Last Run of 2018

I have not run with our running group on Saturday morning for eight weeks, so it was nice to wake up this morning and find mid-40 temperatures and no precipitation in any form.  Martha decided to go up a little later in the morning, and when I arrived by myself at 9:00 a.m. there was nobody at Founders Park.  Then I saw Debbie running down Pine Street, raising her arm to catch my attention; and then Karen popped out of the path in the woods to the library, and Art and Vicki came down Fifth Street.  "So good to see everyone!" said Karen, "Let's have a group hug!"  I felt the same way.  As I have said before in these sporadic posts, although I have been running mostly by myself due to recent circumstances (old, slow, injured, odd time of day), I do enjoy our running group.

We started up Fifth Street chatting and catching up, and in a little over a mile we heard Fred coming up behind us - Fred, who will turn 80 on January 12!  What an inspiration he is; what an inspiration we all are to each other, older and slower every year, but still enjoying this wonderful thing called running.

It's that time of season when we reflect on the past year and look forward to the new one.  Our extraordinary friend Anthony must have had the same idea.  He posted on Facebook, "After 28 years of running and racing, and at the ripe old age of 60, I've just completed my most satisfying year."  Then he proceeded to list his 2018 exploits, including six marathons in six states and a total lifetime mileage of 24,901, "once around the earth at the equator."  Anthony made it clear that his intention was not to boast, but to encourage others to take up running, to accept challenges.  In the photo he is holding a globe, and he ends his post by saying, "There's a whole world out there that's a lot bigger and a lot prettier than the globe I'm spinning.  It's waiting to be rediscovered.  And it's just beyond the front door."  Well said.

I am not the runner Anthony is by a long shot - I have never run more than two marathons in a year, for example - but I measure up fairly well.  The reason I know this is that I keep a running log, and have done so since 1995.  I know Anthony keeps one, too.  Mine consists of a little spiral-bound Day Planner, and Martha keeps an identical one. 

Turning the pages of my 2018 running log, I can review my weekly mileage, the distance of my long runs, my times in interval workouts, my races, the weather conditions, my daily weight, an account of my other forms of exercise, and other pertinent information.  This may seem a little obsessive-compulsive to some, but many runners are meticulous record-keepers.

My running log is the reason I know that I had not run with the Saturday morning group in eight weeks, and why I did not (out-of-Town races, snow, rain).  That's how I know that today marked my last run of 2018.  I ran my fewest miles ever in 2018 (693), a fraction of the 1535 miles I ran in 2000.   And my own total lifetime mileage?  30,035, as of this morning.  And that's not counting the miles I ran since I first began "jogging" in 1981 but did not think to record.  So it's good to reflect on the past year as a runner, to thumb through the pages slowly, to realize what has been accomplished in the past year.  A New Year is waiting, just two days away, and it is filled with possibility.

A few years ago, we were leaving a restaurant in Raleigh where we had just had lunch with Martha's Aunt Lizette.  In the hallway there was a cabinet containing some high-priced wine in a glass-doored cabinet, and one of them caught our eye - "Betz Family Winery."  There was some chuckling over that label.  I was curious, and I later learned that the Washington state winery (founded by one Bob Betz, no relation) sells very expensive "boutique" wines.  One of them in particular caught my eye on their website:  Possibility Red Wine.  Wine labels can sometimes be a little pretentious, but I thought this one hit the mark for this North Carolina Betz, who does not own a winery, but who continuously strives to rediscover through running that world just beyond the front door that Anthony wrote about:

Living in Possibility

Living in possibility unleashes our potential.  

It allowed us to move forward despite seemingly 

insurmountable obstacles.  It propels our thoughts

and actions to seek ways of thinking and doing

that are only possible if we surrender to the

journey and have total conviction that the

impossible will become possible.

Stripping of the Decorations

Some churches have a tradition following the Maundy Thursday service known as Stripping the Altar.  The lectern and pulpit are stripped bare, symbolizing the humiliation and barrenness of the cross.  Our Presbyterian Church here in Highlands began this several years ago (it is more common in Anglican, Catholic, Lutheran, and Methodist churches), and I had never seen it done before then.  There was no Postlude, and those attending the service were asked to leave in silence.  It is a very moving ceremony.

We felt a little like that today when, only two days after Christmas, we began the work of removing all the Christmas decorations (see previous post) - Stripping the House, as it were.  We nestle the ornaments, one by one, gently in their little tissue-paper-padded compartments in the tattered old boxes; we disassemble the little village in the bay windows; we take the lights down from the mantle; we put away the nativity set; we fold up the artificial Christmas tree we bought three years ago and put it in its coffin-like box.  Then Martha crawls under the landing off the sun room and somehow manages to fit it all in there like a three-dimensional puzzle.  Most of this work is done by Martha except where height is needed:

For example, I reached up and took down the oldest ornaments from the chandelier, the ones I inherited from my parents and grandparents.  My Mom told me that some of them came from "overseas," wherever that might have been, probably somewhere in Germany.

But unlike the Stripping of the Altar, we did not work in silence; we worked to the sound of Christmas carols, which we will not listen to again until next year.  And instead of barrenness, our house simply returned to its normal state.  William Morris, the 19th century artist, famously advised, "Have nothing in your houses that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful."  And that is a principle we have tried to apply to our own house (although Martha has been known to chide me for concluding too soon that something has outlived its usefulness).  Neither of us likes clutter.  

But I suppose Morris might make an exception for seasonal decorations, those scarecrows and pumpkins and strings of lights with which we mark the passage of our annual holidays, those times of planting and harvest, and the fullness of summer and the emptiness of winter, which people have observed for centuries.  

The holidays scattered between the holy days.

Christmas Eve

It is Christmas Eve and our house is filled with the sound of Christmas music, the aroma of ham baking in the oven for tomorrow's Christmas dinner, and the sight of familiar Christmas decorations all over the house.  Martha walked around and took pictures of them and posted them on Facebook.

That little snowflake on the tree reminds us of 1979, the year we were married.  And all the other decorations bring back wonderful memories.

We have enjoyed a lot of holiday festivities this month, perhaps more than usual, including a wonderful overnight stay to see the Winter Lights at the Arboretum in Asheville the week before last, where on an unusually mild night (with snow still on the ground) we wandered through fantastic lights, listened to Christmas carols, and roasted marshmallows over an open fire to make Smores.

We also saw some good holiday theater:  The North Georgia Players production of "A Double Wide Christmas" last weekend, and earlier this month "A Seussified Christmas" at the Clemson Little Theater. Tonight will find us at the candelight Christmas Eve service at the Presbyterian Church, a tradition we have seldom missed over the past 35 years.

It is a season when we spend time with friends and families, but it is also a time for remembering with some sadness those who are no longer with us.  As we lose parents and friends we can understand more and more why this is a difficult holiday for many.  Still, there is hope for the future, and plans on the horizon:  a successful surgery, a good mammogram report, an encouraging visit to the ophthalmologist, journeys planned to faraway places.

For the more immediate future, we are looking forward to our time in Atlantic Beach, where thanks to the generosity of Martha's Aunt Lizette we will once again be able to spend some time in conditions more favorable for outdoor activities.  My running log for this month shows a scattering of short runs between the snows and the cold rains.  This is something we hope to remedy soon! The contrast on a windy, cold morning like this Christmas Eve is remarkable.

The warm sun, and the open road, are beckoning to us, and while we will miss Highlands, we are looking forward more and more to some time to read and write, time to run and meander across sand dunes, time to get away and renew ourselves in body, mind, and spirit.  Sabbatical.

Apple Cake

Our running has been impacted for several days by Winter Storm Diego and its aftermath.  I managed to complete only two runs last week, both of them down here on Sassafras Gap Road where the lower temperatures dried the road surface more than up in Town.  This morning I ran in Town for the first time, jumping over the occasional pile of snow still lingering by the sidewalks.  The roadside is still littered with debris, fallen limbs and trees pushed to the side, testifying to the difference only 1200 feet in elevation makes; what fell as rain and snow down our way fell as ice and snow up in Town, taking out electric service for many.  Now the slow process of cleanup is underway.  It was nice to be able to run the usual three-mile loop to which we are accustomed, good to get out of the house even though the northerly wind was a little sharp.

This afternoon, I decided to do some baking with the last of our apples.  I made apple turnovers on two occasions early this month, but there are still plenty of apples left, so today I pulled out a treasured old recipe from my Grandmother ("Gram"), written down at my request by my mother years and years ago when I first began to take an interest in baking the old recipes:  Gram's Apple Cake.

You can tell it's an old recipe because it calls for butter or "oleo," or oleomargarine, an ingredient rare to find in most supermarkets today but used frequently by my frugal mother.  "Bake 375 til done."  That "20 min +-" is in my own hand.  Mom (and Gram) simply knew when it was done without the need to time it on a running watch.

I happened to be talking to Martha's aunt Lizette on the phone while they were baking; she is a very good chef responsible for memorable Thanksgiving dinners and scrumptious bakes.  She has been having some health problems but is doing better now, and we have been calling to check on her.  "I wish I could send you this aroma over the phone!" I told her as I stepped into the kitchen to take them out of the oven.  Is there anything, indeed, that can better sustain body and soul this time of year than the aroma of apples, sugar, and cinnamon, freshly taken from an oven?  It is something I always associate with the holidays.  My Mom would often make Gram’s Apple Cake on Christmas morning.

So these simple old recipes, and the memories they bring to mind, live on for us today.  I felt as if my Mom was in the room, nodding her approval, and perhaps my grandmother as well.

There’s more snow predicted for Friday night and Saturday morning, so perhaps it will be a good snowy weekend, time to pull some more dusted and splattered index cards from the venerable filing box. 

Waiting for the D.O.T.

They began naming these winter storms at some point when I was not paying attention.  Winter Storm Diego rolled across the mid-west and into Western North Carolina Friday night - we heard it gently tapping on the roof during the night.  It had not accumulated much by Saturday morning, but by mid-day it was really coming down, perhaps five or six inches in all.  Temperatures have risen above freezing this morning, though, and when I went out to clear the driveway I faced about one inch of heavy slush.

 

“Driveway shoveled, waiting for the D.O.T..” I proudly captioned this photo on Facebook, “But it looks like they have their hands full.”  They do indeed, as I discovered when I poked around on Facebook – down trees and power outages in Highlands, and much worse east of here in Buncombe and Henderson counties.  

In addition to escaping Diego's bulls-eye, we are just above freezing here, 35 degrees as I write, and the snow is melting and dripping fast off the roof.  What a difference a few hundred feet in elevation makes! - it's 2650 at our house but 3850 on Main Street, where the Highlands Newspaper weather cam shows (through a snow-occluded lens) no traffic moving.

We knew this storm was coming and we prepared as well as we could, so there is plenty of fuel oil for the furnace, gasoline for the generator, and water captured in buckets to flush toilets.  But thankfully the power is still on and has not even flickered.  So we are in that enviable place:  warm and cosy, all the Christmas lights on, looking outside at melting snow, waiting for the D.O.T.

Meteorological Winter

Saturday we had planned to run yet another 5-K, the Reindeer Run in Brevard, and had even gone so far as to book a room at the Sunset Motel Friday night so we could get an early start.  The Sunset is a great little place we discovered through Tripadvisor several years ago, conveniently located and frugally priced, reminiscent of the roadside motels of the 50s in their pink and turquoise neon glory.

Saturday morning, we awoke to cloudy skies, and as we made our preparations, we could see the band of heavy rain moving inexorably toward Brevard on the radar.  By race time, 9:00 a.m., a cold rain was indeed falling, and not without some regrets we decided to abandon our plans ("bag it," in runner parlance).  Both of us have run marathons in the rain before (and after four months of training, what else can a prepared runner do?) but this race had been merely another last-minute 5-K and we had not registered.  It will be an event to put on the calendar for next year.

So we had a real breakfast and a good cup of coffee (not motel coffee in a teabag) at Quotations, and a little later some delicious soup at the imperfectly spelled Kitchn (formerly Jamie's Creole Kitchen).  We packed up, and in increasingly heavy rain we drove south on Highway 276, past Caesar’s Head State Park, fog lights on, squinting in the cold rain and fog, finally arriving in Clemson in time to have a nice visit with Martha’s Aunt Anne Sellers.  Dinner was something of a Christmas tradition, an exceptional meal with Anne at Paesano’s, and then a play the next day.  The play was at the Clemson Little Theater, a matinee performance of a clever little play called A Seusified Christmas Carol.  "Imagine a Cat In a Victorian Hat and it may put you in the mood for this whimsical treatment of Dickens' beloved Christmas tale in wacky rhymed couplets."  There were many, many children in the audience!  The rain had stopped by lunchtime, and when we came out of the theater, we discovered that the temperature had soared to 71 degrees.  We returned to Highlands after the play where it was also unseasonably warm.  Monday morning we went up to Town and enjoyed very pleasant running conditions, savoring these last few warm hours of a season that would soon be gone.

Meteorological Winter is a term I only recently learned, and it differs from Astronomical Winter by beginning on December 1 rather than on the Winter Solstice, thereby more accurately reflecting the actual temperatures and weather conditions.  Yesterday and today, the temperature indeed plummeted, and wind chills are forecast to be as low as 10 degrees by tomorrow morning.  I walked a mile in brisk north-westerly winds this afternoon, snow flurries flying wildly around, thinking how rapidly conditions can change this time of year and to what extremes the runner must adapt himself.  

And so it is winter, and the north wind blows cold in Highlands, making running problematic.  My friends Fred and Vickie can content themselves with the treadmill this time of year, but I have never found a treadmill that can accommodate either my frame of mind or my frame of body.  It is a matter now of running when we can, slowly becoming acclimated to this new bleak but hopeful advent season just beginning.

In the bleak mid-winter
Frosty wind made moan;
Earth stood hard as iron,
Water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow,
Snow on snow,
In the bleak mid-winter
Long ago.

Turkey Strut Again

We know we are pushing it - well, maybe not Martha, but I am pushing it - running three races in less than two weeks.  But Old Salem always calls to us at Holiday time, and Martha learned about a Thanksgiving Day race in Winston-Salem, another Turkey Strut.  Old Salem is only four hours away, and we arrived in plenty of time to pick up our race packets and check in to the Historic Brookstown Inn, where we have stayed many times in the past.  The big, rambling building is on the National Register and was once a cotton mill; its huge beams and columns and high ceilings are truly remarkable.

 

Pasta loading took place in the small Italian restaurant directly across the street, Di Lisio – delicious!  The only disappointment was deciding with some reluctance to forego the special of the evening, Risotto with scallops and tiger shrimp, in favor of the traditional angel hair and marinara, but the latter was so delicious we did not regret it at all.

The race start was only ten minutes away, at the Winston-Salem Fairgrounds - ample parking and well-organized facilities.  But what a difference between last Saturday's Strut and today's Strut.  Instead of 108 runners stumbling on gravel paths around the Kituwah Indian Mound, we found ourselves in a group of nearly 1900 runners:  men, women, children, strollers, and dogs all packed into the starting area.  As soon as the National Anthem had been sung and the gun had gone off, I realized I was poorly positioned; I think I walked for a minute before I got to one of the two big starting line arches.  My main objective for the first half-mile was to avoid tripping on the many dogs, strollers, children, and walkers strolling blissfully with cups of coffee up toward the front (or, at least, in front of me).  I don't think the traffic truly thinned out until the final mile.  Still, I felt strong and my knee did not hurt at all.

Martha was waiting at the finish, and we went over to view the results already scrolling on a big computer screen under a red tent.  We did not expect to place at all - there were 31 women in Martha's age group - and had already returned to the car, when Martha said she would go back and see if she could find her results.  I followed, and found her smiling with a third-place trophy in hand.

My own finish time was slower than the past two races – 35:34 – but Martha had positioned herself close to the starting line and escaped much of the commotion of dogs and strollers and small children (also, she is faster than I); she finished in 28:36. 

So like the rest of the runners, our next goal was celebrating with Thanksgiving Dinner.  We had not been able to get reservations at the few places open today, so we had decided to leave it to Providence.  Providence delivered by means of a short list of ten restaurants provided by the desk clerk at the Brookstown, which included a Chinese restaurant (General Tso Turkey, I wondered?) and the Golden Coral, but also including Hutch and Harris, a tiny place uptown that we had called and been told they might be able to fit in a couple of walk-ins but there would be a long wait.  We walked in and they seated us immediately, and we had one of the nicest Thanksgiving Dinners we have had in awhile.  Martha's Mom, sister, and brothers had been invited to dinner at her nephew's home, so we knew they were well-provisioned, and her Mom had urged us to go off for the Holiday.  And the lack of guilt seemed to make the gravy just a little more savory!

After the lazy dinner, we drove into Old Salem, which we had largely to ourselves because it was closed for the day.  What a wonderful little place, a miniature Williamsburg, in which to wander and marvel at these old buildings lovingly constructed by Moravians in the 19th century or earlier; the Salem Tavern was constructed in 1784 and George Washington stayed there.

We found a quiet bench and sat in the sun and talked about past Thanksgivings we have enjoyed with relatives, many now passed on, and friends and neighbors.  This quintessentially American holiday has transformed itself, for us anyway, into a religious observance; it is harvest time, a good time to look back at what the year has produced, to enjoy and savor and celebrate and look ahead.

We returned to the Brookstown Inn for the evening, relaxing in the parlor and the lobby, enjoying the ambience of the period furnishings and decorations.

The Brookstown hotel cat, Sallie (whom I have written about in the past in this blog), was not happy with all the people staying there, and was not sleeping on her usual sofa in the parlor, although we both saw her tabby tail flicker briefly and disappear around the corner at one point. 

What a gift it is to be living in this beautiful world, with friends and loved ones all around, and to be active and healthy!  My friend Benita posted this poem by Mary Oliver on Facebook on Thanksgiving, and it spoke to me (especially, as a runner, that part about being slow if you must),

Turkey Strut

This is the second year Martha and I traveled to the beautiful Kituwah Indian Mound, a Cherokee sacred and historic site in a wide, flat valley lying next to the broad Tuckasegee River between Cherokee and Bryson City.

The site 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, and have found traces of burials and hearths on the site.  Held in private hands for many years, the Cherokee were able to purchase it in 1996, and the race benefits Cherokee Choices and the physical education program of the Cherokee Middle School.  Some Cherokee youths were running, and the race director, papoose on back, told us movingly about her desire to walk the entire Trail of Tears some day soon.

The race might well be called the Turkey Stumble, as I noted last year, due to the uneven gravel path on which it is held.  Beautiful, absolutely no traffic, but a little rough on the legs.

I am not a trail runner, and the reason is that I am a clumsy runner.  Meandering between rows of partially-harvested field corn, the narrow gravel paths were treacherous, gravel and larger rocks everywhere, ruts with puddles.  Then too, the roads were so narrow that other runners were sometimes a problem; as is their wont, youngsters would dash by, and then bow up directly in front of the tall, slow-to-move runners like myself.  Two of them passed me on a rough downhill part and shouted out encouragement to me:  “You’ve got it!”  And in a few yards I slowly and persistently passed them.

As I say, ideal for some runners, but not this roadrunner.  On the smoother parts of the trail, I had time to look around at the corn fields, the distant mountains, the azure sky.  The cornstalks rustled in a light breeze.  Corn was everywhere!  The big, dilapidated building in which the awards were held was scattered with harvesting equipment, stray cobs of corn on the ground, and bins filled with the year's plenty.

Only a week after a hilly race in Canton, we were both pleased with our finish times.  Martha disappeared ahead of me and was waiting at the finish.  Coming in that final long relatively smooth stretch, I passed a man in my age group and so took the third place trophy that would have belonged to him.  I was also pleased to pass, in the last half-mile, a young and very lively German Shepherd dog and the young lady who held her back on a tight leash.  Martha took another first place trophy.  She is running some of her best races right now!

 

Had this been a paved course, we would have run much faster, of course, but that might not have been a good thing considering we have yet another race scheduled only five days from now, another “Turkey Strut” event, a large 5-K in Winston-Salem, which we expect to be held on paved roads with nary a cornstalk in sight.

So it was another good day, here in this peaceful valley, where the Cherokee Nation gathered for thousands of years to bury their dead, to celebrate the harvest, to dance, and to give thanks.

Heart Smart 5-K

This morning we drove an hour and a half to run a 5-K race in Canton.  It was below freezing when we left Highlands, but by the time we arrived it had warmed to the 40s with a nice breeze.  This was an inaugural race in a place that is off the radar for us, east of Waynesville and west of Candler.  I don't think we have ever been to this little mill town before, and I think the reason we have not is the presence of the Champion International Paper plant, which although now under new ownership and somewhat improved in recent years, still perfumes the air with that unique paper mill fragrance.  It loomed across the river from the race start on the banks of the Pigeon River.

I remember when I first arrived in Asheville 45 years ago the horrible stench that suddenly greeted a motorist as he topped the mountain west of Asheville on I-40.  Cars originating in the Canton area could be readily identified by paint peeling from the hood and top.  Fortunately, things have improved somewhat since then.

The race began in the opposite direction from the plant, following the banks of the broad Pigeon River, still polluted and brownish-looking but at least not foul smelling. 

You never know what to expect in a small, inaugural race like this one, which had been organized to honor first responders.  We had already been told by e-mail that the 11:30 a.m. start would be delayed an hour because a large squadron of bikers was in Town collecting "Toys for Tots," and sure enough, as we arrived in Town, drove to the top of the hill in the downtown and back down again, there must have been a hundred motorcycles lined up ready to head out of Town.  They all rumbled by, and then a young woman with a lovely voice sang "America" and then the national anthem, while military men and women both in dress uniform and in fatigues stood at attention and saluted the flag.

The first responders were definitely present on the course, EMTs and firemen, holding back traffic all along the way; I don't think a single vehicle was out on the roads.  Many of our fellow runners called out to these volunteers, their neighbors and friends, as we have done in Highlands.  One woman behind me even called out to a barking dog behind a chain-link fence:  "Hey, Blue, whatcha doing buddy?  It's me!"  We climbed a long hill in the second mile, Martha rapidly disappearing ahead of me.  She finished in a good time, 28:38, and I was happy with 34:08. faster than my past two 5-Ks, and with no more than a slight twinge in that right knee as I came down the final hill to the finish line.

While we waited for the awards, eating three-dollar grilled-cheese sandwiches in the Pigeon River Grill, we discovered that the age groups were ten-year, so I did not expect to fare well in the 60-69 age group.  We also discovered that only a single first place award would be given in each age group.  Martha would have taken second place, she knew, because she had chatted with the first place woman in her age group during the race and, despite a heroic kick at the finish, had not been able to catch her.

But it's not about the awards in a little race like this.  It was a good day for both of us; we had gone to battle, we had strived with others, for no other reason than to discover what we could accomplish.

"Much have I seen and known; cities of men

And manners, climates, councils, governments,

Myself not least, but honour'd of them all;

And drunk delight of battle with my peers,

Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy." - Tennyson

Or in this case, the slightly-stinking plains of windy Canton.

The Midterms

While much of this blog is about running, about races and hikes, about the tangible world in which we rejoice in strength and breath and vision, a larger world impacts us all.  The election of a truly odious man to the Presidency in 2016 has been much on our minds for the past two years, growing worse by the day.  We are the laughingstock of the world and hard-won diplomatic relationships are in tatters.  The rich grow richer, the poor grow poorer, and "conservative" Republicans have run up huge deficits and tariffs.  Climate change is a reality, not a hoax perpetrated by the Chinese.  The Free Press is not the enemy of the people.  It is truly distressing to watch our government fall farther and farther each day.

So on the eve of the midterm elections on Tuesday I wrote this on the little blackboard in our kitchen where we take turns posting thoughts throughout the year.

We stayed up late but did not know the encouraging results until this morning.  It was not a perfect result, but in the end I think I am an optimist, and I am glad that enough of our fellow citizens went to the polls and (as I like to think) said, "Enough of this insanity!  Let's get back to normal again!"  I am thinking that normal would mean having a President who can speak in coherent sentences and act like an adult instead of playing golf and watching TV and paying off porn stars; who has the interests of the country uppermost in mind instead of that of his own squalid, lurid, casino-hotel empire.  Normal would mean getting to work solving real problems.  Normal would mean healing the divisions between us.  Normal might even mean waking up in the morning not worrying about what crazy tweet went out at 3:00 a.m.

So we made a step in the right direction, I think.  And this Highlands Roadrunner ran three miles this morning giving thanks that there are still good people in  the world making good decisions.

Hike to Sunset

The fall colors are said to be a little "muted" this year - or at least that was the word used by a meteorologist on the Asheville television station yesterday - but they seem perfect to me.  The Walhalla Road and Sassafras Gap Road are tunnels of gold right now, and up in Town the burning bushes and maples stand out brilliantly against pale yellows and greens.  Today I hiked up the familiar road to Sunset Rocks, and there was plenty of beauty to greet the eye.

I did not pass anybody on the way to the top, and I also noticed that there were no cars.  The Town has wisely agreed to stop maintaining this road so it has fallen into a condition rougher than a visitor might like his unblemished SUV to experience, which is good for hikers.  The top was gorgeous as usual, even with the overcast sky:

On the way down I passed a couple who looked very much out of place, the woman clearly trying out a brand-new pair of boots from the Highland Hiker and wearing a fashionable hat.  But they seemed to be enjoying themselves, and so was a very fast runner coming around the corner.  "Nice job!" I said.  And then a young woman with a tall, brand-new hiking stick (Highland Hiker again?) came around the corner, bundled up and wearing a white toboggan. 

Have I ever hiked to the top of this mountain - so accessible, only a ten-minute drive from our house - and not realized how grateful I am to live in Highlands?  I don't think so.

Raking Leaves

A beautiful fall day:  tomorrow is Halloween, and it is still unseasonably warm, but cool enough to be able to work out in the yard without being pestered by gnats.  I love these annual rituals of putting things to bed at the end of the year, of preparing for winter.  The garden has already been turned and some early fallen leaves have been raked.  Today I disassembled the bird bath and put it in the garden shed before it has a chance to freeze.  I rolled up the hoses (after washing the car one final time).  I mowed the lawn for the last time and then ran the mower until it was out of gas.  And then I spent the rest of the afternoon raking leaves, an activity that I have enjoyed since I was a young boy growing up in a yard filled with maple trees.

I must be the only person in Macon County who does not own a leaf blower.  Instead I have two old faithful rakes, one of them steel and the other bamboo, and these are tools that I thoroughly enjoy using.  There is something hypnotic in the gentle swish of slowly descending down the slope of the front yard, pushing those dry poplar and maple trees into higher and higher piles, raking them onto a tarpaulin, and then carrying them to the compost bins.  It is very satisfying to see the yard clean and neat, devoid (mostly) of leaves.

And the compost bins are filling up, more than half-way already, and deep enough to bury coffee grounds and apple peels so that they can be transformed into compost over the winter, that magical additive that has made the soil in our garden beds better and better each year.

I stop and stretch from time to time and look around.  The leaves have not been colorful this year, but there are brilliant pops of color here and there, especially some maple trees on our running route up in Town.  I gaze upward at the big tulip poplar trees overhead.  Still a few leaves to come down.

And finally, because I had already washed it, I decided to drive the Mini up to Town and back.  For absolutely no reason at all.

Hobbling with Perseverance

It has been a disappointing October for those who have come to Highlands looking for the brilliant fall foliage that we are known for.  The unseasonably warm summer and early fall have left the trees still green, and now they have begun to slowly turn brown and fall off without the brilliant, incandescent reds and oranges.

It is easy to become depressed in a season like this without the medicine of running, and my running has dwindled to almost nothing.  I will tell myself, "What I need is a good ten-miler this morning," but of course the slow recovery from an injured knee has put me in such poor condition that I am incapable of the long distances that so reliable brighten the mood and energize the body.

My two-mile run on Wednesday went well, but in the darkness on my way to the bathroom late that night I stubbed my toe very badly on a piece of furniture.  It is a sprain rather than a break, although the first couple of days it was hard to tell the difference.  I was a mess on Saturday morning when I met two visiting runners at the park for a nice long run; I explained that all I could do was walk a mile or so, and as it turned out they liked each other and enjoyed running, just the two of them.  As I hobbled up Chestnut Street, left toe stiff and red, right knee a little tight, I couldn't help laughing at my condition.  At least I was now in balance.  I amended the little inspirational verse I had put on the kitchen blackboard the week before Martha's half marathon:

And at least I can walk, and day by day I improve.  I have a renewed appreciation of the simple joy of being mobile, running or walking.  Not everybody is so fortunate, and some of that bad fortune has happened through no fault of their own.  Five of our friends are battling cancer, serious cancer.  So as I hobble along I am thankful that, as far as I know, I do not have that dread disease lurking inside of me somewhere, the kind that has no symptoms until it is too late, like pancreatic and ovarian cancer.  And so despite the slings and arrow of outrageous fortune, as Prince Hamlet says, and "the heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to, " I hobble thankfully.

Saturday night, a strong wind howled through Clear Creek, worse than anywhere in the area apparently, knocking down a large limb that narrowly missed our cars and scattering branches and debris all over the road; it also uprooted the umbrella from the center of the table on our deck, toppling it and the chairs over, and then flying off the deck in a broken heap.  Martha was having a great four-mile run up in Town this afternoon and stumbled on a piece of that same debris, and she fell hard, hurting once again both knees, an elbow, and a hand.  But she has become a tougher runner, toughened by the cycle of injury and recovery that every runner has experienced if they have run for a few years.

I know that she will handle her own recovery well, trusting in the miracle of healing and good health, and probably far better than I will.  And she, too, will count this great wealth of blessings that we share.

Race Trophies

Monday morning, after 48 hours of rest, both of us went running here in Highlands.  I ran an easy two miles with only a slight twinge in that right knee; I know I need to be careful with my training, especially with starting speed work again.  Martha ran four miles and also reported feeling no ill effects from her half marathon.

There may be some spur-of-the-moment opportunities to race in the next few weeks, but the next real race we have on the calendar is The Turkey Strut on Thanksgiving Day in Winston-Salem. I have run races on Thanksgiving morning more than once - Turkey Trots and Gobble Wobbles - but Martha has not, so she is looking forward to the experience of recognizing this national day of giving thanks by taking part in a race and being grateful for our health and fitness.  I suppose this could also fall under the category of what my Dad used to call "working up an appetite" when I was a boy; he would often take us on a vigorous walk on Thanksgiving morning so that the appetite was sharp and the stomach rumbling when the turkey was delivered to the dinner table.

Meanwhile, our trophies are still on the kitchen table, where they will remain for several days.  I used to keep the finish time on my watch after a marathon until the next race, so that I could gaze at it from time to time in simple pride.  Be proud of your accomplishments, runners!  Dangle that finisher's medal from the knob of a kitchen cabinet for a few days.  My shelves have filled up with trophies over the years - not that I am an exceptional runner, but you sometimes manage to bring home some hardware when you go to races, and the Bethel 5-K was race number 179 for me.  Trophies used to look like this:

Several years ago, plastic trophies seemed to fall out of vogue, and we began to see wooden plaques, and then engraved beer mugs - we have a cabinet full of those.  But my favorite trophies are the unique ones, the hand-made ones.  Martha's finishers medal for Bethel is a delicate piece of ceramic, the kind that could easily break if dropped:

Age group awards were also unique - small pieces of pottery, smaller than a coffee cup, more akin to delicate Japanese tea cups.  I thought there might have been a slight resemblance to the man and woman who won them!

Bethel

Bethel is one of my favorite places to run.  I am not talking about the Bethel described in Genesis 28, where Jacob famously fell asleep and dreamt of a ladder stretching between Heaven and Earth thronged with angels.  This Bethel is a beautiful rural valley just six miles east of Waynesville, although a place so beautiful on this Saturday morning that one can imagine angels hovering over the cows while they grazed in their green pastures, the horses and hay-filled barns, and the cascading waters of Rocky Branch along the road.

I have run the Bethel Half Marathon four times, and it holds a special place in my heart.  It was my first half marathon (1998) and my PR half marathon (1999 - 1:44:02).  It is also the place where the thought first occurred to me that I might be capable, if I trained properly and slowed my pace down accordingly, to run a marathon, which I went on to do in December of 1999.  This year was the 25th annual Bethel Half, and we learned that it was the oldest continuous half marathon in North Carolina and the third oldest in the southeast.

After the rains had passed through on Thursday, Friday dawned cool and breezy, the first day it really felt like fall.  We left early and had a picnic lunch, stopping at Barber Orchard to pick up some fresh apples.

We were staying for two nights at the Waynesville Country Club, and our room was quiet and convenient, only 12 minutes from the race start.  From our balcony we could watch golfers out on the course playing that game of skill that somebody once described as a good walk spoiled.

A group of auto enthusiasts, all of them driving classic Mercedes convertibles from the mid-50s to early 60s, was also staying at the country club, and it reminded us of our Mini trip in 2016, except that these classic cars were in the $100,000 range.  That murky green one in the foreground bears the appropriate license tag "Pea Soup."

We love going to races in a way that is difficult to describe to non-runners.  Why would anybody in his or her right mind want to set the alarm for 5:00 a.m., miss the sumptuous breakfast buffet offered by Waynesville Counry Club (which we, however, did enjoy on Sunday morning), and voluntarily run as fast as we can for mile upon mile, up hill and down hill, in all kinds of weather, early in the morning or after midnight?  But competing in races, challenging ourselves in this special way, has taken us as far afield as Boston and Richmond and Kiawah Island, and we treasure the memories of pre-race pasta dinners and post-race celebratory dinners and those miles and miles of feeling absolutely alive, of digging deep in those late miles, and that unparalleled feeling of achievement in crossing another finish line.

So we went through the time-honored rituals once again, eating simple pasta as Boccelli's Italian Restaurant and remembering the pasta dinners we have had sitting across the table from celebrities like John Bingham, getting to bed early, laying out our clothes for the morning, and sleeping fitfully.  Of all the races we have run, the conditions were nearly perfect this morning:  fog breaking away as the sun rose higher, temperatures in the 40s with a light breeze.  My 5-K race started five minutes after Martha's race, farther down the road, so we were able to watch all of the half marathoners run past.  "Go Martha!" I shouted as she flashed a smile.  A pinto horse in the corral across the road from our start became very excited, jumping at a metal gate, then turning and running in a big circle and approaching the gate again; we thought he might escape the half marathoners as an unlikely race bandit.

My race was uneventful, after all.  There were only 40 or so of us, and I finished toward the back in a time of 35:42, two minutes faster than last weekend, and I was encouraged that there was no pain in my knee at all; I was even able to pull the final hill in mile three, pass a young woman who had been playing leap-frog with me for the entire race, and finally put her away as we crossed the finish line.

Martha had planned to run 10:30 miles, so after my race I walked up to the road where she would be passing by (the course is a figure eight), and was surprised to see her approaching much earlier than I had expected.

She had a smile on her face and looked strong!  And she had completed the first seven miles in just under 70 minutes by my reckoning.  I later learned as we reviewed our split times (another ritual, usually enjoyed over dinner after the race) that her first mile had been 9:17.  That stubborn pain in her hip began to affect her in the last three miles, though, and slowed her down just a bit.  But I was again excited to see her coming around the track to the finish line, finishing strong, and way ahead of schedule.

Her finish time was 2:17:26, the fastest of the three half marathons she has run this year.  I am so proud of her!   Good enough for fourth place in her age group.  A good day in Bethel.

As for me, I had waited to hear my name at the awards ceremony, only to be surprised by taking first place.  But there was a perfectly good explanation for this:  I was the only man in my age group.

So another chapter is filed away in our race journals, another weekend of wonderful memories, of lunch at Sweet Onion, wandering slowly up and down Main Street where a crafts fair was set up, listening to a little bluegrass band, watching some energetic cloggers, and marveling at the Montreat Scottish Pipes and Drums, a dozen men and women twirling their drumsticks and wailing their bagpipes joyously into the bright blue sky.

Autumn Breeze

The 16th Annual Autumn Breeze takes place on one of the most scenic courses we know, following the Tallulah River and meandering on a shady paved greenway trail in Tallulah Gorge State Park.  The thermometer said 82 degrees but it felt cooler because of cloud cover and a nice . . . autumn breeze.  I was not sure I would be ready to run a race today; it has only been nine days since I began running again after a 10-day lay-off and acupuncture treatments.  But I was able to run three miles non-stop twice last week, so I decided to go along with Martha, who was prepared to run a good race as a speed work-out six days before a half marathon.

It is always inspiring to run a race, even if it is at a slow pace.  The race-day excitement is there no matter how fast you run, and when the race begins and runners sort themselves out, settling into each individual's pace, it is the same as running a fast race when you are in top condition.  One little girl with a blond ponytail appeared to be five or six years old, and she took off and left a small group of us in the rear, never to be seen again.  "I don't like to run on a road," she had told her friends.  "I like to run in the woods!"  A future trail runner.

I felt some twinges in that right knee in the first half-mile or so, but then they disappeared and everything felt smooth and strong, even though I realized  that the result of having run a total of only eleven miles in the past three weeks have left me woefully out of shape:  three miles felt like six.  But getting back in shape is just a matter of patience and mileage and eventual speed work, and I have been in this place many times during my running career.  I was even able to "stalk" one or two runners and than pass them and stay ahead of them, which is very satisfying when the stalked runners are younger by several decades.  Above all, I was glad to be able to finish a race again, and to see before me the upward-curving optimistic path of recovery!

For Martha, it was a good day, placing first in her age group again as she has in so many races this year, and in a fast time of 29:17.  Age group winners get to select hand-made pottery from the Rabun County High School Visual Arts Department, and Martha chose an appropriate piece of autumn pottery.

She is well-prepared for the Bethel Half Marathon next Saturday, another scenic course that we both love and where we both set our half marathon P.R.s.  I, however, will settle for another 5-K (Martha was able to change my registration), and I will be grateful if I can finish another race only six days from now.