Man was I ever feeling like crud the last few days, and I was debating whether or not to blog about it as it is a bit of a sensitive subject, but given that it’s a running-induced sensitive subject, blogging I shall do. But first, I must warn all you non-runners, and all you with the squeamish little bellies, and all of you who are easily grossed out, stop reading now. If you continue, you are too blame. I take no fault for any accidental upchucking or cringe-induced wrinkles or nightmares that may result from what lies below. This condition I am about to discuss is a condition that no runner likes to talk about, and likes even less to experience. Are you ready for it? Okay, here you go: Runner’s Diarrhea, also known as the trots, poopy pants, sore bum, and ohmygawd find me a toilet now, even a […]

I practically ran to Timbuktu yesterday … okay, maybe not Timbuktu, but it might as well have been. I mean 23 km is practically around the world and back isn’t it? That’s right 23 km – my longest run ever! And I’m not gonna sugarcoat it; it was fricken tough. At about 17 kms, I was seriously re-evaluating my sanity. My calves were fatigued, my thighs were throbbing, my hip was … well … it was kind of screaming. But all that was nothing compared to what was going on in my head: Math. For those of you who don’t know, I’m not exactly one to go out of my way to do math, but when you’ve already been running for close to two hours, your formerly sweet little head starts doing nasty little things like math equations. I’ve got how many more kilometres to go? Six? Are you kidding me?

Ahhh sleep, how I’ve missed you so. But fear not, my dear friend, you will once again be a vital part of my life come tomorrow. Today, July 24, 2010, marked the end of the 97th Tour de France. And you know what that means: No more 3:30, 4:30, 5 a.m. alarm clock wake-up calls. No more squeaky office chairs and tapping keyboards in the wee hours of the morning (although, he did stop sitting in the chair and did stop Google-searching once he realized it impeded my sleep). No more bright TV lights. And no more excited husband waking me up an hour before I wanted to get up to watch the two-second time difference bruhaha between Contador and Schleck. “I thought you’d want to see it too,” he said, far too excited for any human being at 7:30 in the morning. I so could have waited for the

When I got up yesterday morning, I had every intention of posting a blog, but as the day progressed my plans were foiled. And it wasn’t my fault, nope, not all. I was kidnapped. My annual eye appointment was first thing yesterday morning right in the heart of Vancouver, which meant I couldn’t even sleep in on a day I wasn’t going to work. Every time this appointment rolls around I always chide myself for booking it so early, but it never fails, when they ask me what time I want to come in next, I always pick the earliest slot available. Why? Because for the first 20 years of these appointments, I would inevitably be holed up in the opthamology clinic for at least four hours. Despite envying the eye glass wearers of the world (yes, I really do … what can I say, I love the way I

Brace yourself folks, I’ve got some disturbing news, really disturbing. Ever since the Giro d’Italia two years ago I’ve been drooling over the molasses-coloured skin, the finely sculpted smooth calves, and the thick Spanish accent of Alberto Contador. He’s a Spaniard, he’s the King of the Mountains, he’s hot! How on earth could I not love this cyclist? Even last year in the Tour, when he was up against Lance, who is also a major hottie, I was rooting all the way for Contador. And I even told Mario that if my Contador ever came a knocking, as much as I love my dear husband, he would be a walking. But now, in the final days of Le Tour, I think my lust love may actually be wavering – for Mr. Eye Candy himself, Andy Schleck! The young cyclist from Luxemburg has been racing hard this year, not letting up for