Mind over matter? I think not.

As we walked a rugged 12-kilometre trail on Malcolm Island—located off the north end of Vancouver Island—this past summer, I couldn’t help but recall the last time we traversed this path.

It was eight years ago, well before the COVID-19 lockdown set us on a regular hiking regime that has significantly increased our fitness. The hike was one of those instances where the mind goes one way and the body goes the other. We’d set out on the trail amid loose conversations around hiking part of the North Coast Trail to Cape Scott—a significant trek that takes eight hours each way. (These conversations often start with great enthusiasm but falter as we try to envision carrying a case of beer on our backs.) About 30 minutes into the 2012 Malcolm Island hike, we’d huffed and puffed agreement that we might not be ready for an eight-hour trek.

This year, the hike was still tough—especially where the path merges into several storeys worth of crumbling stairs down and then back up, and then disappears altogether—but with our newly toned walking muscles, it was much more accessible.

It got me thinking about other times the mind says, “yes!,” but the body says, “are you kidding me?” This happened to me when called upon to participate on “parent teams” during my daughters’ sports years. Trotting along at half speed on a soccer field, for example, my mind took me sprinting up the wing with the ball, deking out a defender and placing the ball right in front of the net for a striker to put between the posts. My body? It continued trotting at half speed.

Or the time at a swim meet when I got slotted in for the 50-metre freestyle portion of the parents’ relay. It didn’t help that I discovered a small hole on the backside of my swimsuit just moments before climbing onto the block and bending (in front of a row of timers) into the “set” position. At the buzzer, I blasted forward and sped though the water to the 25-metre mark…and slowly died the entire length back.

But as these thoughts are wont to do, my mind turned to my husband—always fodder for a good yarn. It started at the bar one afternoon as we sat with a couple of men our age and a few younger bucks. The talked turned to rugby and Bruce confided that, yes, he’d once been a rugby player too! As pints of beer clinked enthusiastically around the table, a game was planned for the following day.

“When exactly did you play rugby?” I asked innocently as we made our way home.

“High school!” he answered, obviously charmed by the memory. “I played the wing because I was light and fast!”

“And how old are you now?” I wondered aloud as I did the math … “Oh, so that was close to 40 years ago. Hmm. Played any rugby since?” I already knew the answer to that one.

Sure enough, all the men turned out and the game got underway. Five minutes into it, Bruce caught the ball. He accelerated into an opening amid cheers from the sidelines…but then, like a car of out gas, he decelerated and finally limped off the field. Oh dear. Have you ever seen what a torn hamstring looks like? Purple bruising, from leg top to bottom. Ever seen what a bruised ego looks like?

No matter, the hamstring healed as did the ego. But there is no rugby or soccer or swim meets in our future. We’ll stick to hiking. (Now. How do you carry a case of beer on your back?)

I hope this new season brings you many adventures. Enjoy this issue of Boulevard!

Susan Lundy Editor

Susan Lundy is a former journalist who now works as a magazine editor, author and freelance writer. Watch for her new book, Home on the Strange, out this spring via Heritage House Publishing.