Passive Agressive Notes

I am packing to go home, and preparing for another move which means going through all belongings with a scrutinizing eye. Used book stores, second hand clothing stores, and recycling plants--brace yourselves! I love a good purge, being the anti-pack-rat that I am.

So in this process I stumbled upon a little book of quotes that I kept during first year (yes, cue the nostalgic montage). One quote is from a weekend when Keith came to visit. For those of you who don't know Keith, he's one of my oldest friends. We met when we were 14 at a volleyball camp in Jasper, Alberta. We were both going through a "skid" phase and wanted to become doctors some day. Hence, fast friends. 

About 8 years later I managed to convince him, over a Boston Brute, to become a nurse with me. We also got our first nursing jobs together, as employed students on Unit 62 (the acute psychiatric unit at the Royal Alexandra Hospital). 

He's now living in London, England and has a masters in nursing (my attempts to get him to join me in medical school were ill-timed due to his masters!) He's this total kick ass, published, saving the world one abandoned patient demographic at a time nurse now. He's currently specializing in schizophrenics suffering with HIV. He also specializes in being awesome. 

London 2012. Almost at the 20 year mark!

Anyway (longest pre-amble ever) he came to visit at the very beginning of medical school. I was living with three classmates at the time. A few necessary points required to understand the passive aggressive note Keith left George (one of my roommates). 

We had a MASSIVE whiteboard in our kitchen. 
George had recently been published for some melanoma research he'd assisted with.
I had complained to Keith about how George always drinks from the Britta and never fills it up. 
Keith gets belligerent when he drinks beer. 

Georgey-Boy. 
No. You cannot leave the Britta with 1cm of H20 in the bottom. 
Unacceptable.  I think you're slipping. You're never going to get published again unless you refill the Britta. 
I'm just sayin'. 
Fer realz, Bro-ski. 
Love Keith. 
P.S Best note ever. 
P.P.S Yer momma.  

Stumbling sleepy eyed into the kitchen on Saturday morning George discovered this note written on the white board. We had been sitting there having our morning coffee and had completely forgotten about the note until George stopped talking and was clearly reading it. It was like one of those slow motion

Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooo! [dive roll attepting to grab paper towel to erase it before he actually read it.] But it was too late.  

George, ahem...failed to see the humor in the note, I believe. Being a rather serious chap. Things were a little chilly for the next two days but I sniggered to myself over it for ages. And Georges still brings it up when I mention Keith. Coming across these little gems is the one and ONLY upside to packing / sorting / moving hell. It still makes me laugh. Nothing like a dear old friend leaving passive aggressive / yer mom notes for your new roommate to really make things awkward. 

Love ya, Keith! xx

 

I (Heart) Rural Medicine

In the last 48h have included having the opportunity to:

-catch a baby
-cut a piece of glass out of someone's face (and then stitch them up afterward)
-surgically assist with fusing toes, replacing hips, replacing knees
-perform a D&C
-assist with a hysterectomy
-sew up knife wounds
-assess / treat / discharge about 75 emergency patients
-learn how to insert an IUD

Despite the exceedingly damp climate my hands are cracking from so much handwashing, I'm surviving solely on t.v. dinners and instant soups, clean underwear is becoming a scarce commodity, and I've spent every day (except one) in the hospital since my arrival. And I couldn't be happier.

My days are so full and varied, with such fantastic teaching from the docs here. It's hard to sleep at night, completely wired and excited by each day's events. I feel so fortunate to be here. I'm starting to believe that saying about how "there are teaching hospitals and then there are learning hospitals". Say what you will about rural medicine...but my experience is that people working in remote areas have half the egos and double the desire to teach.

I've been spending a lot of my retractor-holding and trying-to-sleep time thinking about the (soon arriving) residency application process. Today I truly felt like a few things have started to crystallize in my mind about what I want to pursue...

As always it is a work in progress, but I think that will have to be a post for another day.

In the meantime, check out my new O.R clogs while I try to get some well deserved sleep.

Yes, yes I did.

Hard Mattress

After a somewhat lengthy orthopedic surgery where I had been holding a foot / leg up off the table, Dr. Boots handed over the suture material and told me to get to work.

Me:

Umm...should I come around to the other side of the table?

Dr. Boots:

No, sweetheart just get to work, this man's got a bloody tourniquet on! We don't have time for dancing around. Put in some mattress sutures. 

(Some of you might scoff at the fact that I haven't mastered the mattress suture. As a potentially aspiring surgeon I maybe should be able to do them in my sleep, however, I spent most of my time in general surgery trying to perfect my sub-cue stitches and hand-tying. Bad medical student, BAD!)

And now I have.

And they were a thing of beauty. All two of them. Damn you arthroscopy and your tiny wounds!

Dr. Boots:

There, that wasn't so bad now. No need for all the shivering and shaking. You know my 17 year old daughter can do mattress sutures, no problem. She taught herself.

(Surgical Drape) Curtain Falls. 

[For the record...my hands were shaking because my forearm muscles were maxed out from assisting...I swear! I should also add, Dr. Boots is amazing and kind of like the slightly-unimpressed-but-fantastic-teacher orthopedic-surgeon-father I never had. Above example illustrates the way we communicate. Me, hopeless rube in ortho...him ortho king. Get it?]

Racing: The Irish Way

 

A few weeks back I convinced my brotha-from-anotha-motha, Ryan, to run this 10 mile race. So he signed up. 

I balked. He trash-talked. I registered. I regretted.

It was actually pretty fun.

The drive there was an adventure, at one point the GPS (who I've named Dunce Cap or D.C for short) even got lost, telling us to turn left but mapping us to the right and then getting all hissy when I went left. I really want to throw that thing in the majestic river Shannon most days.  Though the road (pictured above) was scary and narrow, the directions were typically Irish ('after a long bend in the road take a left and follow that road') we somehow found the place. I had a moment of anxiety the night before when I realised that doing a race in the middle of February is actually a really bad idea. You see, it is too soon for there to be any resolutionists (as I like to call them). No one decides on Jan 1st to do a race 6 weeks later. Most would think it is not enough time to train for a medium distance run. And this race, in particular, is known as the 'most challenging 10 mile race in the country'. I'm not sure about this claim as it is possible that it is the only 10 mile race in the country. So, the folks running an ass-buster in Feb are likely going to be really in shape, doing it as a fun day out as they prepare for their next big race somewhere else. 

Oh I so called it. As we pulled up we could see a blur of lyrca stretching and light-jogging up the first hill.  Formidable specimens, they were. I could see the outline of their vastus mediali  from the parking lot (which, by the way, was a farmers driveway, complete with fowl and swingsets, pictured above).

This is what happens when you set a camera timer and try to look tough.

The weather was outstanding. It was indeed a challenging race with loads of hills. But both Ryan and I were happy with our times (Ryan had hoped to do it in 1:30 despite the elevation and he finished in 1:19)! I was hoping to finish under 2 hours since I haven't really been distance running since....oh....2008! But I managed to pull a 1:32 out which isn't exactly olympic qualifying time, but it got the job done. And I was pleased. And apparently haggard.

Hello, beauty.

After the race I drove home, grabbed some food, water, bathing suit, and towel, and headed to the icy Atlantic nearby. My car thermometer read 7 degrees yet somehow I managed to strip off my many layers and plunge in. I am a firm believer in the ice bath. It had to be done and I figured a sunset dip in the ocean would be better than the view from my bathtub.

Turns out, I was right. Shortly after my dip the clouds rolled into this amazing formation that nearly took my mind off the fact that every cell in my body was shivering. I sat in my car, cranked the heat on (sorry environment, it had to be done for a few minutes) and ate my picnic supper. I made a mental note regarding what a lovely date I'd taken myself on, and deciding that yes indeed I would go out with myself again. Once the beach was dark I drove to the gym and vegged out in the sauna and decided that life was pretty much all I ever hoped it'd be. Oh Ireland, I really (heart) you sometimes.

FIRST CUT!!

Dear Diary,

Today I had the chance to make my first scalpel to skin incision. M.C was very nonchalant about the whole thing. I had set up the tray as per usual (thanks to years of nursing and having to set up many a tray for minor ops) and then he just casually said to me, "okay, so work away there...get a blade for yourself..."

Yeah, I tried to play it cool but I am fairly sure that the eyes-popping-out-of-my-head-with-questioning-stare gave it all away.

He smirked and pretended to have something to do away from the patient while I went about (excitedly) excising my first skin tag.

This was followed by a sebaceous cyst excision and another skin tag removal (of a patient I had seen 1 month ago and booked for the procedure). She said she hadn't felt a thing, and that I was worth every penny that he was paying me. HA! I shall never let M.C live that one down.

I was pleased to learn that I have a steady hand and do indeed get a rather large kick out of cutting people (in the socially acceptable cutting to cure sort of way). I am sure that such a milestone is something you never forget. Course I am happy that this happened in one of my favorite little hospitals, on Valentine's day nonetheless.

Today was a good day.

Sincerely,

ABB

You Know You Live in Ireland When...

Driving home from the race today we hit a bit of a traffic jam.

Eventually they decided to let us pass...

Never a dull moment behind the wheel in this country!

When Alcohol Should Be Taken Before Exercise: a.k.a Zumba

I was lured into my first zumba class by my eternally optimistic and anti-weightlifting roommate last week. I used to snobbily chortle at the aerobics classes last year in the University gym and vowed never to attend such a fitness monstrosity. I figured zumba must be something completely different...

For those of you who haven't attended a class yet, I'll ruin the surprise: zumba is nothing more than an aerobics class to Latin dance music.

And it doesn't look anything like this:

No, it is more like this:

Which is awesome, actually, because I'd be way too scared an un-glam enough to go to the top class anyway. But the whole experience has been a bit of a disappointment, in myself. I like to think I have rhythm and maybe even some sweet dance moves. Turns out, I have neither. I took highland dancing as a kid which is a very regimented, precise type of choreography. Zumba requires hip gyrating, booty shaking, arm twirling, and general freedom of movement. Possibly some sexiness as well. I am incapable of shaking my money maker with abandon, especially when that money maker is in lycra and not in the gin and tonics. 

Dear Margaret (roommie) and I agreed that we'd probably crush the dance floor if only we arrived a litte tipsy one day. Then we felt like that agreement made us sound like alcoholics. Then we questioned if drink only made us think we were good dancers or if it truly loosened us up enough to display our Jennifer Grey type skills. Either way I think my Irish heritage shows itself well amongst my fellow wooden, self conscious, antitheses of sexy, arhythmic, fair sisters. 

The bottom line, however, is I am sweating and laughing at the end. And possibly expanding my (already killer, right?) repertoire for my next big night out. Which is more than I can say my nemesis The Treadmill can offer!

Zumba, I misjudged you and your aerobic-class self.

Scenes From A (gastronomical) Canadian Winter Holiday

I've been rather unplugged the last few weeks, in the wintery wilds of Québec. My slothful existence has mostly starred red flannel snowflake pajamas, a reading chair, exquisite food and drink, late mornings, a stack of books, my mother, Tobie, his family, strong coffee, a grand piano, and a few brief appearances by friends (that means you, Liz, Lisa, and Not House!)

Other than my uninterrupted, daily rumination on what will I be when I grow up, will I ever get accepted in a Canadian residency, and how can I somehow turn lead into gold to pay next year's tuition...I threw medicine on the back burner and let other areas of my life simmer. It's been great.

Shortly after my arrival in Québec, Tobie and I swept the car off and made our way to Montréal.

When we were car-less, job-less, penny-less and living in residence 2 years ago, we'd sometimes go on imaginary dates in Canada, pretending our purple comforter was a magic blanket that would take us anywhere. We would try to outdo one another with elaborate descriptions of these dream dates. Montréal was a frequent destination when Tobie was choosing the city. We took our magic comforter to go Christmas shopping at Simon's after a crammed lunch at Schwartz's deli. Then we'd walk the dark and snowy streets looking for a quiet place to duck in for some nice wine or sugary treat. After that, it was a chilly ride back across the Atlantic.

Finally, this year we were able to live some of our magic carpet dreams. And probably shorten our lifespans a little in the process. (Apologies for the double photo posting, but until more than 10% of you look at my tumblr account, I won't feel too bad...)

I give you the lean smoked meat sandwich at Schwartz's.

 Belly up, boys! Take a moment to imagine pure deli chaos: the clink of dishware, the holler of orders, scrape of chairs, splash of fries into the oil, murmurs of 'mmm', the ring of the cash register, the smell of spiced and cured meats, salty pickles, and cherry soda. There, you have it now.

I call this photo of Tobie below, "Quintessentially Canadian".  Next to that is Perside, his sister, presenting her Jaime Oliver turkey recipe extravaganza. This was Christmas dinner, when I ate until I developed an upper right quadrant cramp. Similar to a running stitch, only this one was from eating instead.

Below is the classic 'driving home from Christmas dinner' scene. I miss being five years old, falling asleep during the ride home, having mom carrying me (while I pretended to be asleep) into the house, and being put to bed. These days it'd be an improbable feat of superhuman strength for Tobie to haul my somnolent butt out of the car, coat and all, to tuck me in.

Me proving that yoga can indeed be done in yoga jeans. Tobie reading a rag while we were waiting for our table at La Paryse. Seriously, seriously great burgers. The poppy seed bun is well worth the risk of post-meal embarrassment.

Below we are back at Schwartz's for more smoked meat love, this time with my momma-bear. She was fresh off the plane and ready for a week of gastronomical delights, including our own 'food tour' of Montréal. We all should have worn jogging suits for the trip. Not because we were jogging, but because elastic waistbands would have suited our needs a little better. Mind you, we did stand outside in -20 degree Celsius weather for over 20 mins waiting in line and shivering does burn calories. Oh yes it does. Pretty sure my lips were frozen onto my teeth in this photo.

Dinner that night at DNA. OK people, take your bucket lists out now and add, Eat At DNA in Montréal.

No, I am not getting any kickbacks for the endorsement (I wish!) I just need to convey that this was one of the most fabulous nights of dining I can remember. You need to experience this place before you die. Period.

Momma-bear had the lamb (on the left), Tobie and I had the suckling pork loin, slow cooked for 7h and then topped with salsa verde, sweet spaghetti squash, and some pureed goodness that tasted like possibly butternut squash and apple. The photos poorly represent the outstanding presentation, but it was the best I could do.

Tobie tucks in. 

The dessert was no disappointment either. 

Tobie and MB had the lime-tart (I was thinking, lime tart? What, are we eating at a hospital cafeteria in the 1950's??) But the joke was on me because the lime tart should have been called, 11 Minutes of Uninterrupted Eating Bliss involving light and (quite) sharp lime, tempered with soft, fluffy whipped cream, and a crust that would make most pastry chefs weep.

The New York cheesecake was no slouch, topped with their house-made rhubarb jam and a wafer of almond and caramel. And by no slouch I mean that it was the 'Goldilocks and Three Bears' of cheesecake--not too heavy, not too light, not too cheesy, not too bland. Juuuuuuuust right.

Not only was the food brilliant, the decor was very chic in an unpretentious way, as were the house staff. They cure their own meats in the basement and sell house-made pickles, jams, chutneys. All ingredients are locally sourced and seasonal. WIN!

After dinner we cabbed our way over to Pullman wine bar and took in the people watching, deliciously fermented grapes, and their funky atmosphere which included a chandelier of inverted glasses.

Then we returned to the hotel, drank some water, and went to bed.

Just so you don't think we're food snobs, I'd like to direct your attention to the place-setting at the restaurant where we ate dinner the following evening. Let's just also mention that the walls were wood paneled, the waitress was passive-aggressive, no, just straight-up aggressive, and all meals came with white buns and gravy. 'Nuff said.

This is what happens when Tobie chooses the restaurant.

New Year's Eve heralded the invention of a new cocktail (see my recipe posted here), more homemade gourmet feasting (courtesy of Tobie's phenomenal sister), watching fireworks from the living room window, and drinking herbal tea while discussing novels with my mother. It was all very serene. 

Speaking of serene have you ever seen how pretty a preserved hibiscus flower is when it is sitting in a little puddle of gin?  Feast your eyes.

Also, when was the last time you had a drink mixed for you by a blogger in a solar system blouse? Too long ago I bet, too long ago.

And so, another year came to a close. The last few days of my holiday were spent trying to fit into my clothes, packing, and saying goodbye to my near and dear ones. I'm so grateful to have had the opportunity to unwind a little. I know this will be the last long Christmas holiday that I will have for years, which is why only a small dose of daily guilt for my slovenly and sub-academic behavior crept into my awareness.

I'm hoping that 2012 will bring new recipes and races, great reads, light westerly winds, mentorship, adventure, and a few surprises...good surprises. And of course the answer to some of my questions...

Here's to you, 2012, whatever you will be.

Cheers!

The Apples Do Not Fall...

In a complete blog non-sequitar I'd like to present a post by one of my good friends, Ryan. It's like cute overload if you're into children and skiing.

It made me laugh at least.

Oh how I miss Revelstoke, and the great people there (and killer skiing)!

Where Am I Going Again?

As I mentioned on twitter this afternoon, when I pack I am sort of like a dog circling a spot before lying down. Only my ritual seems to involve spinning around for hours. Packing has the tendency to flare up an attention deficit problem and I find myself vacuuming, baking, cleaning my hard drive, flossing, and online shopping while stuffing random articles into my suitcases.

This trip home is exciting and a little unsettling at the same time. I haven't been back to Canada for Christmas since 2008 so naturally I am looking forward to watching some crisp moonlight snowfalls with the Nana Mouskouri Christmas album playing in the background. I can't wait to see my mom, Tobie, his family, my good friend Liz...the Arab grocery store in Montréal that I love.

The unsettling part is that I don't know how long I am going for, and where I'll be for January. It is a little difficult to pack when you don't know if you'll be spending a month in Arizona or Nunavut, a GP office or an O.R. We're talking a lot of variety here. Heels? Hikers? Nylons? Blouses? Scrubs? Sneaks? Not to mention which books I'd bring based on the place / rotation. I am still trying to arrange something but my most recent lead is looking unlikely now as well. I found out this week that I also didn't get any electives at the University of Ottawa for the summer. Have I mentioned that I am tired of feeling like a medical pariah an outcast? Is this blog post turning into a pity party? Maybe...

So now, instead of coming back to Ireland at the end of January it looks like I might be flying straight back after New Years. Sigh. I just want an opportunity to learn, and to get some hands-on experience.  It is really disheartening to constantly feel doors close in my face when I am working hard and putting myself out there. It is true that at every turn medicine asks, how badly do you want this??

OK. That is enough whining. 


On a happier note...the ginger cake that I made today turned out beautifully. I may be turning a corner in this whole baking thing. Yes, yesterday my kitchen did look like I'd had a seizure in it while holding a bag of baking soda and I probably ate 4000 calories of "broken" brownies oh I can't bring the broken ones to the Christmas party...but with each event the baking part gets a little easier and the results get a little more edible. Maybe I should try to get an elective at a pasty school...hmmm...

Hurt So Good

Okay so I think it is safe to say I am officially hooked on adventure racing. 

I get by with a little help from my friends.

 Wow, that was a ridiculously good time! Where do I sign up for the next one?! Granted, the absolutely perfect weather yesterday has probably amplified my infatuation with the whole concept of thrashing my body for hours on end. I have to wait for official results but from the numbers last night it looks like I came in 9th for the women!! I was hoping to finish in 5h and so was really pleased with my time of 4:39.

Can't write a proper post right now as I am on a mission to buy some jam from a market I spotted yesterday after the race. I would have bought some at the time but I had no wallet on me...plus I probably looked like public health threat given the fact that I was leaving a trail of hay, seaweed, mud, and sweat in my wake.

Thanks much-ly for all the tweets, emails, and comments of support! I was having second thoughts about doing it all week so all those little nudges meant a lot.

For you data nerds: run, cycle, hike, evil cycle, ocean sprint/obs course*/run.

*And by 'obs course' I mean going over hay bales and running through tires, etc. not learning how to manage labor presentations. Whaaaaaaaaat...c'mon...medical people read this blog, someone might need clarification!!

Good And Bad

This Saturday my interview on CBC's national radio show White Coat Black Art will be airing. I am a little nervous (ok, a lot nervous) about how it is going to turn out. The interview with Dr. Goldman was the day after my USMLE exam so there were a couple of reasons that I may not have been overly articulate. However, I still really enjoyed the whole experience and was flattered to be asked on the show (considering I've been a dedicated fan and listener since it's inception years ago).

My prediction is that my contribution will only be a tiny piece of the show, but I am still excited and pleased about the exposure that the blog will receive. Of course now any thinly veiled anonymity will be removed and I'll be having to keep Asystole on an even straighter and narrower course. 

The interesting outcome of increased traffic is usually increased trolls. I was really surprised (oh, how naive I am sometimes) at some of the troll-y comments when my "Advice to Interns" pieces were published on KevinMD during the summer. I suppose I just have to remember that some people really take themselves too seriously and do not understand 'tongue in cheek' nuances.

So we'll see, maybe trolls, maybe increased traffic, maybe nothing.

For now I am being kept quite busy putting together my research project (in surgery, of course!), training 6 days a week for the big race next month, compiling a report on the elective /residency woes of Canadians Studying Abroad (CSA's), and trying to keep a smile on my face.

That last part is sometimes proving to be the hardest of all tasks! But as Shakespeare rightly pointed out in Macbeth, 

"Come what come may

Time and the hour runs through the roughest day". 

Sunday Riders

So today Pádraig (the surgical SHO) and I decided to do a reckie of the road biking portion of a race he's competing in next week. We started at the Gap of Dunloe (a.k.a Kate Kearney's Cottage) and ended at the Torc Mountain waterfalls. A fabulous ride in part due to the spectacular scenery the entire way, and a delicious visit to my favorite purveyor of fine Irish food: The Avoca Café.

I also learned a couple of things today. For instance, my tiny little sewing-machine of a car can fit two road bikes in the back and two people who love blood and guts in the front. GO TOYOTA YARIS!

Another lesson learned was that not only are directions from Irish people usually nonsensical and obscure, the road signs are equally unhelpful. Unless, of course, you are looking specifically for tea and scones or a farmhouse with ensuites. Have you reached a fork in the road on random back country lane? Are you searching for a particular town or road number? Sorry. Can't help you there. Tea and scones? Take a left.

I've been to the Moll's Gap Avoca a couple of times but have always approached it from a different direction. So after a particularly sustained uphill we decided to pull off and have snacks, figuring the Avoca was at least another 20kms or so away. After some Clif bars and trail mix we started up again on the bikes, only to come across the "AVOCA, 500 METERS" sign within about 3 mins of departing.

I did hear Pádraig scream "NOOOOooooooooooooo!" through the fog.

I think he made up for the disappointment in having already eaten lunch by putting himself into a pre-diabetic-coma with the most delicious banoffee dessert evah.

And it was all downhill from there, friends. An outstanding day, topped by my new routine of sauna / ice-cold shower / sauna / ice-cold shower at the gym.

Ain't life grand?

New purple Icebreaker, for the win.

Fin

Well my first official hospital rotation has come to a close.

Today was my last day on the surgical team and I found myself staring off into space more than once, feeling genuinely sad. It seems like the last 9 weeks screamed by at break-neck-running-behind-my-consultant-speed. The thought of starting on a new team is a little daunting. I feel as though I just figured out my true place with this team, and that I was starting to habituate to their rhythm.

The apple crumble made big waves, the pan licked clean before the end of 1st tea break. The nurses and porters seemed genuinely shocked that I baked for them and many approached me to say thanks, or "fair play to you" which is the Irish equivalent to something like, "well done" . The porters also pretended to have food poisoning all afternoon (yes, pretended) and one proposed marriage.

When the last stitch was thrown in the belly I didn't know if I should shake M.C's hand in a formal manner, or make some cheeky comment (more my style)...so I just had my chlorhexidine shower (as per MRSA case protocol) and went to the gym.

I was happy to hear nothing but silence when I arrived home. The alarm people had to come and tear everything apart because the thing was completely haywire. I think I am going to start calling the alarm system, Hal, from now on. I was able to un-tape my memory foam pillow and yoga blanket from the wall (dampers) and make dinner without earplugs in, which was a pleasure.

Tomorrow I am going to attempt to review some medicine-y things. Like the heart. And probably the lungs. Look up Na+ levels and try to remember what exactly this condition known as diabetes is, which has come to mean only really really bad leg ulcers in my mind.

And so, I begrudgingly shelved my Surgery at a Glance, Surgical Recall, and my Physical Signs for Clinical Surgery and ordered The Oxford Handbook of Clinical Medicine.

Speaking of clinical surgery...if you haven't watched this TEDtalk by Abraham Verghese, please go make yourself a cup of tea and spend the next 18 minutes watching an extraordinary author and surgeon discuss the lost art of physical assessment. It is another typically awe-inspiring TEDtalk.

It is late so I'll close with a quote by Yeats, cited in Verghese's book, Cutting for Stone, 

The intellect of man is forced to choose

perfection of the life, or of the work, 

And if it take the second must refuse

A heavenly mansion, raging in the dark. 

Scenes from the Day

I (heart) fall.

Little Things, Like Spicy Pickled Eggplant

"I'm Paul Kennedy, and this...is Ideas"

Because sometimes it really is a collection of little things that make me oh so happy.

The Blasket Blast

Last week I was whining to Paddy (our surgical SHO) about the fact that my bike needed a tune up, M.C overheard and kindly offered to get it road worthy for me. From this, the topic of the Blasket Blast road ride came up. It is an organized bike ride that goes around the Dingle Peninsula, along some of the most breath taking scenery that this country has to offer. So M.C asks Paddy and I if we want to enter the event with him as he's going to be participating. In true ABB form, I agree without asking any questions (you know, shoot first, ask questions later). I either didn't hear that it was 150 kms or figured that he was exaggerating.

I forgot all about the discussion until a few days later when M.C informed me that he'd paid my registration. Paddy was out because he was on call and couldn't get anyone to switch (how hard he tried is unknown!) Right, so at that point I started asking for details because the longest road ride I've  done is ~70 km in Prince Rupert TWO SUMMERS AGO. He tells me it is 150 km and 8 days away, that was when I started to get really, really worried. This was compounded the day my roommie met M.C and uttered immediately afterward: you are so screwed! He looks seriously fit. Great. Thanks.

Thus began my week of fretting and bike riding. I did ~80 kms last Sunday, then two 35 km rides during the week. I had no idea what was going to happen but I figured I better give it a lash. 

I did enjoy the carb loading part of the whole thing and took it to the next level...indulging for several days before the ride. You know--popcorn for dinner, hummus and crackers several times a day, granola by the handfuls...and chocolate mousse the night before (there are carbs in chocolate, right?)

A scene from the night before, all the food and water ready. And spare socks. Of course my riding shoes with clips were nowhere to be found so I busted out the sneaks. Awwww yeah.

First coffees, just after the summit of Connor Pass.

So there were two rides, one that was 110 kms and one that was 150 kms. We were doing the latter with about 40 other people, men in tights to be specific. Ok, there was one other woman doing the long ride...at least we think she was...a woman. If you note the biker in the background you'll get an idea of the one-piece spandex jumpsuits and waterproof clip booties that everyone else was wearing. All the long riders were SERIOUSLY decked out. We looked like we'd found our gear at a garage sale the night before, by comparison. Both M.C and I were also the only people wearing running shoes. We got some very disappointed and looks and clucks throughout the day due to our athletic faux pas of epic proportions!

And then there was the flat tire. The guy who stopped to radio the support car with a foot pump informed us that he hadn't gotten a flat in 4000 miles. We were undeterred though our place at the end of the line was definitely secured.

And then we got stuck behind some sheep. As you do, when you're riding the Tour De Irelande.

 

Some lovely scenes from the day. 

The Blasket Islands.

 

The above photo shows the Irish version of a 'highway', and how wide a bike rider can expect the shoulders to be. 

 

First lunches. And a latte from a road-side bus! This was my kind of race. 

 

 At the 95 km mark we decided it was time for ice-cream.

And a photo op of the old ABB and her bike.

Finally! Several hours, 150 kms, 2 pairs of socks, 2 lunches, 3 coffees, 1 ice cream, several rainstorms, and 3 pee breaks later we arrived back at the start. We had a really fun day, actually. I even managed to pull out my last bit of juice on the final summit and trash talked M.C all the way to the top.

And it was GREAT!!

I am so glad I did it. I love it when I surprise myself! Go Team Sneaks!!