Leaving Duck and Arriving Home

We had been waiting for a call from my doctor all day Tuesday to find out when I can be referred for hernia surgery, and I kept checking to see if he had received my message.  Martha, who is very good at pursuing things like this, finally made a few "deep" calls into the Mission Health Care system and discovered that my doctor was on vacation for two weeks.  So, after a few more calls, we were able to get an appointment to see the PA in his office on Friday morning.  We decided to start packing and leave earlier than we had planned.  Martha is a very organized person and did the bulk of this work on Tuesday evening.

"Out last dinner at the Outer Banks," she said.  "Where do we want to go?"  We looked at the menus for Red Sky Cafe, Aqua, the Roadhouse Grill, and other restaurants, and finally decided to return to our favorite place for dinner out here (see post of April 20), Our Own Little Dining  Room.  We had all of our favorites, steamed peel & eat shrimp (which I peeled and we took out to the dune-top deck to enjoy), scallops, and crab cakes.

Wednesday morning, we had the car loaded up early, Martha dragging the heaviest suitcase (mine) down the stairs because I am not supposed to lift anything heavy, and we were on the road by 9:30 a.m.  We had enough time to stop in Manteo for a light lunch, and although we passed several traffic jams bumper-to-bumper in the opposite lane, we had fair skies and good travel to the Brookstown Inn in Winston-Salem, the virtues of which I have extolled on this blog in the past.  "Where is Sally?" I asked at the desk - the hotel cat who showed up here several years ago and is a fixture.  We found her outside in the only place a cat would be, high on one of the old cotton mill's beams, half asleep, where she could watch everything going on below.

It was warm and sunny in Winston-Salem, and the next morning I did my Tai Chi out in the parking lot beside a glorious red azalea, gazing at one of the old log cabins in historic Old Salem.  It was a good way to begin the final leg of our journey, and we arrived in Highlands late in the afternoon.  I had taken a photo of the walkway to our back door when we left, and the change in less than three weeks was remarkable.

The apple trees are in full leaf, the grass is knee-high, and the relatively rare Carolina Silverbell tree off our back deck, which blooms for a few brief days toward the end of April, is dangling its little paper-white bells.

I'm not sure when this blog will resume again.  The upcoming days are likely to be filled with doctor's appointments and hernia surgery, which would not be a good topic to dwell on in this blog.  But I am certain that in one week - or two, or four, or six - Highlands Roadrunner will be back on the road and back on his blog again.

Nature on the Boardwalk

Although I was not feeling my best this morning, we had signed up last week for a Nature Walk along the Town Boardwalk.  We met Betsy Trimble, the  Town of Duck Assistant Public Information Officer, in the Town Hall, and while we were waiting I asked her about the two photos in the rear lobby of the building outside the restrooms, which have always intrigued me.  Betsy said both names - Scarborough and Hines - were local ones, but other than that she did not know who they were.  Andrew looks especially tough, as if he had weathered more than one Outer Banks storm.

Betsy introduced us to Rhana Paris from the N. C. Aquarium, who was leading the hike and who proved to be very informative about both flora and fauna along the way.  We began in the lot adjacent to the Town Hall, a fragment of a maritime forest where we learned a Food Lion had threatened to build before wiser heads (and pockets, and zoning) prevailed.  Oak trees and beeches predominated here, but farther out the land turns swampy and then extends over the waters of Currituck Sound, which is technically an estuary where fresh water and sea water mix. There were several cypress trees growing here with their signature knees surrounding the trunk.

We were a small but enthusiastic group of nature-lovers, and we enjoyed getting to know one another.  Rhana clearly loved her subject, and she reminded us of Ranger Randy at Fort Macon State Park who could also identify every bird-call and plant along the way.

Out by the kayak landing, Rhana stopped and talked about the continuing research the Aquarium was doing on the water in the Sound.  Lowering a bucket to capture a sample, she brought out several instruments she used to measure ph, salinity, turbidity, and dissolved oxygen. I was surprised to learn that the water here was 95% fresh; I would have thought it was 50/50, with the ocean just a half-mile away.

I peered into this little instrument to see the scale of the water's ph, which hovered at about 8.5 - again a little bit of a surprise, more basic than acidic.

We spotted this snapping turtle in the mud below; the only other creatures were a frog and a butterfly (which did not show up in my photographs), plus two ospreys which Rhana identified by their cries and then pointed out, circling high above us in the sky.  "There's usually a cottonmouth down there, too," she said, but we were glad we did not meet him.

The marsh grasses were beautiful, spartina and black needle rush.  I plucked a piece of long grass that was segmented, like bamboo, and she said it was a grass.  Then she recited a mnemonic poem that I thought was a lovely little thing, something that Ogden Nash might have written:

 Sedges have edges, 

rushes are round, 

grasses have knees 

that bend to the ground.

That is, the "knees" of grasses are joint-like nodes found along round, hollow stems. The stems of sedges and rushes are solid; in cross-section the rushes are round, while those of sedges are triangular and so have "edges."

Long vines climbed up the trunks of some of the trees, which Rhana told us included Virginia creeper and, as I had already recognized, poison ivy.  There were also wild Southern grapes, although too early for fruit, either muscadines (red) or scuppernongs (white).  There ought to be a mnemonic poem for that too, I thought; perhaps this:

Muscadines are red

scuppernongs are white,

but both smell as sweet

On a warm summer night.

 

We eventually made our way to the Waterfront Shops, where we thanked Betsy and Rhana and bid farewell to the others, filled with all the new things we had learned.

Sidelined Again

Two or three days ago - Thursday morning, I think - I noticed a sort of soft bulge in one side of my lower abdomen.  There was no pain, and in fact I went for a three-mile run that morning, worked out at the fitness center on Friday, and ran four miles on Saturday, all without pain.  This morning, the bulge seemed a little uncomfortable, and after running only a half mile or so, I turned back around and "walked it in," as we runners say.

I suspected from a search on the internet what the problem was - a hernia.  There were plenty of images, too, but they were just a little too anatomical for this blog.  My suspicion was confirmed by a very pleasant Nurse Practitioner named Anne Marie at  the Urgent Care Center in Kitty Hawk this morning, specifically a left inguinal hernia.  She was very sympathetic, as was the nurse who took my information - turns out she is a sometimes half-marathon runner herself - but it looks like there will be no running for the rest of our vacation out here.  Fortunately, I am not in any pain.  And, even more fortunately, a hernia is a usually harmless and relatively common injury for someone my age.  I thought of all the things a lump or swelling could have been, and I gave thanks.

So I'm waiting for a call from my doctor (who they refer to as my PCP - primary care provider) to see how quickly we can schedule surgery, which is the recommended treatment.  I understand surgery is a painless, outpatient procedure.  But the news, disappointing but not devastating, that Anne Marie imparted to me was that I will very likely be instructed not to run again for . . . four to six weeks after surgery.

That is a long time!  I think I was out for a week, possibly two, after eye surgery.  And I recall limping back from running injuries after a few days.  I don't think I have ever taken that much time off since I began running nearly four decades ago.  What will I do with myself?  I am still waiting to hear from my PCP, but a quick search on the internet tells me that I should limit my activities to water aerobics, stationary cycling, yoga, and dancing.  Reminds me of that David Bowie lyric:

Put on your red shoes

And dance the blues.

Looking on the bright side, rest is usually a good thing for a runner, and we often make things worse, as I have learned the hard way, by pushing too hard and not taking enough time off.  Many elite runners are said to take a month off every year, just to completely reset the body.  So it will be interesting to see how it all goes:  how quickly and carefully I can recover, and how imaginative I can be at finding things to take the place of running.

Easter Sunday

We have not been to an Easter Sunrise service in a long time, but we remember having attended a beautiful one many years ago at Kitty Hawk Pier, which I particularly recall featured a trumpet playing "Christ the Lord Is Risen Today" as the sun appeared over the ocean.  So this morning we decided to worship in this way again, and without having coffee or breakfast, we awoke at 5:30 a.m. and were on the road earlier than we had been last Sunday when we were running our half marathon.  We joined a large group of early-morning worshipers assembling at the Pier.

 
The interfaith service this year was supposed to feature a retired Episcopalian Rector, and I had even found him on the internet and watched him preach.  But the information we had must have been from last year.  We crowded into the building, standing in the rear, as an earnest young lay preacher introduced a male choir accompanied by a guitar singing "Old Rugged Cross," and then proceeded to preach in a style to which we are not accustomed.  We looked at each other and quietly slipped out, walking out onto the pier with other worshipers who, like us, wanted to watch the sun rise and enjoy the beauty of the morning.  Behind an eerily cross-like light post, the rising sun gleamed through the clouds, symbolizing the new life and triumph of this holy day.

I felt that we had not really heard the preaching I had expected, so we decided to go to a second 8:00 a.m. service at the Duck United Methodist Church and listen to another sermon.  Although the music was beautiful, and we had the opportunity sing the beloved hymns of faith that we enjoy - "Christ the Lord is Risen Today" and "Crown Him with Many Crowns" - I again was disappointed in the preaching.  We have come to appreciate the fine sermons of Powell Osteen at the Morehead City United Methodist Church every year, which we attend regularly while we are there, and so I missed his thoughtful, beautifully-crafted messages, so sincere and likeable and yet so deep and insightful.

So that's what I did - I "attended" Church for a third time, listening to him on the internet, where all of their services are recorded.  And what a wonderful message it was for this day and time:  "By His Stripes We are Healed."

Martha had wisely reserved Easter Dinner long ago at Mako's Beach Grill, where we dined on an abundant spread of seafood (Hatteras clam chowder, crab cakes, oysters on the half-shell, shrimp and grits) and more traditional Easter fare (Virginia ham, beef tenderloin, green beans almondine).  One of the most interesting things was Colington Crab Gravy, a local delicacy we had never encountered before and a recipe we must find; it was designed to go on sweet-potato biscuits, but was delicious on the crab cakes!

And so we spent the rest of the afternoon relaxing and checking on our friends and loved ones.  A man in a wet-suit was surfing directly off our dune-top deck, and we could see the occasional shapes of dolphins, arching from the water behind him.  A dozen or so brown pelicans flew lazily over the surface of the ocean.

It was snowing yesterday in Highlands, we learned.  But here it is 60 degrees and the sun is shining yet again.  I think we will stay at few more days, just to make sure winter has been banished for good!

Our Own Little Dining Room

It is always a cautious time when resuming running again after a long race.  Although not as punishing on the body as a marathon, a half marathon is a considerable distance, and on Tuesday my first three-mile run was a slow one; I was attentive to any unusual discomfort, the little "niggles" that beset us from time to time.  But it went well, although I took many walking breaks and stopped to stretch.  On Thursday, I completed another three-mile run, and then this morning I moved up to four miles.  Everything felt good, and Martha had a good run, too.  She has a 5-K run scheduled for May 6, so her plan is to begin doing some cautious speed work in a few days; there is a track here at the Kitty Hawk Middle School that we plan to use for that training.

It was a lazy Saturday after our run; we rambled down toward Kitty Hawk and back again, stopping for lunch at the Bad Bean Grill for shrimp tacos.  That's one of the things we enjoy about Duck (as we do Atlantic Beach) - the abundance of fresh seafood, both in restaurants and from our local seafood market, Dockside 'N Duck.  They have come to know us there year after year as reliable customers!

We realized today that we have been here for two weeks and, while we have eaten lunch a few times in restaurants, we have not eaten dinner at one.  The reason is that Martha loves to cook out here, and there is no better place to eat than right here, oceanfront, in our own little private screened-in dining room, listening to the sound of the ocean.  And that is what we did tonight as Martha prepared scallops, along with sauteed onions and summer squash we picked up from a vegetable stand in Kitty Hawk, garnished with a branch of rosemary.  Delicious!

SWAG

It is becoming a habit, awaking before dawn; this morning the bedroom drapes were already bright with sunshine, but it was only 6:25 p.m.  I was  out on the dune-top just in time to see another glorious sunrise through milky haze on the horizon.  I wonder if this habit will persist when we return to our home in Clear Creek valley where the sun makes a reluctant appearance between the trees at a much more leisurely hour.

When I returned from the dune-top deck, I had a visitor.  There is a whole colony of black cats here, and last year, after feeding part of a steamed shrimp to one of them, a contingent of five arrived promptly, called together by means of some telepathic form of communication.  I realized he had been watching me do my Tai Chi, which perhaps bore some resemblance to those stretches a cat makes whenever it wakes up from a nap.  I could almost see the little wheels turning in that walnut-sized brain.  "Is this the same man who fed me last year?"

We realized yesterday, four days after the race, that we did not have a good post-race photo.  We could have had one, but I was unwilling to (1) carry my cell phone with me for 13.1 miles (although almost everyone else in the race seemed to have no problem doing so), or (2) pay an exorbitant $27.00 for one of the many photos taken along the course.  So Martha suggested I take one on our deck using the seldom-used "selfie stick" we keep in the car.

Nice hats, shirts, and medals!  But both of us were a little disappointed at the writing on the back which, instead of the inspirational "You Can You Will" on our Myrtle Beach shirts, said "Follow my booty to the finish line!"  We call the hats, shirts, and miscellaneous things given away at the Expo (a temporary tattoo that did not work, a little bottle of sunblock that would not come out of the bottle) "SWAG," which I read somewhere means "Stuff We All Get."

The wind had picked up and there was a scattering of raindrops, so instead of walking as originally planned, we drove the half-mile to the Waterfront Shops and had lunch at Coastal Cantina, which has open seating at picnic tables on the deck.  We found a little nook in the courtyard that was out of the wind and rain and enjoyed fish tacos and a taco salad with shrimp, and then lingered to watch people and strollers and dogs go by; this place has really filled up for Easter weekend.

Then we drove down the road to Kellogg's, a hardware store that also contains The Cottage Shop.  We have bought much of our Fiesta Ware here and it is always fun to explore.

What a glorious day it has been!  Storms are moving in tonight, the wind is gusting to nearly 30 mph from time to time, dark clouds suddenly break open from time to time and allow the sun to shine.  We love days like this here at the beach!  The sound of the ocean, like an engine continually running, is behind me as I write in this blog, the breeze that whips inside the screened-in porch, the occasional patter of raindrops on the roof - an abundance of SWAG!

Manteo and Hatteras

Yesterday, I found myself waking up earlier than usual.  It is difficult sleeping late under any circumstances when the rising sun is so prominent in our east-facing windows, but the sky was so completely cloudless that it began brightening the sky a half-hour before sunrise.  I did my Tai Chi on the dune-top deck, had breakfast, brewed coffee, and still made it outside to watch the first sudden bright beam of light appearing over the horizon a little after 6:30 a.m.  Neighbors had walked out on their decks and on the nearby public walkway, too, all of us connected in some beautiful way in this early-morning camaraderie.

The sky remained cloudless all day, and we stayed home all afternoon; although I applied sunblock liberally, I absorbed far more sun than was good for me.  So today we decided to take the day off and drive to Manteo and to Hatteras, even though it was yet another beautiful day.  We usually seem to end up in Manteo on cloudy or blustery days, for some reason.

As we passed Whalebone Junction and headed west across the Washington Baum Bridge, Martha pointed out two nesting ospreys out in the sound.

This road is very familiar to us from running the OBX Marathon and Half Marathon, which takes place in November and features the second half of the Flying Pirate course, crossing the tall bridge at Mile 20 (Heartbreak Hill in its own way) and finishing in Manteo.

We love wondering around Manteo, and Martha even found one of her favorite shops open, "My Secret Garden."  We had lunch at Avenue Grill, which has somehow never been on our radar before.  It was delicious, and we enjoyed the view across Shallowbag Bay to Roanoke Island Festival Park and Elizabeth II, a replica of one of the merchant vessels from the Roanoke Voyage of 1585.  It always amazes me that men and women were courageous enough to cross the Atlantic Ocean on such a small ship!

We returned to Whalebone Junction and then headed south on Highway 12 to Hatteras, across the newly-completed Oregon Inlet bridge, to the Bodie Island Light Station.  Both the Bodie Island and Hatteras lighthouses were not yet open to the public, though, so we weren't able to climb them. 

Farther south, we stopped at the Chicamacomico Lifesaving Station, a frequent destination for us.  The building, shingled in the Nags Head style, is a beautiful one which I never fail to photograph.

The tiny gift shop inside carries Lifesaving Station-type gifts, but also, unusually, a kind a black tea called "Lifeboat Tea" imported from England, that we cannot obtain anywhere else. 

From there we continued south on the long, straight, two-lane Highway 12, the Atlantic Ocean visible from time to time on our left on the other side of a stretch of tall sand dunes, which seemed to want to take over the road, and Croatan Sound on our right.  Finally we reached the famous Cape Hatteras Lighthouse, which was moved to its current site in an amazing feat of engineering in 1999.

The old site is still there, the Atlantic Ocean steadily encroaching on its base, and the path where they moved the 193-foot structure on steel rails 2900 feet.

Next to the ferry to Ocracoke Island (which we decided not to visit on this trip) was the Graveyard of the Atlantic Museum, which we had never had time to visit before.  It was an interesting museum, but not as nice as its sister maritime museum in Beaufort.

Martha saw these "Pirate Rules" in the museum, which we found amusing.  No mention is made, however, of what to do in the event of spotting a Flying Pirate.

Across the street, a large group was parasailing in the Atlantic Ocean; the breeze was a continuous one so conditions were perfect, although they were all wearing wet-suits.

Finally, we started back north on Highway 12 to return to Duck after our long trip.  Just north of Hatteras this strange, slightly scary house stands along the road.

Perhaps it is a Flying Pirate!

Boston Marathon

One day after our half marathon here at the Outer Banks, thousands of the best runners in the world were congregating in Hopkinton, Massachusetts, to run the iconic Boston Marathon.  Just barely qualifying in 2009 - by 2 minutes and 38 seconds - I ran Boston in 2011, the crowning achievement in my humble running career, and a race I will never forget.  Martha bought me a book for Christmas in 2009 that described the course in minute detail, from the hills of Newton (including the infamous Heartbreak Hill) to the famous Citgo sign to the final turn down Boylan Street, so I knew what to expect.  I was in one of the last waves of runners, but I remember walking to my starting corral, looking back, looking forward, and seeing nothing but runners, thousands and thousands of them, a rainbow of hats and shirts.  "I can't believe I'm here!" I said out loud, and those around me laughed in agreement.

It took awhile to find the proper channel on the TV in the living room, which has not been turned on since we arrived other than to listen to the gentle music on a station called "Soundscapes," the screen covered with a towel.  I learned that Tiger Woods won the Masters, and I was happy for him, but it may have been easier to find that channel on TV.  Who wants to watch 50,000 runners, after all, jostling shoulder to shoulder, often facing frightening weather conditions like that cold rain last year?  But it is our sport, and so I rooted for Desi Linden, last year's winner, and Jordan Hasay with her long blond ponytail, just as much as golf fans in sports bars around the nation rooted for Tiger.

It was an exciting race, too!  The Ethiopian, Worknesh Degefa, only 5'-1", went to the lead almost immediately in the women's race, gained a three-minute lead, and stayed there, as the chase pack wondered if  she would fall apart in the Newton Hills.  It was only her third marathon and she had not previewed the course.  Edna Kiplagot, alone among the women, realized she was not going to fall apart at all and put on a heroic effort to catch her, but there was not enough time left until the finish.  We were happy to see Americans Jordan Hasay come in third and Desi Linden fifth; they will both earn points toward making the U. S. Olympics team.

The men's race was equally exciting, as three Africans gradually pulled ahead of the rest of the runners in the last miles, running almost shoulder to shoulder, and finally nearly sprinting to the finish line at an unheard-of pace.  The winner was the Kenyan Lawrence Cherono, an experienced distance runner, who managed to dig deep and find that extra gear in the final seconds.

It is humbling to watch athletes like these who are at the top of their game.  What is more amazing is that they were running about twice as fast as we were running on Sunday.  Cherono's time was 2:07:57; I was only able to run faster than four hours twice over the course of my 20 marathons.

Our friend Anthony was running, too - his ninth Boston Marathon.  He is an amazing athlete, but he ran into trouble, his hamstrings cramping in Mile 17, but limped painfully to the finish, determined to claim that medal.  A nurse in the medical tent at Mile 22 looked concerned, he said.  But, as he reported on Facebook, "Before she could decide to pull me out of the race - and she looked like she was about to - I took off limping back into the street.  I really wanted that finishers medal!  And I got it!  That last 4 miles weren't easy, but running marathons (or limping for big parts of them) isn't supposed to be.  After all, that's kind of the whole idea."

That is the whole idea, and we are just as proud of Anthony as we are of Degefa and Cherono, and the unknown runner we watched on TV, almost collapsing, shuffling along in agony, as two runners propelled him forward with his arms over their shoulders toward that finish line and that medal.

Flying Pirate Half Marathon

At one point this morning, after awaking to the alarm at 3:30 a.m., we looked at each other and wondered why we continue to run these early-morning races.  That Paul Simon song was going through my head as we drove in the dark to the Walmart parking lot three hours later:

Still crazy after all these years

Oh still crazy

Still crazy

Still crazy after all these years

We were lucky enough to catch the shuttle to the starting line, sparing us a half-mile walk from the parking lot.  And then I remembered why we did these things!  900 runners were gathering together there, rock and roll was playing, and there was palpable excitement in the air.  Many of the runners were dressed in pirate costumes, and a woman brandishing a cutlass greeted us enthusiastically as we approached.  After a very beautiful singing of the National Anthem, hats doffed all around, we lined up and began running down Woods Road.

It is hard to describe all of the sights and sounds one encounters in a long race like a half or full marathon, the complete strangers one starts talking to - "Where are you from?  Is this your first time here?"  The miles reeled by quickly, the sunrise visible on our left, and then the long stretch down Bay Drive looking across Kitty Hawk Bay, the water shimmering beautifully this time of morning and a light breeze in our faces.  I kept passing, and then being passed by, a young woman playing terrible music, and my goal for a mile or two was to leave her behind; she caught up again in mile ten, but I sped up again, determined not to have to listen to anything but the easy conversation of other runners, the mockingbirds high in the trees, and spectators ringing bells and calling out words of encouragement.

We both drank water and Gatorade at every water station as the temperature continued to climb.  The course is a beautiful one and includes two pedestrian greenway trails, and at Mile 8, it circles around the imposing Wright Memorial at Kill Devil Hills.

At mile ten, the course enters the Nags Head Woods Preserve (see previous post), and as expected it slowed us both down.  Smooth, sandy stretches suddenly became rough gravel that threatened to turn ankles, and at one point I felt a sharp pain in my knew.  Martha had some trouble here, too, but we had driven the course yesterday and knew what to expect.  The final climb up over the sand dunes forced everybody to walk, at least at the first hill.  The Mile 13 banner was a welcome sight!

As I said in my newsletter, "Martha finished in 2:28:38, sixth place in her age group (out of 24 women).  I was happy with 3:06:27, fifth out of nine runners) – especially as this was my 20^th half-marathon – a nice round number!"  As I crossed the finish line, a fine, silvery, refreshing rain began to fall, and we hurried to take shelter as I ate a banana and sipped on some water.  And then the unexpected little shower stopped, as suddenly as it began.

On the bus we sat next to two 76-year-old runners who were an inspiration, Bill and Sally Squier, from Raleigh.   While I had run five miles last weekend, they had both run 50 miles - the Umstead Endurance Run.  And Bill had then run a 5-K yesterday.  It turned out that they knew our friend Dave Cockman, the ultra runner who ran from Murphy to Manteo several years ago and whom we had seen at the Myrtle Beach Half Marathon.

We returned to the house, showered and changed, and headed south to find some lunch to eat, since it was still so early.  We settled on Goombays, a place we had recently read about but never tried, and it was worth the drive.

And now we are back at Ocean Watch again on this Palm Sunday, listening to the sound of the surf, that wonderful feeling of accomplishment settling in.  

 

Race Expo and Course Preview

This race will be No. 186 for me and No. 85 for Martha.  We both ran it in 2010, when my time was 1:55:36, and realistically I know I will be an hour slower this year (although my goal is still to break three hours).  It will be my 20th half marathon, and my fifth Flying Pirate.  Martha brought her race book with her, and I have all of my records on my computer; it is both helpful and nostalgic to look back on previous races here on this same course.  I did not remember which year it rained nearly the whole race (no post-race party, no band, just huge relief at finally being able to get dry and climb in the car, which we had the foresight to park at the finish area).  Martha told me it was 2012, but I was not sure until I found a photo of us huddling in the car afterward.

Conditions should be better this year.  It is raining on Saturday evening as I write this, nothing very heavy, but hopefully enough to settle some of the pollen which will be higher in Kitty Hawk Woods than here directly on the ocean.  But the forecast calls for it to clear overnight, only 20% chance of rain in the morning, with temperatures in the low 60s, which is a little warmer than we have become acclimated to since our arrival.

We stopped at the race expo, which took place at the First Flight Middle School, and both began to get a little excited as we picked up our race bibs, shirts, and other SWAG (which included skull-and-crossbone temporary tattoos that we may or may not apply).

All went smoothly, and we had a picnic lunch nearby - sandwiches and pasta salad - before previewing the course, something we always try to do before a race.  Even though we have run this same course before, it is helpful to remember where the water stops are located, the mile markers, and the terrain.  The big challenge in this race, and the reason it will not be a fast one for me, is the last three miles in Nags Head Woods on an unpaved road.

The road is mostly smooth gravel, but it also has some sandy patches, potholes, and a little mud (which could be worse after tonight's rain).  At mile 12.5, the road ends, and runners face the most difficult part of the course, a single track path climbing steeply over sand dunes, up and down, with plenty of tree roots to trip an exhausted runner.  We will both very likely walk some of these hills!

Finally, after half a mile, the path makes a sharp turn, climbs to the top of a little rise, and there is mile 13 on the side of the path.  The last tenth of a mile is a wild, steep descent down to the finish line, which will be harder on my knees than the preceding thirteen miles, I suspect.

But we are ready for this race, as prepared as we can be.  Tonight we dined here in the house on simple pasta with marinara sauce and a little bread, and all day we have both been sipping water and Gatorade.  The alarm will be set for 3:30 a.m. because we will need to arrive in the Walmart parking lot before 6:30 a.m. to walk the half-mile to the starting line.  We even have flannel shirts which Martha found at a thrift store and washed, to keep us comfortable before the race starts.

Now the rain has stopped and fog has begun to roll in from the ocean, and it seems as if the crash and thunder of the surf is louder than ever.

Edenton Pilgrimage

Today we drove to Edenton to enjoy the Pilgrimage of Homes, sponsored by the Edenton Woman's Club.  Every other year, the Women's Club, in cooperation with other civic organizations, sponsors either "Easels in the Gardens" (which we attended last year) or this tour of some of the many historic homes in this beautiful city - "The South's Prettiest Small Town."  It is indeed a beautiful Town, and we have enjoyed stopping here many times on our way to or from Duck, or on a separate trip to a special event as we did today.

The Pilgrimage began at the Cupola House, ca. 1758, where we have often enjoyed the gardens outside but never seen the interior of the Jacobian-style house and its octagonal cupola.  We had a picnic lunch under the arbor in the garden; there are some good restaurants here, particularly 309 Bistro right across the street, but we knew Edenton would be filled with visitors because of this event and we wanted to eat plain home-made tuna sandwiches and pasta salad two days before a half marathon.

Everything was in bloom in this garden - dogwoods, irises - just beautiful!  Last year I remember listening to a quartet of musicians playing baroque music in this same arbor.

The house is a landmark in Edenton and very well known; a group of local citizens formed the Cupola House Association to purchase and protect the old house, and that was the beginning of much of the passionate interest in historic preservation here.

Docents dressed in period clothing met us at the door of all of these homes, and one of them led us inside the Cupola House, once occupied by Dr. Samuel Dickinson.  We did not linger long at the display of his surgical instruments, including the amputation saw.  Up the narrow staircase we walked, this tall Roadrunner ducking low.  In the upstairs bedroom was a crib by the mother's bed and an adjoining children's room where three children were raised.  One of the little girls died.  "And of course," our docent said, "There is a ghost here."  Apparently the little bed is made up every night and the sheets pulled tight, but in the morning the corner is wrinkled as if someone has tried to climb back in bed.

Across the street was Edenton Bay Trading Company, and we relaxed for a while in the walled-in brick courtyard out back before beginning the Pilgrimage in earnest.

It was a short stroll down East King Street to the Howard B. Chappell House, ca. 1911, with its broad steps.   We wandered through large, high-ceilinged rooms, nice and cool in the summer but, one of the docents told us, cold in the winter - thus the fireplace in every room.

Next down the street was the beautiful Haywood C. Privott House, ca. 1900, three-stories in a Queen Anne Style with towers, domed front porches, and arched doorways.  Privott built the house using some of the 20,000 bricks left over from the Edenton Cotton Mill (at the end of the street).

I asked the owner if I could play the piano in the parlor, and she readily agreed, so I played a few bars of the Prelude in C from the Well-Tempered Clavier.

In one of the back rooms, we saw this sign over the mantle, under a painting of the family's plantation miles away from here where the motto was also featured:  "We ain't mad with nobody."  And so I hope that this pacifism caused it to be spared from destruction by the Union Army during the Civil War. 

These transom windows all opened and could be finely adjusted, and I examined with interest and great respect the clever handle that opened it and kept it in place (on the left).

And this lovely tiled planter was just outside the back door, whether original or a later addition nobody seemed to know.  These homes have been renovated many times between the 18th and 19th centuries and today.

We saw these unusual white wisteria next door, and I remembered that I had written a poem about them last year.

And the white Wisteria, floribunda Alba,

Which grows in Monet's garden in Giverny,

Spills over the sidewalk onto East King Street

As it does over that luminous Japanese bridge.

Farther on King Street we toured the James Coffield House, ca. 1764, filled with antique furniture, and this wonderful little kitchen with copper pans hanging on a chain from the ceiling.

The Hollowell House, ca. 1897, had been moved from another location in the 1970s.  Family antiques abounded inside.

This huge Japanese mural took up an entire wall; similar murals, the owner said, are in a house owned by a brother in the family, and in Kyoto, Japan.

At the end of King Street was the Cotton Mill, built in 1898 to manufacture "ring-spun thread" (according to our brochure).  The Mill was converted into condominiums in 1995 in a tasteful layout of two-story units using the original wooden floors. 

One of the original buildings has been preserved as the Edenton Cotton Mill Museum of History, complete with a scale model of the mill and its surrounding area.

Walking back down Queen Street, we noticed many homes in identical architectural form, some of the 70 homes constructed here from 1899 to 1923 - a community of Mill Workers, thriving here under the spreading live oak trees and crepe myrtles.

On 304 Queen Street stands one of these homes, the Lane House, which historians believe is the oldest house in North Carolina, ca. 1718.  Linda and Steve Lane were renovating the property when a local contractor noticed several unusual features in the buildings; the inside of the house was stripped to its bare beams and columns, shag carpet was removed, and the strong original bones of a 1718 house was revealed.

The next house on Queen Street was a little bungalow that dates to 1790, the Wheeler House.  A simple structure, it has been lovingly restored by many owners.  "Each Edenton family who has lived here has added their own style and choices," the brochure says.

Our docent drew attention to the picture-holders in most of the rooms which were attached to the wall because pictures cannot easily be hung on a plaster wall.

Four different kinds of nails had been discovered in the house, and were lovingly displayed in one of the rooms.

We had completed a large circle back to Broad Street and St. Paul's Episcopal Church, ca. 1736.  It is the second oldest church in North Carolina.  A remarkable event occured here in 1947; serious issues were discovered in the structure, and all of the interior furnishings and details were removed to execute the repairs.  A fire in 1940 destroyed all but the brick walls, but the furnishings had been stored in a safe place and were re-installed to its early 1800s state.

After St. Paul's, Martha said she wanted to explore some of the shops on Broad Street in downtown Edenton.  So I continued on to the few houses on the west side of Town.  The Bond McMullen House, ca. 1860, was next down Church Street; the original entrance had been changed to the adjoining street and the big columns set out front in the Colonial Revival design popular at the time.  These houses have all been restored and renovated many times.

One of the owners had traveled extensively and collected some exquisite Japanese prints, which I photographed.  "Do you own an old home?" the docent asked.  "No, we live in a home we designed and built in 1983, but we have filled it with Oriental art like this," I said.

The house on the corner of Granville and King was not on the tour - there was a Sotheby's sign on the lawn - but I lingered beneath the arbor of wisteria for a little while.

Across the Street, the imposing Pembroke Hall, ca. 1850, stands on a bluff overlooking Edenton Bay.  The grounds are extensive, with huge lawns extending away from the circular drive and its beautiful fountain.

The rooms inside were high-ceilinged and furnished with antiques.  I was reminded of the setting of a Jane Austen novel.

Bear with me, readers of this Blog!  We have nearly completed our tour, returning again to Broad Street and downtown Edenton.  But before that, we must stop at Beverly Hall (another name from a Jane Austen novel, perhaps?), originally a private bank, with the vault still displayed off the front room.  Notice the bars on walls, ceilings, and even floor.

 

In the hallway off the kitchen, two huge Russian wolf hounds snoozed on the floor, as big as Shetland ponies and just as gentle.

 

When I went out the back door and down the steps, I remembered that the extensive gardens there were featured in the "Easels in the Gardens" tour last year.  This cupid was enclosed in a boxwood circle, to prevent its escape I thought.

 

My feet were, I must admit, just a little tired after all of this walking.  But it was the perfect thing to do two days before a half marathon - slow, easy walking, at the end of this taper period before the race.  I was somehow reminded of that long, convoluted first sentence of Finnegan's Wake:  "A lone a last a loved a long the riverrun, past Eve and Adam’s, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs."  I had found myself back on the corner of Broad Street and Water Street by a commodius vicus of recirculation, as it were, and my phone rang at that very instant; it was Martha, and we agreed to end our Pilgrimage together in the same place we had begun, in the little brick courtyard behind Edenton Bay Trading Company, before driving back to Duck.  We sat down and talked about the day, this beautiful creature behind me - angel? nymph? - gazing up at the bright blue sky with high clouds scudding past.