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.