Spinning Saves My Life

 

            “ATTACK!”

            He's yelling at us, like he always does.

            “Deep breaths. Oxygenate the blood. Oxygenate the brain.”

            I like my brain oxygenated, because as Neil says, rust never sleeps.

            “Be confident. Be aggressive.”

            The same mantra every few days. I never get tired of it. Sweat is pouring into my eyes. I lose my grip on the bike – the bars are slick with my yuck.  I recover with a stalwart pace. A pounding techno soundtrack hurls us on. Not many places where a woman over 50 can go to get her freak on and not feel conspicuous. It's a 10a.m. rave, complete with water bottles and ecstasy, but we're high on our own bodies. Happy brain chemicals are doing their thing.

            “Crank it to a seven. Crank it to an eight. A little bit more. A little bit more. Get cranky! Use your anger! That's what it's for. ATTACK!.”

            My heart is pounding at the same rate as the music. God, this feels good. No, this feels euphoric. The chronic pain in my knees is gone, although I can still hear them crunch, and if I don't keep the pace, they can lock. Not cool. So I keep the pace, keep the faith, keep breathing and pushing until I feel like I'm on the verge of vomiting.

            I did a lot of vomiting in my active addiction. Drank until I puked because it was my normal. Used to vomit every time I drank. Got hangovers that made me want to put a gun to my head and pull the trigger. But if I did that, I couldn't drink. So I kept up the vicious cycle of toxic drinking and punishing withdrawal until the day came when, yeah, pulling the trigger was one of two options. Fifteen years later, sobriety is sweetened substantially by spin classes, yoga, pilates, weights and walking.

            “This is the best therapy you can do.”

            The man knows of what he speaks. Peter Gault [petergault.ca] my fitness guru, 59 years old, a hockey ref when he's not kicking our ass in the gym or at this home studio. He refs three, sometimes four shifts a week. Played hockey as a kid with Gretzky. Peter has a shaved head and is tattooed, before it became de rigueur. He's bounced dives in the Lower East Side and lived in his car in Manhattan and on the Florida coast. In his twenties, he wrote a bestseller, a raunchy novel called Goldenrod that made him some dough. He ate nothing but raw food for over a decade and performed at six Burning Man's for a Reno theatre company. At 39, he was certified in spin at Mad Dogg Athletics in NYC. He looks like a viking. The man has lived experience. He comes by his toughness honestly. I love being yelled at by him.

            It is the best therapy that I can do. The 12 step groups are foundational, but sometimes, you know, I don't want to talk. Talking, talking, and then there's the listening. Listening to the talking. Listening to your own talking is the worst. That's the time that I need high intensity exercise. It takes a person out of their mind and into their body.

            “Meditate on that!”

            He knows of what he speaks.

            Recovering addicts are always in danger of relapse. The thought crosses my mind more than I care to say. Sometimes being alive is painful not only physically, but spiritually. Springtime sends my soul into spasms. The burgeoning life all around, the sunshine and blue skies, the foliage and return of songbirds can send me into the stratosphere. It hurts being on earth when I want to fly. Some days the sensation is so intense and uncomfortable that the only thing I can do is spin off the sensory overload. It's either that or attempt poetry. This past spring when I was uncomfortable, I walked and walked and walked.  I walked until I was calm. Our own bodies can be good friends when we decide to befriend them.

            “Be happy. Don't forget to be happy.”

            This is Peter's final mantra as the class slows the pace to a stop. I sop up the sweat on my face with a damp towel. Peter finishes the class by having us do some yoga. I twist my spine, wringing out the regret and shame and pain. I twist the other way, feeling elasticity in the movement. This human vessel that I despised for so long, that I wanted to escape, is today my beloved messenger.

            Be happy.

            Thank you, body. Thank you, Peter.

            I am happy.

My Eight Year-Old Neighbour Taught Me A Lesson In Civic Engagement - AND YOU'LL NEVER GUESS WHAT HAPPENED NEXT

            A Tuesday morning, and I'm sitting on a bench at my local park, watching the kids play on the swings, and wondering at what age does it all go wrong. Flashing back to my own childhood; an indifferent grip on the monkey bars; spinning on the merry-go-round to the point of nausea; suggesting to the boys that we play mortician instead of doctor. The idea of play would only take hold in my life as a teenager and adult, as a means to control and suppress a powerful imagination. The Tuesday morning is splendid and the sky is blue and cloudless. I sigh and wipe away a maudlin tear.

            She stands beside me, arms akimbo, frowning.

            "Look at that," she says, pointing her chin toward playground apparatus. "That slide is not up to code."

            I look around to see who she is talking to, and realize it's me.

            "Whose your child?" she asks.

            "I don't have any kids."

            "Why are you watching us play, then?"

            I suddenly feel very conspicuous and guilty for no reason. I response the best I can. "The last time I checked this is a free country. And who says I'm watching you? Don't be so precious."

            "Suit yourself."

            She squints and folds her arms.  "Look at that slide. Do you think that incline is 30 degrees? I'd say it's more like 40 degrees. And what about the slide exit edges? They're rusted. I'm writing a letter to my councillor. This is not safe."

            She is a child of around eight years of age. She has brown hair and is wearing a jacket that is emblazoned with the words L'il Punk on the back. She has pierced ears and her diamond studs flash in the sun. She takes a sip of Global Villager Kombucha from a glass jar.

            I fold my arms as well. "Have you been on the slide?"

            She snorts. "Are you kidding? I wouldn't be caught dead on that contraption. It's a public structure, maintained by the city. Or correction -- I may be caught dead on that structure -- if I slid down it."

            I am growing tired of this killjoy. "Go play with the others now."

            "You say 'the others' like they're aliens."

            "I did not."

            "Yes, you did." She wags a finger at me. "Do you have a problem with me reporting this violation of code to the authorities?"

            "I don't care."

            "Well, maybe you should," she admonishes, "it's people like you who allow our public property to fall into disrepair."

            "I thought you wouldn't be caught dead on the slide?"

            "Well...I..." her voice trails off and she looks over at the swing set. I feel a little bad about questioning her motives. I hope she won't cry. The kid clearly wants to engage me in a substantive conversation, but I want none of it because it's interfering with my brooding. Then she spins around, red-faced.

            "'I'll go back on the swings now. But I'm not happy about it. This doesn't hold a candle to Universal Studios. Something needs to be done about the state of the world"

            She trudges over to the recycling receptacle and tosses in the kombucha beverage. She smooths her long hair into a ponytail and heads over to the swings.

            This kid needs some serious cheering up, I think. She's too young to be jaded.

I make my way over to the swings and take a seat beside her.

            "Is it okay with you if I play on the swings for a bit?"

            "I don't care. It's a free country," she says.

            We swing, the squeals of delight from other children filling our silence.

Merry Christmas from Bennettworld/Joyeux Noël

 
Random Image from Internet

Dear To Whom it May Concern:

Well, well, well. Well, well, well, well, well, well, well.

If it isn't holiday time ...

It's been a challenging year, but what would life be without its challenges? If you thought 'pleasant', I am in agreement. Be that as it may, 2016 is almost over and a new year, with fresh possibilities and hope, is just around the corner. It is a grand thing to still be alive to experience the challenges, unlike one of the 20th century's greatest artists who passed away this year. Yes, that's right, I am talking about Abe Vigoda. Fish, we never knew 'ya.

This is all to say, from my conglomerate to yours, have a very Merry Christmas and a peaceful New Year. We'll pick this up in January 2017.

With warmest wishes for good health and happiness,

Carolyn

Miracle on the HI-360

                                                                          

From Kahului, Maui's main city, the little town of Hana is 52 miles away, or about 84 kilometres. Hana is nestled in the island's rugged eastern coastline, and according to the  

Go Hawaii tourist website, is considered one of the last unspoiled Hawaiian frontiers. I would call it a backwater, if not a marijuana outpost. The drive to Hana can take anywhere from two to four hours to complete, because it consists of narrow one-lane bridges, and hairpin turn, not to mention spectacular scenery. A person is apt to toddle and gape.
 

The Hana Highway (HI-360) has 620 curves and 59 bridges. That's a lot of body and dental work. The road weaves its way through lush rainforests, towering waterfalls, plunging pools and breathtaking seascapes. Did I mention the hairpin turns? If you visit the Go Hawaii website, you will see I lifted some of the Road to Hana description, and changed the adjectives. Gosh, you'd think I was a speechwriter for Prime Minister Harper. I am merely setting the scene expeditiously, to get to the funny part.

I had just come off a gig in Honolulu, and Dan and I were vacationing in Maui. Yeah, I had a gig in Waikiki. Was booked in December 2013, at the height of the Toronto ice storm. (The internet is a wondrous thing at times, when it's not a black hole for attention spans. A company from Australia found me on the You Tube --but that is another blog to procrastinate writing.) All the tourist websites and books said to DRIVE THE ROAD TO HANA. I must confess, I am getting cautious in my advancing years. I thought the drive may be a little too tiring for Dan, because there was no way I was going to attempt it. I do not own a car, have never owned a car, and only drive the cars of other people when they are inebriated beyond repair. I am an dyed-in-the-wool urbanite, right down to my library canvas tote bag and metropass. Nevertheless, I shook off my apprehension, rented a car, and appointed Dan as chauffeur for the week.

 Maui is not a big island, but beautifully craggy it is. I imagine it is like Newfoundland, without the sleet, snow and people saying "I's the B'y". As Dan turned the wheel one way and then the next, and as the car climbed the road to Hana, I felt vague unease. One false move, like say texting a client, or eating a burrito, and we'd plummet off the side of the road and explode like cars did in the TV show Mannix.  It was more than that though. I felt, in my gut, that something was going to happen, and that something would not be good.

I pretended I was relaxed and happy. I had every reason to be; I had just come off a successful gig, and was remunerated well. The drive was every bit as amazing as the tourist books said. Dan parked the car at a remote beach, and we headed for the water.

That is, he headed for the water, and I was stuck guarding keys and wallets. I watched him frolic in the big surf, thinking it was a bit rough. My stomach clenched some more. I glanced over at a bbq hut in the distance, and saw a man leaning on a shovel, his eyes closed.

I turned back to the ocean, to see Dan climbing up from the beach, heading toward me.

Without his glasses.

Dan wears glasses. Dan needs glasses. To see.

     "Darlin', I lost my glasses in the ocean," he said.

And that's when I flew into a rage. Looking back at it now, I supposed I hadn't completely shaken off my apprehension.

      "I knew it! I knew it! I knew something was going to FUCK UP! I had this feeling ALL DAY LONG, something was going to FUCK UP. And something FUCKED UP."

I paced around in a fury, at the same time steeling myself for the tortuous drive back. I would have to get behind the wheel, be the responsible one, and draw upon my driving school knowledge from 1996.

     "GET IN THE CAR NOW. It's going to take six hours to get the hell out of here!"

What happened next is what I like to refer to as "Miracle on the HI-360."

Not wanting to endure my wrath for an interminable journey back, Dan insisted on driving. Being a coward, and an angry coward, I let him. For the first 20 minutes I hollered anytime the median line disappeared . Then, I started to relax. Dan was driving well. Not only that, he seemed to drive better without his glasses. He took hairpins turns with panache, exceeding the 15mph speed limit, and then some. I resigned myself to driving once we hit towns and the city again, but no, he kept going, passing other cars and keeping up with the highway traffic going 65mph, all the way to Kihei where we were staying.

Unwinding with beverages on the lanai at the condo, I asked Dan why he insisted on driving.

     "It was either I drive, or you mad at me for the rest of the day."

     Yes, Miracle on HI-360. The thought of someone ranting in a car for six hours gave him new vision. And it gave me insight into my own catastrophic thinking, and my need for control. If you take the Road to Hana, remember to just enjoy the ride.