and my answer was just "put one foot in front of the other". Today I took my own advice. I tried not to think about how much I had to go. With a run this long, coming across the next marker didn't make me feel any closer to the finish, until I hit the half-way mark. So much of this run was a mind-game. The course covered a lot of the ground I either run on my Tuesday night runs with VanRun or the Seawall around Stanley Park, which I've been training on lately. I just tried to tell myself that I'd run this track before so I could run it again.

As with any run there were highs and lows. The first two kilometres were OK, but then it sunk in how much more I had to go. At about 10km I started to pick up. I'd initially been aiming to finish in under two hours but I gave that aim away when I was on the bench for nearly three weeks with a cold. But when I reached half-way I realised I was actually on track to either make that goal, or at least be not too far off. That spurred me on a little, but I was careful not to push too hard given there was still a long way to go.

At 15km we were running along the Seawall towards English Bay, a path I've covered a few times. I could see the Burrard Street Bridge in the distance (which is not far from the finish line). My mood picked up, my energy levels felt good and I picked up the pace a little. Then the course veered off the Seawall and back into Stanley Park. When I realised we had to run around Lost Lagoon my spirits fell a little. I don't know why. To see the bridge ahead helped me picture the finish line and now I had to detour for a little bit.

At 3km to go I was exhausted and about to break into new territory. My longest road run to this point had been 18.5km. There were no more markers for a little while but those last few kilometres were the toughest I have ever covered. Finally I came across the 20km marker (which I had spotted on the run out), only to turn a corner and see a small hill ahead. Most people were walking up it but I was determined to run the whole way so I trudged up. Then it was slightly downhill to the finish, and once that was in sight I started sprinting. Well, to be honest it felt like sprinting but I reckon a senior citizen could have made ground on me.

The best feeling wasn't running across the finishing line, or getting my medal. It was lying down in the gym at the community centre stretching. It was an awesome few moments. Knowing it was over. Knowing that I did it. Knowing that I never have to run again if I don't want to.

I now have a medal saying I finished a half marathon. I have a First-Half Half-Marathon top that makes me look like the Yellow Wiggle. I have a very sore big toe. No blisters. Sore legs. And a growing desire to do another run. Weird.

almost ready to get my forrest gump on

Several months ago I looked at the amount of time I had to train for my first half marathon with a degree of confidence.
Although my track record with planning for things and seeing them through isn't great, I was determined to give it my best shot.
That confidence is long gone. Along with the time I have left to train.
It's Wednesday night. The run is on Sunday morning.
It can't be a good thing that I can count my training runs on my fingers. They are few and far between. I was racking up some miles in early January but then winter caught up with me and suddenly the only thing I was running for was a box of tissues. So there went three weeks with no training.

When I could finally breathe again I headed for Stanley Park. My first thought was to ease back into running again but then I figured running 5km would give me no indication if I could tackle 21km 10 days later. So instead I wound up on my longest run so far: 18.5km. I was slow (nearly two hours) and it was hard. Very hard. I was sore just hours later. More concerning was how exhausted I felt. I felt physically drained for the next few days. It was Monday before I ran again. Vancouver has been treated to some stellar weather in the past week so I took advantage and headed for the water's edge.
The advice of my friend Craig was there was nothing I could do before Sunday that would make any difference. I just needed to keep healthy, not get injured and keep my legs moving. So Monday's run was pretty cruisy. And I just have another few more miles to do tomorrow and Friday. But they'll be pretty uneventful too.

This close to the run, my biggest challenge isn't my fitness. It's my attitude. My fitness isn't great, thanks mostly in part to my untimely illness. But I think even if I was better prepared, I wouldn't feel much better. There has been more than one occasion where I've considered not running on Sunday. Entries are capped at 2000 so there are plenty of people who would love to take my race bib if they could. The most work I have to do over the next few days is convincing myself that finishing the race is enough. That my time doesn't matter. And I know it doesn't. But three months ago I had some expectations in mind and it's hard to let go of those. Instead I've tried to change the way I look at this race. This is no longer my first half-marathon. It's going to be my first half marathon this year. My cousin Vicky and I have decided to do the Vancouver Half Marathon on May 6. So I figure this race is just to prove that I can do it. Then I can set all sorts of silly expectations and goals for May 6.

I'm nervous about Sunday. Especially because the race, at 8.30am, will come after 10 days straight of work, including a 14-hour double shift the day before. But regardless of what happens over those 13.1miles, I've already taken a lot away from the experience. Three months ago 10km was the longest road distance I'd covered. And I only did that about three times a year, for the Burnie 10. One run to see if I could do the distance. Another to see if I could go faster. And then race day. Then I ran on average about 6km at a time for the rest of the year. In the past two months I've run 11km, 12km, 14km, 17km and 18.5km (told you I could count my training runs on my fingers). I never knew I had that in me. As for 21km? Well I'll know in a few days. 

giants on ice

There are an unsettling number of things that give me away as a foreigner.
You might think the accent would do it, but with so many Australians in Vancouver, people never know if you've been here for 20 years or 20 minutes.
I say beanie instead of toque (toook).
Housemate instead of roommate.
Jumper instead of sweater.
And no one knows what whinge or stickybeaking means.
I also make the almost unforgivable mistake of saying ice hockey.
This is a big no-no. To a Canadian, there is no need to clarify what type of hockey you are referring to. Hockey is hockey. Unless it's field hockey. But why would you play that they wonder?
A few months ago I was treated to a Canucks game (Vancouver's home team). The Canucks lost, so it wasn't a good night. I had hoped a little for a riot...just for fun...but it didn't happen. [For those who missed it, Canucks fans rioted last year after Vancouver lost the Stanley Cup to Boston. More than 100 people we injured, four people were stabbed and police are still prosecuting people involved. The ones they have caught anyway.]

On Friday I took two visiting Aussie friends to a Vancouver Giant's game. The Giants is the city's Western Hockey League junior hockey team. The oldest players are 20 but most are between 16 and 19. Because it's not the top league, the tickets are cheaper and the fights are more frequent.
Hockey's a fascinating sport to watch. It's fast. Rough. And a lot of fun.

While the Canucks' game a few months ago was fun to watch, the Giants were something else. Young blokes with something to prove. There was more than one punch-up. One big one, which ended with both players sent to the penalty box, wasn't even interrupted by the refs. They just stood back and waited for the boys to have it out, then pointed to the box and off they skated. We were two rows back from the glass - a barrier I put a lot of faith in as the players smashed into it. The game is broken into 20-minute thirds and the players sub regularly so they're always fresh and ready to slam someone into wall.

This guy is lucky he's got broad shoulders.
Otherwise he might need a nickname.

The Canadians take their hockey seriously. On game nights everyone wears their team colours and the pubs are full. At the games they cheer, do the Mexican wave, and don't hesitate to let the refs know if there is a decision they might not agree with. The Canadians also know how to make the most of the breaks in the play. In between thirds there are cheerleaders, a mini blimp dropping prizes into the ground and games on the ice. Even if you're not into sport (and I accept there are strange humans out there who fall into this category), hockey isn't more than winning and losing, it's about the game! And it's one hell of a game.

Stretch time.

country mouse in the city

Peek-a-boo

Looking out my living room window I have a great view into about one hundred living rooms. I am aware the people in those living rooms also have a similar view into mine. And my bedroom. Note to self: Don't walk around naked with the blinds open.

Being surrounded by high-rise apartment buildings full of people is an odd feeling. In many ways it's comforting to know if I was murdered, there is a good chance someone might see it happening (think Agatha Christie 4.50 from Paddington). But then it's creepy to think someone could be watching while I'm chilling on the couch watching The LA Complex (no judgement please). But whatever lack of privacy I have in Downtown Vancouver (yes I've moved, house sitting for a friend), it's nothing compared to what I grew up with.

Growing up at Montumana (Montu-what? I hear you say), our nearest neighbour was a couple of paddocks away. At night we struggled to see the lights of another house. On the rare occasion the front door was locked, the back was open anyway. Every time a car went up the road, everyone looked to see who it was. It was often followed a comment about where that person might be off to. I didn't come from a small town. The nearest town was 20 minutes away. Even now, years after we moved, visiting the supermarket in Wynyard (the nearest town. Pop: about 4000) is basically a reunion without the party pies and paper plates.

My new apartment building is one of these. I forget which one.

When I moved back to Burnie it was a similar story. I could tell who was at the gym just by the cars in the car park. If I rang someone for an interview and gave my name, more than once the reply was "Oh you must be David's daughter". The chances of playing up have the news not get back to either my employer or my parents were slim.
Now living in a city of 2 million people, I have more anonymity than I've ever had. In one week I've seen five other people in my apartment building. It makes me wonder about all those times if people asked me if I felt isolated growing up in the country. How can knowing everyone who lives in a 5km radius be isolating? Don't get me wrong, I like living in the city. 24 hour gyms, sushi on every corner and a Starbucks on every other corner is good fun. For now. But I'm pretty sure I'm a country mouse at heart.