I have never let media made  public standards dictate what I do, wear,  nor act. And now as an "older woman", I am more confident about who I am.  I have worked hard to transform myself physically and have reaped both the physical and mental benefits. I am by no means, some sort of incredible being. Yet,   I  know that physical activity is the key to health and healthy aging.  My expectations and motivations are now generated by staying fit and hopefully being as independent as possible into my impending geriatric years. The competition is now ONLY with me.

However a few years ago, I dug my own grave : I did what all trainers tell people NOT to DO. For nearly three years, I severely overtrained. I was in the depths of grief and the only thing I could do was ride my bike and workout  to vent my anger, frustration and to bring joy into my dark world.  From age 51 - 53 I trained like a 20 year old. I drove as many kilometers each year as a professional. I pushed myself. I rode with groups, chased the fast guys and never rested. Sure I had some bad days, my body would tell me, but I did not listen. I was in my own grieving world where the bicycle was the only one who could understand. Until, the bike protested. Then one day, I broke. I could no longer follow. I fell backward on climbs, my head and legs said no. I was now in panic. My best friend is turning against me! I resisted like any warrior does but I lost the war. I was forced to cut back, I was forced to lose my ego, my bike fitness had fallen and fallen hard.

It has taken me 5 years to finally get my head together, to listen to my body and accept I am now 58 years old. I  do not expect nor try to go as fast as I did, but I enjoy each pedal stroke. This summer I am increasing my distances and appreciating the gift of endurance I was born with. I have been a cyclist for more than 30 years and have ridden, raced, laughed and cried thousands and thousands of kilometers all around the world. I intend to do so until I can no longer make a pedal stroke.

Yesterday, I decided to participate in a Randonnée in the region of Namur, Belgium. There were three distance options: 90km, 130km and 190km.  My old self always chose the longest ones and up until this year I cut back. But this year, I decided to allow my natural "diesel" to be released again.

My intention was to finish, keep my steady "go forever" pace. I started early, taking off at 7:30 and saw only a few others. I followed the "fleche" / arrows painted on the roads, made my way up and down hills, up the cobblestones of the Citadel, through forests, past castles and an Abbey. There were plenty of moments when the heat, the hills and not knowing the route where I needed to distract myself. Riding 190km alone is a test of being your own best friend. I sang songs, counted rhythms and let my mind wander with memories.  As I was climbing a hill, an old man and his riding mate ( I say old as he had grey hair and a wrinkled body) passed me and he yelled out " Allez Fifi".. It took me a few moments to digest what he said. Fifi? Fifi? Fifi!

I now had plenty to think about as I climbed alone.. I am not a Fifi. I am a strong woman. What gave him the right to call me a name that conjures a poodle dog? I may be female, but I am not weak. I would not ride past him and say Allez old geezer!

I became angry. Angry that from day one, women are expected to be demure, expected not to push ourselves, expected not to be strong. Things are changing but not really. Even women will condemn other women who are strong. Think about it. How many times have you heard women remark negatively regarding one the world's best athletes, Serena Williams? "She looks like a man"  She has too many muscles". In my eyes she is the epitome of feminine.

Women must take the first step to say no to the commercial stereotypes of beauty, not put each other down and only then,  men may give us more respect. I am not saying all men or women are conditioned but many are. The only way we can see change is to promote each other, celebrate our differences and empower each other to be true to ourselves.

Thus, I shall continue to lift heavy objects, ride my bike up and down mountains, flip tires and use battling ropes with the hopes that I can keep my muscles strong til the very end. With that,  I shall continue to encourage and support my fellow Warrior Princesses!  Maybe you can too.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                       The Annual  Autokeuring

 

 

 

 

 

It is that time of year again . I, like all Belgians, must make the annual pilgramage to the autokeuring for the mandatory safety inspection.

Although it is no “big deal”, it is a bit of a unavoidable nuisance and even if you maintain your car, you must pay another yearly fee on top of registration and taxes.

 

 

Today, I was reminded of my first autokeuring experience 7 years ago.

Yves had died 6 months earlier, so I was on my own in a new land with new rules and laws. I received the notice in the mail and deciphered what it was. I asked neighbors where I was to go and was advised to go to Alken. I was nervous, I had no idea what they were going to do and of course everything was going to be in Dutch.

 

 

I found the building and drove into the cue of cars. One at a time we were flagged into a garage. The door shuts and the man tells me that all the seat belts must be latched! I did not understand what he was saying (as well as missed the written signs) as ummmm, my Dutch was almost zero. He noticed I was a bit uneasy so he repeated the command and somehow I understood. He asks me to open the engine hood and step out of the car. I comply. He then shines his flashlight into the engine. At this point, I am standing off to the side observing and ready to spring at the next command. He looks at me and gestures for me to come over. “OH NO”, I think. “What is wrong with the car? What am I going to have to do? Will it be costly?” My mind is spinning as I already project I am going to have to spend a lot of money (that I don’t have) on a major repair.

I walk over to the man and the engine. He points and picks up a chicken egg. He is smiling and we both are baffled. I shrug with a big dumb grin. It is close to Easter (Paas) so we determine the Pass Haas (Easter Bunny) left a small gift.

 

 

The car passed all the inspections, I paid the fee and drove back to Zolder not only relaxed that it passed, but relieved that I had successfully completed another Belgian formality all by myself . “ A stranger in a strange land”

 

 

As to the egg mystery? I now was on the lookout for the renegade neighborhood chicken.

sometimes you win, sometimes.......

I was a 12 years old when  my parents  decided to separate. The household instantly changed and  it now consisted of  just my Mom, brother sister and me . There had been no preparation, no crazy fighting but apparently things had changed between the two and they were no longer happy. So, one day they told us the news and shortly after, me, my sister,  and a neighbor friend were helping my father pack up his things and move to a new apartment.  It was was a bit surreal but  true to form, we acted like it was okay as it was the new reality.

Thus, the transition coming into my teen years was a bit unstructured and without fatherly discipline. My mother did her best as she worked full time and managed  three teenagers under her roof as well as dealing with her own aging parents. At the time I was clueless on how much she gracefully balanced.

My brother, the eldest of us 3 siblings was passionate for music and our home became the local musical hangout.  All his friends and band mates would meet at our house and spent countless hours and hours in the basement practicing their instruments, creating, replicating and 'Jamming". During a break, they would congregate in the living room around the stereo which was cranked to full volume and played the latest LPs , extrapolating all the nuances and seeping in the artistry from whatever genera was being played. This was the 1970s in San Francisco so the musical tastes ranged the entire spectrum. Sometimes the Grateful Dead would be blasting the speakers or another day John Coltrane or Igor Stravinsky. This was the beginning of my musical education. The house became infamous in the neighborhood as loud music and scents of cannabis seeped through the walls.  Not the average household but one that by default was mine.

 I looked up to my brother who was extremely talented for music but also a had a  personality that attracted a  range of other colorful teenagers. The volume of the room was always high, not only the music but the voices, and the energy was off the wall. There was always some passionate discussion that turned into a yelling match, of a musical idea, or an argument over another. There was  rarely a moment of silence. It was busy with young energy and life and certainly not the typical household.

His friends were numerous, full of talent and passion to form bands and perform. I fondly recall a young man named Jon P who played trombone and started spending a great amount of time at our house. His genre was more funk, soul and R&B and as a member of  a horn section,  he always dressed the part. Style inside and out.

 Jon started to be become a regular and not only played music in the basement but began joining us for dinners. He was talented, witty,  and could command the room with his presence. He treated all of us with respect while livened up the dinner table. I really don't know what the circumstances were but he became "homeless" and of course, my brother insisted he stay with us.  Our mother had a heart of gold and took him in as she would many others for years. Jon was the first. I enjoyed having another brother. He had a girlfriend who would also stay in the basement with him. Jon was smallish in stature but large in personality.  His girlfriend was twice as  large as him, was a beautiful black woman with a warm smile and soothing voice. Perhaps the fact that they were a biracial couple was the reason he had to leave his family house? I have no idea but these "kids" were truly in love. 

True to his  gregarious character, Jon supplemented his musical income with being a "barker" down on Broadway street at a strip joint. He was the guy who stood outside and coerced folks to go in the club.  The perfect job for a man who was quick with his words, could make jokes of everything and had an infectious laugh and smile. He did not have a bad bone in his body. It was eyeopening for me to know someone who worked "on this side of the tracks" and realize the humanity of all beings.

Either he was back at his parents or he found an apartment , I am really not sure what happened but I do know I never saw him again. Not long after he moved out, I heard the shocking news.  He was killed in a car accident. My heart broke for the first time. How could he be dead? He was so young, so talented, in love, so fun......

Little did I know this would be the first of many sad and unprepared losses I would face. Learning to accept, grieve and move along is a task I have become a pro at. Not that I am proud of that, more so I have learned that it is the task that was set out for me in this lifetime. I have lost a number of close friends too young and of course,  my husband Yves was only 39 when he was accidentally killed. 

"Life is not fair",  I will never forget this quote from my Dad . When as a child,  I whined why my brother and sister were allowed to do something I wasn't ... "it's not fair" I would say.. Sure enough he was right.

Yet, somehow we  can pull from it all. I've learned to stop and magnify life's simple pleasures and relish the moment. As each and every fleeting thought and experience will come and go. All things must pass and they do.

LET IT GO!

2016…. BE GONE

The Doorbell rings, and the post woman is waiting downstairs with a box, a crumpled up box that looks like it’s been kicked around like a football. I run downstairs to meet her, she speaks only French but I know this is the package my sister sent me months ago. The address label reads “Nan-c” so there is no doubt this is the package. The post woman hands me a receipt that I must surrender €37,43 to accept it, so I fumble through my wallet and miraculously have the exact amount. She is also elated as she carries no money. She hands over the lopsided, crumpled brown box and I run back upstairs to rip it open to find the long lost contents.

Two months before, I was sent a letter from the Douane (customs) regarding a package from the USA. I took the letter to the post office assuming I would sign for it and possibly pay a tax. to my surprise, they informed me I needed to call the Douane and so I did. The box contained a birthday gift as well as some money my sister owed me from our last USA rendezvous.  The Douane grilled me about the content, cost etc of the package and if I had the receipt. I graciously explained it was a gift from my sister in Alaska and because it was a birthday present I was clueless to it’s worth.  I wanted to yell “MY ONLY BIRTHDAY GIFT that I get and now I have to now pay forit too? ”, but I just answered his questions and told him I would forward his requests to my sister.

Five weeks passed and no sign of the box, so I call again and the Douane answers they have not received any information. I call my sister and she grumbles that she sent it but will do so again. At this point, knowing that there are Dollars stashed in the box too, I have given up hope. Perhaps the box mysteriously gets lost? Someone gets a little cash? Thus, I do,what I have learned to do and that is “ Let go”.

A few weeks before that, as I was getting ready for bed, I looked down at my right hand ring finger and the ring that I wore daily since 1988 no longer had the beautiful sparkling diamond glistening in it.  I jumped up and starting scouring my apartment for a little diamond. I looked everywhere. Opened the vacuum cleaner, you name it, but no avail. The next morning I went to the local gym asked them if they found anything as well as eagle eyed the weight room. Nothing. Then I went to my work and did the same as well as opened their vacuum cleaner and emptied all its dusty contents. NO NO NO, I was an official loser. This ring, besides it’s monetary worth had an emotional tie and even though the situation that is was given to me had changed, I still embraced it’s beauty and knew it would be the only diamond I would be given. “Let it go” came pounding to my head once again.

At this moment, I am in possession of the “lost parcel” from America. The box is smashed and ripped but still sealed. I take the scissors and open it with curiosity. Not because of what the gift is but the chance that it will have the money in there too? I pull out a beautiful turquoise pullover fleece hoodie that I instantly fall in love with. When you live in Belgium , fleece hoodies for a sporty woman like me, bring out tbe inner cozy happiness. Inside the hoody's folds, I found an envelope. The envelope was sealed and had a handwritten message “TOP SECRET” . I opened it and so my surprise was the money. I started laughing until I cried and took pictures of the crazy box for my sister to see. I knew we would be laughing uncontrollably. That was one “Let go” I could take back.

 These are just the little “let go’s”. I’ve am an experienced pro by now.

A year and a half ago, I accepted a responsibility that would limit my freedom. Although deep in my heart I knew it would be an unthankful and messy task, my morals and loyalty overrode my gut and hoped the situation could blossom. By no surprise, it ended horribly  but at least I stood for my morals and fulfilled a promise I made when I married for the second time. The result of that fiasco was the final “Let go” of that old life and pushed me out the door to search a new one.

No, it is not easy.  I have come to think of myself as the “luckiest unluckiest person" I know. Lucky I have freedom to live my lifestyle but unlucky there is a void.

So all I ask is 2017, let’s make a deal to “Let 2016 Go” …..

From the Heart

In many ways, I was prepared for my Mother's death, however somethings are difficult to digest.. Logic tells us this is a natural cycle of life. Logic tells us to let go and move on. Logic and emotions are two different entities. Logic prepares us to deal with the inevitable, gives the incentive to get the dirty yet important jobs done, and allows one to forage on. On the other hand, emotion reminds us to remember, feel, dream, admire, miss and be grateful.

I was blessed to have a Mother who was ahead of her time: not afraid of being different, she was open minded, focused, strong willed and strong bodied. She earned her Masters degree in Social Work from UC Berkeley in the late 1940's, pursued a career, got married, took off time to have a raise 3 children (translation: Boy Scout/Brownie leader, PTA president, school volunteer) then want back to work when I, the youngest, was ready for 1st grade.

She had her share of ups and downs, but rarely complained and put her energy into her work and family. She believed in empowering her children to follow their dreams and to be what we wanted to be NOT what She wanted us to be. Thus ALL of our crazy adventures were emotionally supported and if possible she attended our events and performances. Our endeavors were meaningful to her and she spoke proudly of our wildly different accolades as if we were Harvard graduates. When I was a musician, she came to my concerts, when I was a bodybuilder she toted photos of my poses and even agreed to flex her guns for the camera. When I bike raced, she always asked about my endeavors and if possible would have spectated if she could. She did the same for my brother and sister.
It gave her great pleasure to be active in our lives yet live a life of her own as well.

I had 50 years with her in my life, and as much as I thought I would not be like her, I find myself very much like her and just have to laugh..as much as you try to not be your Mom, it just seeps in and "Wallah~ YOU ARE HER..."

2010 was a tough but bonding year for us. As time was elapsing we had role reversals. I found myself more and more having to be "the mother". I needed to make tough but important decisions regarding her health and well-being. I had to attend to her failing mind and body. I had to do things I NEVER envisioned doing. I had to suck it up and just do it. It was not easy but I'm glad I could. After all, she did the same for me. She was stubborn and confused but always trusted me. I was lucky for that.

My mother was a fabulous listener and she taught me that, and I am forever grateful. However she was very private with her own affairs. She and my father were married for nearly 30 years before they divorced. Even though it was a very civil parting , she kept her feelings inside. As progressive as she was, she was "old school" in many ways.

Why am I sharing all this? Besides all the legal paperwork and paper shuffling that incurs when one dies, then there is the endless task of going through their belongings. Fortunately I had started this project before I left for Belgium so it was not as overwhelming as it could have been. Nonetheless, it is a painfully slow project as 1) going through one's mother's personal affects seems so wrong and 2) it is virtually impossible to not dissect everything and have memories/stories that accompany each item.

Fortunately my sister helped with this. In her unearthing of photos and every childhood birthday card, she found a mysterious old shoe box circa 1940's. Inside this shoe box was stack of letters/cards, some photos, a few old postcards and a pages of a desk calender. Hmmm, why hadn't we ever seen this before? Many of these letters were banded together by light blue ribbon that was tied into a neat bow. They were all handwritten, addressed to Helen Dempsey and written by my father, Manoucher. Both were in their early 20's, and going to school and Cal Berkeley. My father was a Persian immigrant living at the International House embarking on his adventure to start a new life in America.

Wow, reading through this letter exchange was an overwhelming journey of voyeurism of my parents relationship. They were kids! They were in love! They wrote daily. (Remember in those days phone calls were expensive) Since I could only read my from my father's perspective, at times I had to guess what my Mother wrote to him. Nothing changes. She, like most women, addressed all the "regular' issues and concerns, and he being a normal "guy" and a foreign one, who did not have a consistent father figure at home, wrote all the "normal" guy responses. Awwww some things just don't change.

shortly after these letters started, my father enlisted in the Army. As I was told by him he did so to get a better command of the English language. As a foreigner with English being a second language he did not feel confident to enroll in higher level classes necessary for his degree in Political Science. Apparently my Mother was not too happy about this. The letters were written and sent daily. The dialog continued and obviously the relationship evolved.

I read most of these on the plane trip coming back home to Belgium. I'm sure I was the only one with a 1940's shoebox on her lap, reading through a stack of old "airmail". while perusing through the other contents in this "pandora" box, I came across a few other noteworthy saved writings. Scribbled on one of the calender day entries was "he asked me to marry him"..Reading that made me smile and secondly the letter to both her and my father from HER father titled "Honeymoon" where he gives his blessings and asked my father to always take care of my mother. That one was beautiful. Lastly, One from my Father's mother (translated into English) with a note in Farsi on the other side, welcoming her into the family. Oh, such a time gone by.

Reading these was not only a glimpse of monumental events in my mother's life but a reminder of how fast time elapses. I sat there reading these as I am twice the age now that they were when these events occurred. How can this be? It seems like only yesterday I was 25. I'm sure that never changes. Really this is just another reminder how fast it all goes by and to appreciate the moment, the people and goodness of this fleeting existence. However, no letters will be discovered for me. Just emails and old blog postings. That is however, if these things still exist....

letters

The most beautiful thing about the written word is just that! it is written, it is documented, printed, and saved on a format that can be read once or even a thousand times.

Not much more than 50 years ago, writing was the most common form of contact. People wrote letters routinely. Phone calls were expensive and of course, there were no text messages and no emails. People wrote letters and patiently waited for the postman to deliver the reply.

Last year I blogged about my Mother's death and the love letters my sister discovered while going through her belongings. Letters written to and from my mother and father while they were "courting" in the 1940's. It was heartwarming, eyeopening and definitely surprising to read them and see my parents in another light. They were young, they were just starting their lives, and looking at the future together.. So sweet.

I then blogged there will be no love letters to discover for me, just old blog posts and emails..Well this evening, I found the emails. Somehow in my organized way, I did what My mother did. But instead of placing all the handwritten letters in an old shoe box and tie a beautiful ribbon around it, I made an email folder within my "inbox". Naturally, it is hidden in the menu bar, so even I forgot it existed. So, this evening as I was on my quest to clean out my email box I stumbled across the folder....Ok, they are not long handwritten letters but they are beautiful scribblings of love and romance written in broken English with lots of heart. The first written in June 2009 a few days after we met. The last one a week before I moved here...

It may sound trite, but I am so thankful for these emails. It justifies it was not a dream and solidifies what I want to remember. You have no idea what is like see your new dream shatter in just a few minutes. It certainly makes you appreciative of the little things.

I was lucky to have a true 'old fashioned' love story...In some ways, I was very very lucky and in others well, let's just hope the luck changes.

Tales of Tenerife

Tales of Tenerife

Here I sit in the sun in 23c watching beachcombers soak in the precious rays overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. 

Yes it is January, and yes I have escaped the grey, dark and wetness of Belgium for two weeks.  It is my 10th day cycling in the mountains, refinding some fitness but not over doing it. The original mission was twofold: Avoidance of depression that would have surely taken hold if I stayed in Belgium during the holidays. It was only the 2nd holiday season without Yves and the kids and I knew it could be difficult. Biking in the wet, grey and cold weather just is not motivating. Call me a "softie" or call me smart. Choosing an option with sun and big climbs over flat wet and possible depression seemed a "no brainer".

Secondly, I have committed to two big race events in June and July and getting a winter phase one on the bike training is a practical way to jumpstart my fitness. 

Thus here I sit for 2more days before going back  to reality.

However, one particular event made me realize why I am REALLY  here.

One evening after a long ride, I left my hotel room to get some dinner. The dining area is located on the lower level of the building. While in the elevator, a older man with white hair, heavyset build looking a bit "off" got in. The door opened at the lobby and he asked me where the restaurant was. I informed him that it was one floor lower thus he stayed , and we disembarked together. I found a table and started to proceed to the buffet. Just at that moment, the same gentleman asked me if I was sitting alone and if so, could we sit together?

"Why not" i thought. He looked harmless and I am always open to chatting. 

After retrieving our food, we sat down at the small square table. Bad Christmas music played in the background. The restaurant was filled with retired couples, Russian and British tourists and well as a group of young track and field athletes there for a winter training  camp. Add me in and we are an  eclectic group to say the least. If it weren't for my obsession with the bike, I would not be there at all!

As we sat with our food, the gentleman introduces himself and proceeds to tell me his "story". Oskar is his name and he is from Finland. I can see he is troubled so I say nothing but listen. He tells me he and his wife come to Tenerife every year for a winter holiday. They enjoy the winter getaway but this time it went array. Oskar's wife became seriously ill and after few days had to be hospitalized. She got some sort of lung infection, and had to stay in the hospital for 2 weeks. In this period, she lost all motivation and of course Oskar was helpless. One morning he wakes up and sets off to the hospital like he has been routinely doing for 2 weeks. However this time his ankle is severely swollen and he cannot walk!  He too gets admitted to the hospital and has to stay a few days to get it all sorted out. Meanwhile the couple who have been married Over 40 years are laying side by side in hospital beds. He, of course, is now  beside himself. Eventually they discharge him, but his wife must stay until she is deemed fit enough to leave as well as cleared to fly back to Finland. All the  while as he is telling me this, his eyes well up and the tears begin to flow. He is clearly heartbroken, worried and most of all in need of a listening ear. I understood it ALL to well. I know what it's like to ave the "rug pulled out from you" and the need solely to express yourself. 

After listening, I shared my own story of why I was there, what steps I am taking to move forward and  of course made him giggle by pointing out the irony that at least they got to share te same hospital room. We smiled, we laughed and we shared many stories of our histories. He shared his passion for motorcycling and I knew he understood my love of the bike.

We had a nice dinner together and he left saying that when this wife was cleared he was returning to Finland, retiring from his job and spending his precious time doing what he loved again. (Motorcycling, spending time awith his wife and traveling). 

The following evening when I went to the hotel restaurant, I did not see Oskar. Immediately I was concerned. Perhaps he was at the hospital all day! I tried to stay positive. About a 1/2 hour later, Oskar and a white haired heavyset woman who looked just like him came strolling to my table. I jumped up! She was his wife and out and cleared! Yippee, some stories DO have a happy ending. They were holding hands and smiling ear to ear. 

Before they left he stopped, thanked me and gave me a hug. He looked me in eye and I knew what he felt. For one small moment I was able to be his "Angel" .  Really all I did was  nothing more than listen, encourage and give him positive energy but that was all he needed.

As I sit here alone at the beach, I know my Angels are looking after me. I am healing but have a long way to go. One step at a time. My heart is heavy but stays open....