Giving Thanks

I did not have time to run on Thursday this week -Thanksgiving Day - because Martha and I worked together to prepare dinner for her family.  I walked down the road, however ("working up an appetite" in some fashion was always a tradition in my own family when I was a child), during a brief window of opportunity between putting the turkey breast in the oven and beginning to prepare the casseroles that, in our division of labor, I had volunteered to make.

I thought about all of the times I have been fortunate enough to run on this day in my life.  Like the races I ran when we were visiting my Mom and Dad, starting and ending in downtown Orlando, in three consecutive years - 1996, 1997, and 1998 - one of those years with my young daughter.  And all of the long, glorious runs through those neighborhoods in Raleigh where Martha's grandmother lived in the house in which she was born on Boylan Avenue, lovingly restored since then by her aunt Lizette.

I would run in that triangle between Glenville and Hillsborough and Wade Avenue, and into the campus at N. C. State (I ran around the track one morning), through Cameron Village, wandering in neighborhoods filled with beautiful old homes on sidewalks made treacherous by the upheaving roots of majestic oak and maple trees.  Those were wonderful gatherings we had! - dinner prepared by Lizette.  To this day we marvel that she was able to prepare such a complex meal for so many people while many of us were "underfoot," staying at her house.  She told me recently that she would do it all again, the laughter of the children (all grown up now, many with families of their own), her husband Leon ringing the bell for Salvation Army somewhere nearby while she single-handedly prepared this feast, a gift of love and hospitality.

This day seems filled with nostalgic memories like these, many of them involving getting out of doors to "work up an appetite," enjoying the morning, watching cars park at the curb in those Raleigh neighborhoods as they arrived early for dinner, or competing with other runners in downtown Orlando on uneven brick streets.  I have a lot of wonderful memories for which I am thankful!  As a runner, but also as a husband, father, part of a family.

And today seemed like Thanksgiving Day, too, arriving at Founders Park to find so many of my running friends, chattering about how we needed to burn off all those calories from dressing and gravy, laughing and enjoying a surprisingly balmy morning.  Even better, Martha came running, too, and so I had the pleasure of running a few miles with my Favorite Running Partner, finally back from her injuries, recovered well after our race last Saturday, and looking strong and light on her feet.

Yes, today seemed like a day for giving thanks.  They had already closed off Pine Street for the lighting of the Christmas Tree at Founders Park tonight, and in a little while we will go up to Town and walk around its busy streets, have an early dinner at the Asia House ("anti-turkey"), and join with hundreds of others to watch this simple American tradition of lighting a community tree, surrounded by friends and neighbors.  Giving thanks.

Turkey Strut

I missed the opportunity to run the half-marathon I had trained for in mid-October, so I had been searching race calendars for another race.  Last week, Martha stumbled upon one in WNC Magazine that sounded interesting, the Cherokee 5-K Turkey Strut.   The entry fee was inviting, only $5 for children 12 and under and for “elders” over the age of 59.  Elders!  I loved it already.  And it turned out to be one of the most interesting races we have entered, on a course that took us around the Kituwah Mound between Bryson City and Cherokee.

The place, I learned, is a sacred and historic site to the Cherokee Nation and once sat at the center of the first Cherokee village, Kituwah, often referred to as the “mother town of the Cherokee.” Archaeologists date the site back nearly 10,000 years.  The Mound itself was protected by a low split-rail fence and those who were not Cherokee were asked not to walk on this holy ground behind the fence, which reminded me somehow of God's commandment to Moses in Exodus: "Do not come any closer," God said. "Take off your sandals, for the place where you are standing is holy ground."

I am not a cynic, however, and surely all of us who return again and again to nature to find strength and peace come to know that there are indeed special, holy places in the world like this.  That's why we seek out the fog-shrouded peaks of Mt. LeConte, the long winding trail climbing higher and higher and the endless vistas opening up; or the crimson sun rising from the ocean on a sweet lavender morning as gulls wing overhead.  And truly this place seemed filled with that same sense of wonder and holiness, these flat fields along the broad, winding Tuckasegee River with dry brown field corn still standing here and there where it had not yet been harvested, the crinkly rustling stalks, the cobs scattered along the trail.

The course was entirely on gravel roads - I said in my Newsletter account that a more accurate name would have been the Turkey Stumble - and I was worried for Martha, who has had some hard spills in recent years and resulting injuries from which she is just now recovering; this was her first race since March.  In some places, it was a matter of choosing between the left rut, the right rut, or the short blond-colored grass in between.  My legs were shredded after a mile or so; they felt about like this:

But the final half-mile of road seemed to be smoother, the pieces of gravel smaller, and I was able to muster up a final kick at the end, enough to catch one woman and pass her but not enough to catch the "elder" in my age group who would take second place (in the 61 and over age group) to my third (32:49)  I had almost hoped that Martha had gone in early (it was a figure-eight course), and looked around briefly to be sure she was not nursing a bleeding knee in the car.  But she has never had those initials "DNF" next to her name in any race, and sure enough I saw her coming around that last big sweeping curve around the field, pumping her arms and kicking hard at the end as I had, and missing first place in her own age group by only eight seconds (34:04).  It was nice to be running races with my FRP (Favorite Running Partner) again!  And to see her so completely recovered.

My watch showed a distance of 3.16 miles, but I am not a snob when it comes to small non-certified races like this.  It was a laid-back affair, after all (although computer-generated results were available promptly after the race), with strange age-groups that varied from ten years to four years, and with only two porta-potties available and minimal post-run nourishment (water and bananas).  We gathered afterward in a big open tin-roofed building where big carts of harvested corn were parked at one end, lots of children milling around in between (taking advantage of that $5 entry fee), and a display of interesting awards at the other end:

A wagon-load of butterball turkeys for first-place overall winners, bags of potatoes, and jars of home-canned green beans and tomatoes - a complete Thanksgiving Dinner!  The awards took a long time, as proud parents gathered around with cell-phone cameras and took many pictures.  We had the feeling that this was a community who knew one another well and took pleasure in gathering for this long-standing holiday event.  I suspect most of them knew by name the woman who had put up those green beans.

So it was a good day, there in this beautiful and sacred place where the Cherokee Nation had gathered and camped and grown corn for thousands of years, the smoke from their campfires rising up into a cloudy November sky like this one to Unetlanvhi, or the Great Spirit, the Creator who presided over all things and created the Mother Earth.

Whiteside Mountain

There may not be many clear and relatively warm days left this year, perfect for hiking.  It had warmed up to 50 degrees this afternoon and Whiteside Mountain was calling to me.  There were hordes of people in Town, here for the Highlands Food and Wine festival; someone was flagging cars into the parking lot on the old Deville property across from the Post Office, and there were shuttle buses on the move between there and the huge tent set up on Pine Street.  Slender young women were crossing Main Street oblivious of the traffic, most of them wearing expensive-looking knee-length boots.

Some of the same hordes were at the Whiteside Mountain parking lot where I was fortunate to squeeze into a parking place.  A small group of young people was just behind me on the trail, laughing and chattering away, obviously climbing the mountain for the first time.  So I played the part of the experienced local and told them a little about the trails and what they would be looking at from the summit.  "Here for the Food and Wine Festival?" I asked.  "You got it!"  They were suitably impressed by the views of Whiteside Cove at the top, and one of them even climbed down to take a look at Fool's Rock, site of the daring 1911 rescue by Charles Wright.

The faraway lakes of South Carolina were gleaming on the horizon; I started to point them out to my accidental companions, but decided against it since they did not even notice the peregrine falcon floating blissfully on the thermals.

They were chattering so much that I let them go on.  But there were others who were as impressed by the silence as I.  One woman was perched on a little rock, arms clasped around her knees, gazing out in the distance savoring the quiet.  This young man was painting the magnificent view spread out before him, and he permitted me to take a picture of his work in progress.

After any time at all hiking out on a mountain, that indescribable peace begins to well up inside a person, not unlike what we runners experience on those long, leisurely runs far from Main Street.  Other hikers greet us readily, commenting on the gorgeous day, the glorious views.  Children seem especially excited; perhaps they have never climbed to such an altitude before in their lives.

On the way back down the trail, I stopped to take photos of the small, unusual things I spotted along the way, seeds and leaves and empty November stalks, noticing with satisfaction the fallen leaves thick on the watery parts of the trail, a little pile of rocks placed one atop another by some whimsical hiker.  And one especially endearing little dog with tiny, spindly legs who was absolutely in heaven, sniffing the ground almost continuously, suddenly stopping before me to gaze up in fascination at this solitary hiker.  I hope his owner will be carrying him around tonight in a big tent on Pine Street, sipping wine while the little fellow sleeps in her arms.

Going Forward Slowly

The Chinese proverb that ended my post on Sunday seemed appropriate to this week's training: 

"Do not fear going forward slowly;  

fear only to stand still."

- Chinese Proverb

After an unusual five days of "standing still" while I nursed this chest cold, I ventured up to Town on Tuesday morning.  It was raining, something a little more than a drizzle, so I waited in my car until the window of opportunity promised by the reliable weather app on my phone had materialized, which it did.  It felt good to be moving forward in this cool fog, even to be moving forward slowly!  Still coughing up the remnants of this cold, I managed to complete two miles.

Yesterday, we went to Zachary Field to walk a few laps with Martha's brother Bill Lewis, who readers of this blog will remember had a serious heart attack a mere month ago and is beginning cardio rehab.  It was a foggy day, so foggy that at times we could look across the soccer field around which the walking path goes and barely see Bill's ghostly figure on the other side, slowly and with quiet determination making his way in the fog.  "Not bad for somebody who had a heart attack a month ago!" I told him.  Going forward slowly is a relative thing, I reflected, something which all runners quickly learn, of course.  Shalane Flanagan had been running sub-5:30 miles in New York on Sunday.  I had been running 12:44 miles yesterday.  Bill was glad to be merely walking.

On the way back to the car Martha spotted these tiny leaves, sprouting from the rock wall below the walking path, brilliant little blazes of color here on a gray and foggy afternoon.  The beauty of small, almost insignificant parts of a world that I had walked right past and not seen.

This morning when I arrived at the Park I was glad to see Fred just starting out, and we completed four miles together, enjoying that quiet camaraderie runners have, talking about books and bears and marathons and growing older and slower.  Four miles seemed like more of a struggle than it had in a very long time, but it always makes it easier when we go the journey with our friends.  "Well, we managed to stay under 13-minute miles," he said ironically.  I checked my watch and saw that he was right:  12:56.

And so I drove home in a glow of pride and quiet satisfaction at having run just a little slower than Shalane Flanagan had run.  

Falling Back

Last night we participated in that ridiculous annual ritual of setting our clocks back as "Daylight Savings Time" ended.  Only a fool would believe that daylight can be saved, or that we can "gain an hour."  It's disruptive to pets and farms animals (and runners), who don't know when they are supposed to go to sleep, or wake up, or eat.  As I write, it is mid-afternoon and it already seems to be getting dark outside.

I have fallen back in another way, too, finishing my run on Thursday feeling absolutely spent, and realizing by Friday that I had contracted a nasty little virus which has now settled into my chest.  So the old rule of thumb - if congestion is above the throat, it is OK to run; if it is below the throat, take a day off - has waylaid this runner.  And it has made me realize what a precious thing it is to be healthy and fit.  It has only been three days and I already feel the results of not running, not only physically but mentally.  I feel like Prince Hamlet when he cries out in melancholy:

"How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable

Seem to me all the uses of this world!"

I did the next best thing to shake off this mood, though, walking one or two miles each day, looking at these beautiful leaves that to my mind have reached their very peak of beauty, not because of the fanfare and perfection of brilliant color but because of this quieter music, the nuances, the little cracks and mottled shades of color.  We walk down the road these days and hear the continuous, gentle sound of leaves falling to the ground all around us.

This morning I lazed around the house, drinking an extra cup of coffee and doing what many runners do on this first Sunday in November - watching the NYC marathon.  This year saw Shalane Flanagan, whose career I have followed with admiration for years, winning the women's race - the first time for an American woman in 40 years.  What a joy it was to watch her cross that finish line, so far ahead of everybody else, those long legs pumping and that long blond ponytail swinging from side to side.  There was no falling back with her!

And when I return to running tomorrow or the next day, I will remember this picture as an inspiration for my own humble finish lines.  And my own determination to keep moving forward despite what the clock tells us to do.

 "Do not fear going forward slowly; 

fear only to stand still."

 - Chinese Proverb