I’ll come right out and say it: This is a really difficult post to write.

It’s been over 14 months since I’ve written a blog post for Expand Outdoors. Fourteen months since I’ve reached out to you—my readers. I’ve thought about you guys and I’ve thought about writing lots of times over the past year.

So many times I’ve sat down in front of the computer to write to you and have stared at a blank screen time and time again.

And of course, as often happens, the longer I took to write, the more difficult it became to find the words I wanted.

“It’s been too long,” my brain would tell me. “How do I even begin?” “What will they think?”

Over the past 14 months my thoughts, feelings, and experiences have been all over the place—personally and professionally.

So here’s the scoop.

Adventuring in UT.

December 2013 I had a baby girl. She’s awesome. She’s healthy, bright, engaging, and super-curious about the world. And as babies do, she keeps growing and learning every day. I have been delighted to witness and share her daily discoveries.

The fall prior to her birth I put in a ton of hours and a lot of energy toward creating a new business model for Expand Outdoors that was sustainable and would allow me to keep working part time once she arrived.

Unfortunately, for a variety of reasons (many still elusive to me), it didn’t work out the way I’d hoped. Reality and the vision I’d held just didn’t mesh. I soon realized my energy and focus were more effective directed towards my daughter, our home, and our family.

I began to pay closer attention to where my energy and interests led me. Turns out I really enjoy painting and updating our rooms. I dug out my sewing machine and designed curtains and pillows for a nursery (and have plans for new clothes and other projects). I began playing guitar and singing a lot more often (infants are wonderfully lacking in criticism!).

Discovering that rocks are really cool.

I was laughing every day. A lot. It felt good.

It feels good.

I’m still laughing every day and discovering the world all over again through my daughter’s eyes.

The guilt and sadness I feel when I think about Expand Outdoors (and my complete neglect of it) has been casting a shadow over things and I’ve realized that it’s time to let go.

Expand Outdoors isn’t disappearing. It’s still around—I’m still around. And if you’re interested in coaching, just contact me and we can talk. I have no idea what it’s going to look like in the future. For now, I’ve streamlined the website and will be taking a break. Well, a more “official” break now that I’ve announced it.

I wish you all such amazing adventures and new discoveries for 2015. And a HUGE and heartfelt THANK YOU for all your support, encouragement, and love over these past years. It’s meant the world.

Until next time,

xo,
Amy

The post Letting Go and Moving On: A Long-Overdue Message appeared first on Expand Outdoors.

Guest Post: Embracing Your Authentic, Stinky Athletic Self

For this Expand Outdoors post, I have a tale from the Great Indoors. It’s a place with a whiff of chlorine and sweaty socks, the dull glare of fluorescent lights and mouth-breathing humans.

It’s the weight room at the local recreation center. 

Yes, this place is smelly and crowded, and it occasionally plays host to an awkward moment between me and a dude who doesn’t know how to interact with women lifting weights (more on that later). But what the rec center weight room lacks in charm, it makes up for in what it offers me: a place to access my inner meathead. 

I started lifting weights when I was 16. It was a class at my high school (which I still kind of can’t believe), and it seemed like way more fun than the aerobics class I’d taken to meet the first half of my P.E. requirement — it was full of peppy preppy girls, and it was taught by the cheerleading coach, blech.

Before I took the weight lifting class, I didn’t even know a weight room existed in my high school. It was above the gymnasium, at the top of a stairwell that was otherwise a dead end, a secret spot that only we weight lifters knew about. 

The guys in this class were great. I didn’t know most of them before, but they were respectful to the women, maybe because we were grunting and sweating just like them. Coach — just “Coach” — taught us how to lift safely and paired us off with spotting partners.

I was quickly learning that I had an athletic side that I thought I lacked just because I was terrible at ball sports.

The day we had a test on dips and I did more than most of the guys — I think I did 18, which was third overall — I knew I’d found my athletic mojo among the clang of bars and thud of weights. 

Embracing Weights

Ever since, I’ve found myself in weight rooms big and small, modern and old, lifting weights on and off, whenever life seemed to require it. In college, my uncle’s good friend owned the local Gold’s Gym, and he gave me a free membership as a favor. After class three days a week, I lifted. When I got married, I got in the habit of getting up at 5 a.m. with my husband to go to the gym to lift. He was training for cycling, I was just enjoying feeling strong, then feeling like Jell-O, then feeling strong again the next day. 

A year and a half ago, I took a promotion and instantly gained some pudge. I’ve been fighting it ever since, battling against busy weeks when my desk seems to swallow me whole with bouts of exercise — often running, literally running away from my office, through the office park, toward freedom and fresh air.

But this past fall, when just doing cardio didn’t feel like it was cutting it, I bought a punch pass to a recreation center close to my office so I could lift.  

It wasn’t long before I was looking forward to heading there, even though every inch of the locker room floor is eternally damp, and even though the weight room isn’t quite big enough to accommodate the demand.

Pretty soon I was adding weight to my bar in the squat rack. Pretty soon I could do pull-ups again. Pretty soon my shoulders felt a tad broader. My thighs felt more toned. I’m not a pudgy mess, I thought, and I felt some satisfaction in knowing that my instincts had been right, and that 20 years later, lifting still made me feel strong.

Now, so far, this is just a nice story of a gal who finds both literal and figurative strength in lifting weights, right? But I’m not being completely honest with you about who I’ve become over the years when I head to the gym.

One recent evening, during this most recent stint at the rec center by my office, a skinny guy in a baggy T-shirt came over just after I’d finished doing pull-ups and said to me, smiling, “I never noticed the pull-up bars at the top of the squat racks.”

I pulled a headphone out of my ear, a little annoyed to be interrupted. “Yep, it’s basically the only place in here to do them,” I said, tossing more weight onto my bar for another set of squats. I was alternating: pull-ups, squats, pull-ups, squats.

“Do you mind if I…” he asked sheepishly as he climbed up the stool I’d brought over to reach the bar. 

And before I could tell him he’d have to wait to work in, he started doing pull-ups. I couldn’t do squats, because his feet were swinging into my space. I threw an elbow on the bar, a hand on my hip, and stood there there waiting for him to finish, fuming.

Was this a sexist smackdown, proving he could do more pull-ups than me? Was this flirting? Was this a misguided way to be friendly? Is he just an oblivious idiot? 

When he finished and smiled at me, I gave him a giant stink eye. Then I did more squats and more pull-ups. Anger fueled me as I grunted and wiggled my chin to the bar that final time. I glanced at my iPod and turned on louder, faster, angrier music. What is with these guys? I thought. Just a week before that, a guy at the rec center close to my house had grabbed a 45-pound bar out of my hands as I was wrangling it back into a vertical rack after using it for dead lifts. He thought he was helping me. I scolded his unwanted chivalry, snapping, “That’s part of my workout.” 

As I scowled and clanked weights back onto the racks when I finished my squats, I looked around at the other guys in the weight room. Some of them were huffing and grunting and blasting music into their ears just like me. They had overdeveloped shoulders and walked with their arms out a tad, like they were airing out their armpits…and I was, too, because I was sweaty. In fact, I was starting to smell. I sniffed. Ugh. I stink. 

It hit me: I’m one of them. I’m a meathead. 

This was an upsetting thought for a gal who values brains over brawn. But only for a second. This was an outlet, and it was a healthy one. It wasn’t hurting anyone if I was standoffish and smelly at the gym, and even a little bit aggro. I love it, and I’ve loved it for 20 years. Why not embrace it? 

Your authentic athletic you might not be what you expect. It might not be what you want — I certainly didn’t want to be a smelly meathead. Over the years I’ve been a cyclist and a climber, a runner and a skier, and a weight lifter, and if I’ve learned anything it’s that you have to find your thing and follow what excites you. If it resonates, run with it. 

Even if you stink.

About Jenn

Jenn Fields is a writer and editor in Longmont, Colorado. Follow her @jennfields.

The post Guest Post: Embracing Your Authentic, Stinky Athletic Self appeared first on Expand Outdoors.

Finding A Sense of Direction Through Orienteering

Author Lisa Manterfield.

If there was such a thing as remedial gym class, I would have been in it. I was too feeble to throw, too terrified to catch, and so uncoordinated, I once landed a javelin behind me. So I never dreamed I’d have use for a coach. But one day my athletic family decided that climbing mountains and running marathons wasn’t challenging enough, and they needed a new sport.

They dragged me along for a “fun day out” tearing through the local woods with a map and compass. They tasted humility that day, but I found my passion, and a modicum of talent, in the obscure sport of orienteering.

Invented by the Swedes as a military training exercise, orienteering involves navigating between predetermined points in the fastest time possible. The skill comes in selecting the most efficient route, which isn’t always the most direct one, especially if it involves wading through rivers, hacking through dense undergrowth or scrambling over boulders. It was more about brains than brawn, so it was perfect for a nerd like me.

Orienteering is a loner’s sport, man against the clock, so I spent most of my teenage Sunday mornings in my own company, careening around remote rural areas. But by the time I turned 15, I was my county’s orienteering champion. That title earned me—the last to be picked in gym class—a chance to compete against the nation’s best in the British Orienteering Championships in Inverness, Scotland.

If I stood any chance of winning, I was going to have to be smarter and faster. And that’s where Harry Tate came in.

Learning to Ask for Help

Harry Tate was a gym teacher on sabbatical from Stanford University, a stocky, jovial man who talked in a loud voice and said things like, “Always tell your parents you love them, because someday it’ll be too late.”

At first, his openness made me cringe; British people didn’t say things like that. He bragged about his credentials as a “sports psychologist,” and claimed he’d worked with Carl Lewis and his sister Carol. I wasn’t sure what a sports psychologist did exactly, or if Carl Lewis even had a sister, but if Harry Tate was good enough for them, he was good enough for me.

At our first session, Harry jogged me out beyond the school sports field, his squat little figure jiggling along beside me, keeping up an endless spiel of motivational codswallop about training the mind, learning positive self-talk, and practicing visualization.

None of it made much sense to me. We clambered over a gate into a field and stood at the bottom of a sharp hill that rose up to a limestone wall a hundred yards away.

“Okay,” said Harry. “You’re going to run all out to the wall and then back.”

I trained my eyes on the top of the hill and dug my toes into the soft grass, willing my legs to power me up. Barely halfway, my chest began to burn as I gasped in the frigid February air. I can’t do this, I thought. It’s hard; I’m tired; I have homework to do.

“This is your hill!” I heard a voice yell from the bottom. I had flashbacks of my dad, the time he thought I should run cross-country, urging me to run faster in the cold rain and endless mud. I’d tried to be tough and tried not to cry; he’d tried to not look disappointed every time I came in last.

“You gotta think like a champion,” Harry yelled. I gritted my teeth and aimed for the summit. As I reached out to tag the rough stone wall, I heard him again. “Come on back,” he yelled. “Long strides! Breathe.” I gasped in lungs full of air.

The man was relentless. Didn’t he understand how hard I’d run? Didn’t he know I needed to rest? I turned and plodded back down the hill on shaky legs.

“Atta girl!” he said, when I reached the bottom. I rolled my eyes. British people didn’t say, “Atta Girl,” either. “When you run a hill,” he said, “you gotta push through the summit. That’s where you’ll gain ground and pass people. Okay, let’s do it again.”

We did it again. And again. And again a few times more. Each time, my legs screamed louder, my lungs objected more, and I liked Harry Tate a little less. “By the time we’re through you’ll do this for a warm-up,” he said, grinning.

From the look on his face, I could tell he wasn’t kidding and I dreaded our next session.

When Life Happens

As it turned out I got to postpone the next training session for a whole two weeks. On the Monday night before we were due to meet again, my dad went to bed and didn’t bother getting up again. Ever.

The heart that he’d worked so hard to make strong, decided it had had enough for one lifetime and quit. He was 55.

I wanted to crawl into bed and never get up again, too, but Harry Tate wouldn’t stand for it. “You have to be strong for your mom,” he told me. He’d been right once already: I never did get up the courage to tell my dad I loved him, and now it was too late. I thought that this time I ought to take Harry’s advice.

Discovering Determination and Grit—and Progress

For the next three months, Harry pushed my body to its limits and filled my head with his motivational babble. Every session hurt, every week I wanted to quit and tell him and his sports psychology to “Sod off!” (something British people do say), but I kept showing up and before long, just as Harry had promised, I did do the hill repeats for a warm-up.

One Saturday, as the championships drew closer, Harry drove me out to the local countryside and pointed to a radio tower perched on top of the highest hill around. “We’re going to run that hill and look down on that tower,” he said. By now I knew not to doubt him.

We parked in the village at the foot of the hill and began the slow slog up a narrow lane. Harry jogged along in silence beside me. I kept my head down and my mind on everything he had taught me.

I visualized the Championships, imagined the smell of the Scottish pines and felt the cool misty air. I pictured myself dressed in my team colors—my red, black, and white orienteering suit—map in one hand, compass in the other, coolly plotting my course to the first checkpoint.

I focused on the road ahead, muttering to myself like a crazy person, “This is my hill, this my hill.” Even when it started to drizzle, I just laughed at the sky for believing a little rain could deter the soon-to-be British Orienteering Champion.

Before long, the road disappeared in a wet sheen of asphalt that blurred into the slate grey sky beyond. I surged past Harry and crested the hill to a panorama of rugged moorland and sweeping valleys beyond. A dark shadow loomed in my peripheral vision, and there, clinging to the hillside way down below, was the radio tower. I felt a surge of pride. Harry Tate had believed I could do this, and I had.

“You gotta push through the summit,” he said with a grin, as he caught up to me. “Let’s go.” He ran past me and off into the distance. I glanced back at the road home, then trudged wearily after him, along the lane that wound around the hillside and became a narrow track across the moors beyond.

For close to an hour, we ran. My legs felt leaden and the light drizzle turned into a persistent rain. My hair dripped, my clothes were sodden, and I could feel my legs glowing pink and frozen inside my pants. My championship spirit was wearing thin.

Finally, we turned down a familiar lane and I eased into cruise mode for the gentle jog home. But Harry had other plans. “Alright,” he said, “Let’s go!” I watched as his squat legs quickened and he ran off ahead of me. “Let’s go!” he yelled over his shoulder.

I didn’t want to go. I wanted to be home, in a hot bath. I wanted warm pajamas and my Mum’s homemade chicken soup. I glared into the back of Harry’s head. You sadistic bastard, I thought. Don’t you know I could get injured? Are you even qualified to be a coach?

He must have felt me, because he turned and grabbed my arm, pulling me along beside him. “You can do this,” he said. I shook my head. Tears began to prickle my eyes. Running’s stupid, I thought. Orienteering’s stupid. Sports psychology is the stupidest of all.

“Come on,” he said. “Do it for your dad.”

Lisa with her mum and dad.

My dad’s crooked smile flashed in my mind and I saw him racing me up the hills near home, promising me extra pocket money if I beat him. I laughed at the memory and the tears spilled over their rims.

Something surged through my veins and into my muscles, and in the next instant I was gone, splashing through the mud, stride after long loping stride, down the lane towards the finish line.

I heard Harry’s voice in the distance as I pelted into a clump of trees. “Atta girl!” he yelled. “Now you’re cooking on gas.”

And then I was alone, with the sound of raindrops in the trees above and my powerful footsteps crunching in the gravel below. It was just me, just me and my dad running together.

It felt as if we could run forever. I glanced at the grey sky and opened my mouth to the rain. I smiled and whispered into the air. “I love you.”

I didn’t win the British Championships that year—not even close. Harry Tate had made me tough and fast, but that didn’t matter a damn bit when I set off with my map pointing in the wrong direction.

Still, in those three short months he gave me an even greater gift than a championship medal; he gave me precious time alone in the company of my dad, and a way to be with him whenever I wanted.

About Lisa

Lisa Manterfield is a Southern California-based freelance writer. She is currently exploring the world of rock climbing as research for her first novel.

Please visit her at LisaManterfield.com.
 
 
 

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Author Lisa Manterfield hiking in the Dolomites.

Will Hike for Strudel

Digging in with our walking poles, my mother and I haul our jet-lagged bodies up the steep scree trail, underneath a dormant chairlift. The air is chilled from the previous night’s dusting of snow, and at 7,000 feet elevation, it is a beautiful, crisp, clear day.

My mother and I live on different continents and a joint vacation is an ideal way to spend time together. While some 76-year-old mothers might opt for a Paris shopping trip or a cruise around the Mediterranean, mine has chosen hiking in the Dolomite Mountains in Northern Italy, just 80 miles from the Austrian border. And though the purpose of our trip is quality mother-daughter time, since our arrival, we have taken on an important mission: to find the best apple strudel in the region.

In search of strudel.

After an hour of steady climbing, we step up onto a football field-sized plateau and my breath catches in my throat. Ahead of me, jagged young peaks drop like granite curtains into the Val Badia below. Behind us is the glistening snow-capped summit of the Marmolada Glacier, and above us, towering pinnacles of sedimentary rock, laid down beneath tropical seas and thrust up sometime in the last 60 million years. It’s awe-inspiring and humbling, but for right now it pales in comparison to the sight before us—the single glowing light in the windows of a rifugio. I grin at my mum and we quicken our pace.

Inside the alpine chalet, I order in limping Italian and we nestle onto a pine bench at a table halfway between the window and the glowing wood fire. In minutes, we’re rewarded with two cups of frothy, rich hot chocolate and a plate of warm apple strudel. The crisp flaky shell of the strudel crumbles with the first forkful to reveal layers of soft caramel-colored apples, spiced with cinnamon and dappled with plump, moist raisins. This strudel has an extra treat: pine nuts baked in among the apples. My mother and I agree—this is worth the climb.

For the next few days, we hike the surrounding peaks, catching up on six months of time apart. At every opportunity I wrap my arm around my mother’s slight shoulders and pull her towards me, saving up the feelings of her closeness for the next six months apart. And on every outing, we find a place for strudel.

At Rifugio Viel dal Pan, on a high jagged ridge at 8,000 feet, we are served creamy hot chocolate so thick it has to be eaten with a spoon. It’s so indulgent that we forego the strudel, saving ourselves for Café Peter’s offering at the end of our hike. Although the hot chocolate there is lukewarm and the strudel cold and plain, because they’ve been earned, they taste like gifts from the gods.

On the final day of our vacation, I have to make a choice: go with Mum on the short, gentle Edelweiss Terrace walk, or venture out with another group to Piz de Lech and conquer a legendary Via Ferrata cable climb. The climb would be a coveted feather in my hiking cap, but in two days’ time, my mother and I will be 6,000 miles apart again.

Lisa with her mom.

The choice is clear: time with Mum trumps the conquest—plus, the plateau walk ends at Jimmy’s Hütte, reputed to serve outstanding apple strudel.

We mark a slow steady pace along the Edelweiss Terrace, barely breaking a sweat, cramming all our topics of conversation into the few remaining hours. We stop to take photos of a lone Edelweiss, before making a short, but sharp climb. Nestled beneath the dramatic rock face is a beautiful Tyrolean-style chalet, built from amber-colored wood and adorned with intricate window boxes overflowing with red geraniums—Jimmy’s.

Jimmy’s is crowded, but we scout out a table and climb over discarded backpacks and walking poles to reach it. The strudel, served with warm vanilla sauce, sounds delicious, but I have eaten strudel every day for a week and cannot face it again, so I order minestrone soup instead. My mother is astounded and offers me a forkful of hers. I wipe it through the edge of the vanilla sauce and pop it in my mouth.

The thickly sliced apple is baked to perfection, with just a slight crunch in the center. The cinnamon and sugar are perfectly proportioned so that the spicy and sweet satisfy, without masking the apple’s natural flavor. But it’s the crust that is the secret to Jimmy’s renown. Instead of phyllo dough, this strudel is baked in a casing with the texture of fluffy cornbread. The outside shell has a delicate crunch, followed by the soft spongy insides and the near-perfect apples.

I feel a twinge of regret at ordering the soup, so when my mum pushes her plate towards me and says, “Have some more,” I slide a little closer and we enjoy our last strudel together, at least for a while. We’ll go our separate ways in the morning, but we have accomplished our mission; we have undoubtedly found the best strudel in the Dolomites—and we’ve grown just that little bit closer.

About Lisa

Lisa Manterfield is a Southern California-based freelance writer. She is currently exploring the world of rock climbing as research for her first novel.

Please visit her at LisaManterfield.com.
 
 
 

The post Hiking for Strudel: Connecting Toward a Common Pursuit appeared first on Expand Outdoors.

Straddling the Line Between Risky and Wimpy

At the beginning of each year, I find myself taking stock. This is my chance to check in with myself and to ask the bigger questions. This year, I’m taking this moment to reassess my relationship to risk. In doing so, I’ve found an even larger query: How do I learn to listen to myself?

My Relationship with Risk

Decision time!

I’ve always straddled the line between risky and wimpy. As a professional ski patroller I run up against risk quite often. Not only do I take certain risks in my job whether using explosives to start avalanches or conducting rescues in steep terrain, I also see the often-bad outcomes of other people’s risk-taking. I’ve learned to wear a helmet while skiing and be extra careful kicking cornices after witnessing a few very close calls.

I’m currently writing a book about extreme sports—exploring the athletes and their motivations for getting out on the edge. Many of the athletes I’ve interviewed talk about listening to their intuition to know when to push and when to pull back. I’m convinced that walking this thin line, and learning to listen to that inner voice, is the key to staying alive. Whether BASE jumping or kayaking waterfalls, these athletes learn to walk the line between pushing forward and pulling back.

Learning to Listen

How do we quiet the noise and tune our ear to the very quiet voice of reason and intuition? In the mountains, it’s a skill I’ve learned without even knowing it. I might be at the top of a double black diamond run, the wind in my face with a foot of fresh snow below me. A beautiful couloir snakes below me and I long to carve along its surface. But I have to negotiate the cliffy part in the middle. I must hit it just right, or else the results could be disaster.

I calm my mind and focus on that little voice in my head. Do I see myself hitting this line or should I find another way down? It could go either way, and it’s important to allow yourself the option not to hit the cliff. If I’m truly listening it will come.

Suddenly I just know that I want to either jump over that cliff or take the less dangerous route on the ridge.

It is the same with other aspects of my life. Whether assessing risk or deciding whether to start a new book, or switch careers altogether, learning to listen to myself is the first step.

For me it often comes through in a quiet moment, a time when the external noise has been dampened somehow—by trees or snow or the serene beauty of mountains pricking a winter sky. Then “pop!” an instinct bursts forth a fully formed idea that just feels right.

Taking risks, whether physical or emotional, requires that we listen to our hearts. We must also learn to distinguish our own voices from the growing noise around us. I find that distinction in the mountains and the rivers and the beaches where manmade noise fades to the background and my own voice can be heard loud and clear.

So I welcome this collective stock-taking time of the new year and find myself sitting quietly in the mountains while the snow falls on my shoulders and I bury my nose in my ski parka, listening to the beat of my own heart.

About Kim

Kim Kircher has logged over 600 hours of explosives control, earning not only her avalanche blaster’s card, but also a heli-blaster endorsement, allowing her to fly over the slopes in a helicopter and drop bombs from the open cockpit, while uttering the fabulously thrilling words “bombs away” into the mic. Her articles have appeared in Women’s Adventure Magazine, Ski Washington Magazine and Off-Piste Magazine. Her memoir, The Next 15 Minutes, shares the lessons she’s learned on the slopes. She blogs at kimkircher.com.

The post Straddling the Line Between Risky and Wimpy appeared first on Expand Outdoors.

Building up and practicing mental tools to help manage and navigate change can help us navigate and adapt with more grace and less struggle.

Today’s guest post is written by contributor Cynthia Patton. Cynthia took the Building Foundations for Fitness workshop with me earlier this year and talks about the mental and physical changes she’s made since then with the help of some new strategies, routines, and support from an unexpected corner.

The Changes Just Keep Coming

How could anyone resist walking this dog?

Shh, don’t tell anyone. I’ll be turning 50 next Spring.

As part of my bucket list for my 49th year, I wanted to focus on my health. This was shorthand for eating better (i.e., less junk and more whole foods), losing weight, and exercising on a regular basis.

As a single mom, the exercise part has long been a stumbling block. I could never seem to find a solution or system that worked in conjunction with my autistic daughter’s frantic therapy schedule.

The best I could manage was a brief twenty-minute walk with the dog—and I’m embarrassed to admit that even that didn’t happen most days.

Building A Foundation

Then I took a workshop through Expand Outdoors called Build Your Foundation for Fitness (BFF). As a result of the workshop, I began to make significant changes—both actively and mentally—to my fitness practice.

I began practicing yoga again after a long hiatus. I loved it, and I loved the studio! Unfortunately just when I was getting comfortable with my new routine, the yoga studio closed. My newly established exercise plan was thrown into a tailspin. What to do?

Over the summer, while my daughter was out of school, I focused on walking because this was something I could do with both her and my dog. I was more consistent than before, but I’ve learned that the unlimited flexibility of walking tends to lead to procrastination and excuses on my part. Sticking to a schedule helped, but it was summer and a child was involved. Distractions abounded.

Finding Options and Staying Flexible

Then in August, to my delight, a new yoga studio opened. After I tweaked my schedule to work with theirs (and Katie returned to school), I tried it out. I sampled all of the weekday morning classes—even the Fierce Flow I didn’t think I could do—and discovered each was awesome (and doable) in its own way.

This gave me more options than I’d had at the previous studio. The new studio also brought back one of my favorite instructors. Suddenly I was grateful that the former much-loved studio had closed.

With more choices, I now had the ability to develop a schedule tailored to me and my life. I spent time thinking about this and decided that I wanted to take three yoga classes per week and walk the dog on the other days.

Contingency Plans Are Essential For Success

I developed a backup plan for the days when I couldn’t take a yoga class due to work or other commitments. The earlier class time, which I’d initially thought would be a problem, actually helped. With no time to spare after I got my daughter off to school, I was forced to head directly to class. No longer do I get distracted by email or other “little” tasks on my to-do list before yoga.

Finding Your Tribe

Just as I was settling into my revised exercise routine, a wonderful man entered the scene. He brought with him more unexpected change. Too many late nights talking (and talking and talking) on the phone caused a disruption in my exercise (as well as work) plans, but eventually we both returned to something resembling “real life.”

Michael, who was a professional athlete in his 20s but like me, struggled with excess weight in his 40s, encouraged me to get back to the yoga studio, which I did. He is very good at reminding me to do more self-care—just one of the many reasons why I like this guy.

He also suggested that I enter a body transformation challenge. He knew I wanted to lose weight and thought this might be the way to do it. There’s nothing like a good challenge to keep me motivated. (He knows me pretty well.)

So I entered. I’ve already lost fifteen pounds and over twenty inches, and Michael is cheering me on. My goal is no longer simply to eat better and lose weight but to turn myself into the athlete that I never was.

That’s a bigger change than all the other ones combined, but one I’m finding surprisingly easy to embrace.

No matter what happens, I think my 50th year will be great (and filled with change).

About Cynthia

Cynthia J. Patton is a special needs attorney and founder of the nonprofit organization, Autism A to Z.

Her award-winning nonfiction and poetry have appeared in twelve anthologies, including the best-selling Chicken Soup for the Soul series, plus numerous print and online publications.

The Northern California native is completing a memoir on her unconventional journey to motherhood. Learn more at CynthiaJPatton.com or CJPattonLaw.com.

The post Making Changes: How One Woman Is Celebrating Her 50th Year With Fitness appeared first on Expand Outdoors.

Jen talks with us today about something I find fascinating: our fitness personality. It took me a long time to realize that there are some physical activities I just don’t “click” with. When I first started working out, it was easy to feel discouraged in the beginning because I thought I should like team sports (doesn’t everyone?). Or running with a large group all the time.

Once I realized that when I ran alone or with just a few close friends, I had more energy and motivation, I was able to create a training routine that actually worked for me (i.e., one that I stuck with).

So I am especially excited to welcome Jen here to talk about your fitness personality. Here’s Jen.

Are You A Fitness Introvert or Extrovert?

Part of what determines whether you’ll stick to a training program is if you are in tune with your tendency to be a fitness introvert or extrovert. If you are feeling introverted, a crowded gym or loud spin class is not going to be your thing, and you’ll be less likely to use your yoga videos at home if it makes you feel lonely.

You may be introverted today and extroverted tomorrow. For example, I’ve been more introverted lately—preferring trail runs, yoga self-practice and dancing at home. In more extroverted times, I take all kinds of classes, meet people for hikes or go out dancing.

Take stock of where you are right now.

Are you finding it challenging to work out in the gym because there are too many people in your space?

Has your running schedule dropped off because you are sick of listening to the sound of your own voice in your head over and over?

Maybe your fitness social dynamic has shifted. Fortunately, you can adjust your fitness to match.

Extrovert Fitness

Amy (far right) running with a team for the 24 Hours of Boulder.

The energy of a large group of people can be quite fun and motivating while you train. It’s like having a built-in cheerleading squad. It can get you going even when the last thing you want to do is workout. Of course a great instructor helps create and build that motivation too. Sometimes there’s even a small amount of friendly competition that can push your fitness to new levels.

Group classes, team sports and even some individual sports can create meaningful social connections. Women in the Baby & Me yoga class that I teach often go out for coffee or lunch afterward. Their kids even end up taking kid yoga classes together.

Zumba is more than fun music and moves. People take Zumba to hang out with their special teacher and shake it with the rest of the Zumba tribe. Zumba classes are for people who love to be among other people.

Of course, sports like tennis and golf are perfect for socializing while you play. Want to get to know your new neighbor? Invite her out for some tennis. Need to make that deal with a new client? Take them to the driving range or on the greens for 18 holes. The risk with these sports is that the fun can turn into serious competition in the blink of an eye.

The gym is also an excellent place to socialize and make friends. I worked for a neighbor gym for years. Everybody knows every body and their spouses and kids. There were always groups that loved to work out together, like the mid-morning moms and the evening muscle-building guys.

Introvert Fitness

Sometime you just need some solitude—time to clear your head and just be. A crowded yoga class just won’t do it. Waiting around for equipment to become free at the gym can deplete you more than get you pumped up. You just need to go solo and turn inward.

One of my favorite introverted training practices is trail running. Whenever I’m on a trail, I rarely come across a pack of other trail runners. I usually see single runners with their attention fully on the trail in front of them.

Swimming is one of the most meditative and solitary activities. Take a plunge and you may find yourself mentally humming the words to Simon and Garfunkel’s Sound of Silence. You can focus on your breath because that’s mostly all you hear.

Feeling the need for indoor fitness solitude? There are so many great DVDs, online videos and fitness apps that can give you that sense of quiet independence.

Intimate Fitness

Maybe you are feeling social but don’t want to necessarily be alone while you work out. Maybe you want to catch up with a friend but don’t want to do the usual dinner or drinks. A brisk walk in the park or a hike on a special trail can do wonders for your relationship as well as your health.

Some people feel more comfortable in one-on-one social situations than in they do in group situations. One of the greatest benefits of hiring a personal trainer is that one-on-one relationship.

Next time you lose your motivation to train, do a check-in with yourself and ask, “Do I want to be around people while I train?” Then find the fitness activity to match your social mood.

About Jen

Jen Young founded Spitfire Fitness Arts in 2010 to provide fitness education to fun-loving super moms. She also teaches yoga and fitness classes, as well as offers personal training in the Washington, DC area.

She especially loves to share information about the incredible intelligence of the human body, human evolution and the healing power of the breath. Visit her at spitfirefitnessarts.com and stay tuned for her upcoming online fitness course—Strong, Sexy Mamas.

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Cynthia’s story is about risk. It’s about holiday traditions. It’s about navigating the tricky waters as we leave the comfort of the familiar and enter into the unknown territory of new relationships, battling old fears, and ultimately finding a new sense of normal.

Here’s Cynthia.

Taking Emotional Risks and Creating New Traditions for the Holiday Season

It’s the holiday season, and after seven years as a single mom of an autistic daughter, I’m still a bit surprised to find myself in a relationship again.

I’m dating a smart, sexy, sweet man who, for lack of better words, rocks my world. He turned everything upside down the moment I met him, and he continues to do so on a regular basis. Thanksgiving was no exception.

Holidays were always difficult with my ex-husband. I’d ask what he wanted to do, and he’d claim he didn’t care, yet when we did things with my family, he’d complain about “why we always did things my way.”

Then I’d offer to do the holiday the way his family had celebrated, but it never seemed to work out. He’d insist his mom made stuffing with sausage and chestnuts, but no one had the recipe. So I’d search for one, hunt down the foreign ingredients, burn my fingers roasting a pound of chestnuts, and make it, only for him to suddenly remember that, “umm, yeah, Mom never made stuffing like that.”

I felt like I could never win.

New Challenges

Given my previous holiday issues, I was hesitant to ask my boyfriend, Michael, about Thanksgiving. Before I could obsess about the issue, however, he surprised me by asking if I wanted to go with him to his sister’s house for Thanksgiving.

“Seriously?” I said.

“Yeah. She wants to meet you.”

“Okay,” I said. Problem solved. Oh wait. “Umm, I’d have to bring Katie.” (Katie is my nine-year-old daughter.)

“Well, of course,” he said. “Where else would she go?”

I tried to decide what to say. Bringing an autistic child to your boyfriend’s sister’s house to meet her for the first time is not something to be taken lightly.

“It’ll be fine,” he said.

So it was decided. We’d celebrate Thanksgiving at his sister’s house.

Then he discovered his sister wasn’t doing Thanksgiving. She was going to Arizona instead.

Onto plan B. We briefly considered doing a road trip to Southern California, but we were too busy to plan it. Then my mother invited us to her house. I wasn’t sure Michael would want to meet my entire family while eating turkey, but he was game.

A few days later Michael called and said he’d been thinking about Thanksgiving and mentioned that for the past several years he’d fed the homeless on Thanksgiving and he’d realized that this was important to him. Would Katie and I like to join him this year and make it a new tradition?

For a second I didn’t know what to say. I’d always wanted to do something like that, but my ex-husband would never consider it. Michael said he knew a place in San Francisco where we could volunteer but he wasn’t sure how Katie would do on the train. I said I wasn’t sure either.

Why not volunteer closer to home? And since we were discussing new traditions, I mentioned that I’d always wanted to hike on Thanksgiving. To me that had always seemed like the best way to celebrate the earth that sustains us.

“Oh,” he said. “I like that idea.”

New Traditions

So it was decided. In the morning, the three of us, along with my dog, went on a hike in the beautiful crisp fall weather. Then we changed clothes and spent the afternoon volunteering at the Livermore Community Thanksgiving Dinner. Afterward we went to my parents’ home for dessert.
It was completely different than anything I’d ever done on Thanksgiving, and yet, it felt exactly right.

Michael and I were thrilled. No stress and we both got to do something that was meaningful to us. The best part? The only dishes I had to clean were for the three loves of pumpkin bread I made.

As we race through the often frantic month of December, consider ways that you can reduce stress and add more meaning to your holidays. What new traditions can you create? What can you let go of? How can your activities reflect your authenticity? How can you stay physically active despite poor weather and packed schedules?

Whatever you do this year, have a wonderful and relaxing time.

About Cynthia

Cynthia J. Patton is a special needs attorney and founder of the nonprofit organization, Autism A to Z.

Her award-winning nonfiction and poetry have appeared in twelve anthologies, including the best-selling Chicken Soup for the Soul series, plus numerous print and online publications.

The Northern California native is completing a memoir on her unconventional journey to motherhood. Learn more at CynthiaJPatton.com or CJPattonLaw.com.

The post Taking Emotional Risks and Creating New Traditions for the Holiday Season appeared first on Expand Outdoors.

Late-blooming athlete, Kelli Bullard

Late-blooming athlete stories never cease to inspire and delight me. Kelli Bullard’s is no different. If I’ve learned anything over the past few years of interviewing, meeting, and hearing these stories, it’s that the strength, courage and determination of these athletes is overwhelming and motivating.

Today, I’m delighted to share the final installation of Kelli’s backpacking trip from this past summer. (You can read Part 1 here and Part 2 here.)

Kelli is a woman who, at 55, entered a contest on a whim, won, and experienced her very first backcountry multi-day camping trip along the Pacific Crest Trail in July.

Her story is one about perseverance, determination, flexibility, and ultimately, the wisdom that comes from following your dreams.

Here’s Kelli:

Late-blooming athlete Kelli Bullard along the Pacific Crest Trail on her first backpacking trip

The Dream-Come-True That Almost Didn’t

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Five days before my backpacking trip in the Sierra Nevadas, I received very disappointing news. “It looks like you may have a fractured vertebra,” reported my orthopedic physician’s assistant.

To say I had a meltdown would be a bit of an understatement. I drove home in tears, devastated by this turn of events. How can this be happening? And how am I supposed to go backpacking when my back is killing me?

I had spent the past nine months preparing for my first-ever backpacking trip at age 55, a prize I had won by entering a contest. I had done everything possible to get ready.

I had undergone a knee arthroscopy, received cartilage-building injections, and visited the chiropractor twice a week. I had invested countless hours in training, selecting gear, researching the trail – and now it seemed it was all for nothing.

The pain in my back had started out as a nagging discomfort (just a strained muscle, I was sure) but quickly escalated into moderately severe pain I could no longer ignore. My PA ordered an X-ray, then a CAT scan, and then delivered the news about the suspected fracture. “We won’t know for sure until we can get you in to a back specialist, but that will take a couple of weeks,” he said.

I didn’t have a couple of weeks.

Learning To Be Flexible

It was Wednesday, and my flight to Mammoth Lakes, California was the following Monday. So I did some soul-searching and asked myself, “Given the circumstances, how can I make this trip manageable?” I believed I could manage a pack that weighed less than the anticipated 35-40 pounds and figured 25 was probably my limit. Rather than carrying all our gear for the entire five days, setting up a base camp was a viable option.

After a quick phone call to our backpacking guide, Kim, the new plan was set into motion. Within an hour, she had emailed me a revised itinerary: we would hike the first day from Agnew Meadows to Thousand Island Lake, set up a base camp, then take day hikes to explore the area.

She and my hiking partner, Kellie, could manage the tent, cooking gear and food, leaving me to carry only my basic supplies: sleeping bag/pad, clothing, personal care items, water and snacks.

Taking the Leap

The morning we boarded the plane, my back pain subdued by pain meds, I was cautiously optimistic. When we landed in Mammoth Lakes, a picturesque ski resort town, my excitement began to build.

When we first stepped foot the next morning on the Pacific Crest Trail, the crisp, cool air greeted us. I was in heaven. My dream was finally coming true!

On our way to Thousand Island Lake, we trekked across mountainous terrain, crossed dancing streams, and admired the playful wildlife. We stopped multiple times to take in the breathtaking views: snow-capped peaks, crystal-clear lakes, trees and rivers galore.

Toward the end of the day, fatigue caught up with me as I tripped my way over tree roots, rocks and fallen timber. We finally arrived at the lake, exhausted but elated that we had made it!

A World of “Firsts”

There were so many first-time experiences packed into that 5 days. My first time to see a marmot. My first sip of ice-cold water scooped from a stream. My first swim in a mountain lake while gazing at snow-topped peaks (yes, it was steal-your-breath-away cold!). My first 9-mile day of hiking at 10,000 feet elevation. My first time to hear rolling thunder and rain pelting the roof as I sat cozy and dry in our tent. My first glimpse of a guy skinny-dipping in a cold mountain lake (ok, maybe I could have done without that one!).

On the fifth day, I fought back tears as we hiked the last couple of miles to the trailhead where it all began. I just wasn’t ready for the trip to end! I had thought by this point I would be more than ready to rejoin civilization—to enjoy a hot shower, a restaurant meal, and a comfy bed. And I’ll admit all those things sounded appealing.

Wisdom From the Mountains

I came away from this experience having learned some valuable lessons, and I think a few are worth passing along:

Kelli (in orange) flanked by her hiking partner, Kellie, and guide, Kim.

• 1. Pain is inevitable, but don’t let that stop you. Whether it’s aching joints, sore muscles, blisters or insect bites (we experienced all of the above!), you need to be prepared for some discomfort. But don’t let it be a deal-breaker. The tradeoff is getting up close and personal with nature’s dazzling beauty, and trust me, it’s enough to take your mind off any aches and pains you may have.
• 2. It’s ok to admit your limitations and ask for help. I am deeply indebted to Kellie and Kim for carrying the extra load with no complaints. And at first I felt a little guilty about not shouldering my share. But their continual reassurances helped me accept the fact that I wasn’t operating at 100% and that was ok. I’m still holding out hope that I can repay their kindness someday.
• 3. You’re never too old to enjoy the outdoors. We met hikers in their 70’s and 80’s out on the trail, some enjoying a day hike and some taking multi-day trips. Their joy and enthusiasm were such an inspiration! Two women in their 70’s told us they set a 4-mile daily limit, to be sure they don’t overdo it and cause an injury. Their huge smiles said it all: they were having the time of their lives!
• 4. You’ll probably surprise yourself. The first day we stepped foot on the trail, I had no idea if I could actually do this or not. Could I carry a backpack for hours over mountainous terrain? But I took one step, and then another and another and another. And pretty soon we had covered 5 miles and it was barely lunchtime. There’s no telling what you can do, but you’ll never know till you take that first step.

Final note: After my trip, I saw a back specialist who determined there’s no fracture, just a compressed area in my spine. The pain has almost disappeared, and I’m thankful there have been no long-term complications.

I also recently joined a local women’s hiking group, The Venus Girls, and hope to conquer a 14-er in 2014!

About Kelli

Kelli followed her heart into the communications field 30+ years ago. She enjoys reading, writing, and spending time in the great outdoors so she’ll have something interesting to write about.

She is a contributing writer for Amarillo magazine, and her debut as a first-time backpacker will be featured in Backpacker magazine (Feb. 2014).  Kelli imposes on her good-natured husband, Steve, to accompany her on these adventures whenever possible.

The post Late-blooming Athlete Kelli Bullard Backpacks the Pacific Crest Trail: The Dream-Come-True That Almost Didn’t appeared first on Expand Outdoors.

Three years ago, on November 7, 2010, my husband and I left on an epic journey. One that we’d been talking about and planning for for over a year.

365 days traveling around the country in a van, climbing, trail running, and mountain biking.

We bought the van that June and spent five months planning, designing, building, and packing.

Hours spent staring off into space.

Those months were filled with trips to Home Depot, Lowe’s, and Ace Hardware. Hours were spent inside the white Econoline E250 staring at the space, wondering how in the world we were going to get everything we wanted to bring with us for a year on the road to fit in such a tight space.

There were days we wondered what we’d gotten ourselves into.

We had two mountain bikes (plus all the gear that goes with it), our climbing gear, running and camping equipment, plus our computers and personal items. We knew we needed a bed, shelving, and plenty of storage.

It seemed daunting more often than not.

But we did it.

The adVANture route: blue was original 365 days; red is 7 weeks the summer of 2012.

The AdVANture

Camping at the Berryman Trail, MO

We set out on that chilly November evening into the unknown, our first night spent at a rest stop along I-70 in Kansas. I joked that we were finally living in our “first home.”

As I look back over that year, nostalgia sets in. It’s a blur of experiences: epic runs into the Grand Canyon; getting lost in a snowstorm in Nevada; being in the desert as it bloomed full of vibrant colors; dealing with injuries and disappointments; climbing my first 5.10c at Smith Rock; and the freedom of just being able to drive where ever we wanted, knowing that we had exactly what we needed with us.

It’s that sense of freedom that I miss the most.

Our last ride in the van.

The End and a Beginning

Last week we finally sold the van. As much as we love it, our lives are changing and we are focusing more on local adventures: a new home, new baby on the way… we’d outgrown that van and it needed to find new adventures with a new owner.

We took it out for a final drive, looking out over the flatirons of Boulder with a sense of sadness, yet hopefulness.

This isn’t the end of our adventures. Not even close. It’s simply time to expand into new adventures and new discoveries.

When something ends, something new always begins. It can be hard to remember in the moment, but it’s true.

We take some time to grieve the past and the loss, but then we look ahead and set our sights on our present and the future.

What’s happening now? What’s coming up?

For us, we’re getting ready to welcome a new life into our world; A new unknown full of adventure and new things to discover.

We’re comforted by the knowledge that the adVANture wasn’t our last epic road trip. It was simply our first.

So cheers to Beluchka, the white whale of a van. Here’s to new adventures!

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