swim. bike. run.
During the final savasana of 75-minute C2 vinyasa yoga class this past weekend, my fave instructor said something that resonated: You are resilient beyond measure.
The 100 consecutive days I’ve been down dogging, chatarungaring and hot yogaing has taught me that, and, well, it has taught me a LOT.
Let me start from child’s pose (as any yogi out there knows, most vinyasa yoga classes begin in this posture).
Before I started practicing yoga in June 2009, not gonna lie: I thought yoga was for wimps. I mean, yoga means you sit cross-legged in a corner for hours with your eyes closed saying, “Ommmmmmm”… right? And forget sweating or even elevating your heart rate. Neither happen during yoga… right? Clearly, yoga is not my style; I’m a crazy-cardio-to-your-max-heart-rate-push-yourself-to-the-edge kinda girl.
Well, needless to say, that first practice was eye opening; every preconceived idea I had about yoga was repeatedly quashed sun A after sun A, down dog after down dog, chatarunga after chatarunga. That first sixty minutes on my mat left me completely exhausted, completely blissed out and completely wanting more savasana-induced happiness.
Fast forward countless yoga classes to September 1. In honor of National Yoga Month, a 30-day yoga challenge was in order (and it was the perfect way to get more yoga in my life, as I was a savasana slacker all summer because cycling consumed my free time; not that I’m complaining because riding my Madone is bliss on wheels… but that’s another post).
To keep it interesting and to further challenge my balance and mind, I switched up the classes: vinyasa one day, hot yoga the next, rounded out by hot power fusion and yoga sculpt. While I love every single class, I discovered that 90 minutes in a 105-degree room with 40 percent humidity is my idea of heaven. Sweat dripping from my elbows five minutes in? Yes, please. A yoga mat towel and yoga clothes so soaked with sweat after class that it’s like pulling them out of the washer pre-spin cycle? Absolutely. There’s really nothing more wonderfully detoxifying.
Thirty days of yoga came and went in a blink, and on October 1, I went to another class. And, then another. And another. And another. And before I knew it, it had been 90 days of yoga in a row. So I figured, why stop at 90? Let’s make it 100 (and counting).
But, honestly, it’s not really about the number anymore. Rather, yoga has become part of my day, and a day without it would feel just… off. And un-centered.
So, aside from feeling absolutely amazing from garudasanas, utthita trikonasanas and utkatasanas, 100 days of yoga has taught more than I could have imagined.
Here are my top 10 takeaways:
I wasn’t sure exactly when Movember became more than just a gesture to irk significant others, so I did some digging. Turns out, it officially started in 2003 in Melbourne, Australia by a group determined to bring back the moustache as a fashion item. (Huzzah!) The following year, the Movember Foundation became associated with raising funds for prostate cancer and managed to raise an impressive AU$55,000 on behalf of the Prostate Cancer Foundation of Australia. The Movember Foundation is now affiliated with the Livestrong Foundation as well as the Prostate Cancer Foundation and supports all aspects of men’s health.
This is my second year participating in Movember, and despite being follicly-challenged on my upper lip, I still manage to raise the dollars. One of the (many) cool things about The Movember Foundation is that they will help you out with your fundraising. Our team, The Fu-man group, decided to throw a ‘Stache Bash this year to raise funds, and the kind folks at Movember sent us a free party pack to help us out. This party pack included a whole slew of goodies; including Movember bracelets, donation boxes, posters, mustache grooming guides, stickers, buttons and most importantly prizes for the mustache contest!
So I know that you must be wondering what you need (in addition to the awesome Movember party pack) to throw your own successful ‘Stache Bash. Let me fill you in: 
So while the money has been raised, the titles handed out to Mr. and Miss Movember and the ‘staches shaved; fear not, for Movember will be upon us again sooner than you think. I hope you join us next year and don a mustache to help support men’s health. After all, why should the boobs get all the attention?
It was a Big Wheel. And it...was...awesome.
For those of you unfamiliar with a Big Wheel, it was a small plastic tricycle type thing with – rather unsurprisingly - a “big” plastic “wheel” in front and two smaller wheels in back. Streamers on the handlebars. A selection of lightning bolt stickers. They were boss.
Clearly.
(My parents tell me there was an earlier bike called a “Hot Seat” which apparently I also enjoyed a little bit)
And when you grew up in the middle of nowhere Wisconsin, close to nothing except the church where your Dad was the pastor, it was something even better: A Big Wheel was a ticket to freedom.
I'd spend hours out there making laps of the church parking lot - a slight uphill on the west side, a long slow corner, and then a steeper downhill coming back that caused your little legs to pump like pistons (producing more horsepower than my first car, a 1986 Chevy Nova) and a corner that if you turned just right, you could powerslide through spraying gravel everywhere (or if you didn't turn just right, you'd end up with gravel sticking out of your knee. Which kind of sucked, but you also got a Popsicle and a Scooby-Doo Band-Aid, so it was hard to be too upset about it).
It was enough laps to wear through the front wheel, the hard plastic turning soft and finally just disappearing, turning the smooth ride - or as smooth as a 10 inch diameter wheel riding on a poorly paved parking lot can be - to a *thunkier* Flintstone-esque motion until my dad ended up MacGyvering the wheel with pieces of wood, a quick white flash as the wood reinforced section whipped by with each revolution.
It's fitting that one turn of a wheel is called a "revolution," isn't it?
It was for me at least. With each pedal stroke, my world got a little bit bigger. Expanding from the swing set in the backyard to the church parking lot to the driveway of the next house to my friend Justin's house, a whole mile away.
Over the years those pedal strokes have taken me through a blustery Irish winter day, tingling fingers warmed by a peat fireplace, Guinness, and thick accents in the local pub, to the oppressive heat of the Arizona desert wishing I had brought that other water bottle and hey are those buzzards over there and OMG why haven't I seen a trail sign in an hour??!?
I've been a course marshal at the World Mountain Bike Championships in New Zealand, my jaw dropping as the best riders in the world flew over basketball sized rocks that I was having trouble walking over, and I've fallen over pulling up to stoplights (Clip out! Clip out! Clip...ow!).
I've braved the honkingly chaotic rush hour traffic of Montreal, and stood on top of a mountain in New Zealand just before dawn, the world empty and silent except for my still labored breathing and the small circle of light from my headlamp as the day began to slowly reveal itself to no one but me.
I've raced daylight and thunderstorms; dogs and sheep; myself and others. I usually lose.
My bike has been my therapist, guiding me through breakups, hearing my secrets and watching my breakdowns - all without judging (much). It's seen the joy of a bike date (and gotten to nuzzle her bike's handlebars as we sipped coffee, which I think counts as second base for a bike) and the agony of a bloody finish line pileup. The proverbial blood, sweat, and tears.
We've grown apart the past few years, the bikes and I, as I've discovered the awesomeness of running, especially the peculiar brand of "fun" known as the marathon. So the bikes lean up against the wall, like they're stuck on the “Island of Misfit Toys,” the dusty victims of too many activities, not enough time. Training plans, work commitments, and relationships just kept replacing the joy of the little blond puffball power sliding the Big Wheel around the church parking lot just for the hell of it.
Which is why I'm psyched that Groucho Sports has given me this opportunity to explore...well, all of it. The love of the sport. The dedication (obsessiveness?) of seeking to be better. The connection to other people (bow chicka bow waaaah) and being part of something bigger.
And most importantly, remembering to have fun.
One revolution at a time.
Here at Groucho, we know that most of us do the things we do because of how it makes us feel. We're out there running/biking/swimming/whatever because it pushes our limits, ups our adrenaline, and makes us feels as if we are capable of anything - no mountain is too high, no obstacle too steep. 
