Signs and Miracles

Yesterday, while Martha was waiting for me to finish my three-mile walk, she cut through a little path through the woods next to Our Lady of the Mountains Catholic Church to the Hudson Library to pick up a book she had ordered.  It was there that she was surprised to find this little sign on a tree, in the middle of the woods.

This is what the sign says:

In 1878, a hardy traveler named Charles Napoleon Robitaille fell through the ice in frigid water in remote Quebec.  He prayed to Mary for help & vowed to erect a great statue in her honor if he survived.  Charles Napoleon Robitaille was rescued & in 1881 had the beautiful Madonna statue carved by a local wood carver.  He had it erected high upon Cape Trinity in the Saguenay Fjord of Quebec.  The statue weights over 3 tons & is 35’ tall.  It stands high on the majestic cliffs of Saguenay Fjord as an inspiration to all who view it.  

A little search on the internet revealed that the story is indeed true and the statue is a well-known landmark to visitors to the Saguenay River. 

I thought I knew Highlands well, but I have never noticed this before, nor known about the statue.  But it is a beautiful story and a beautiful statue, and so I am posting it on this Sabbath day.

Getting Well Soon

I received some "Get Well" cards last week, notably from my thoughtful wife and her thoughtful mother, and surprisingly from the surgical team at Angel Medical Center - Michelle, Stephanie, Susan, Kristy, Brian, Crystal, and Lauren.  Stephanie even drew a little smiley face - "Hope your recovery is going well."  It prompted me to write the latest post on the kitchen blackboard on which we alternate writing things throughout the year.

And I am getting well soon, day by day.  It has only been 12 days since the surgery, and already I am walking three miles, and at a faster average pace each day.  And yes, of course I am tracking my pace per mile on my GPS watch. 

All week I had been looking forward to showing up at the Park at 9:00 this morning to meet the running group, some of whom I had seen individually since my surgery but not all together.  It was so good to see everybody, to catch up on things, before everyone took off and left me.  But our friend Don was kind enough to walk with me for a quarter of a mile before he, too, disappeared around the corner ahead.  

I believe that walking as much as I can will make running easier when my doctor allows me to run again.  But there are other benefits of a more relaxed pace, too.  I stopped to listen to a bird chirping away in a maple tree near the school.  I stopped to smell some actual roses, beckoned by their sweet perfume.  And I had a long chat with Christine, who was back to running again after a layoff and was excited about her upcoming 10-K in hilly Asheville.  Had I been running, I would not have stopped for any of these reasons. 

Randy, one of our fastest runners, was just finishing up two miles when I reached the one-mile mark,  "That looks like a much better pace!" he said.  "It has its benefits, but I really miss running," I replied.  And I do.  But I'm getting well soon.

Dauntlessly Walking

Runners are compulsive about measuring distances, I noted in a recent post.  It is satisfying to watch mileage increase day by day in a running log as we begin training for a big event, perhaps a marathon or half marathon.  As a rule, I don't add my walking mileage to my running log, but I am still tracking it meticulously on my GPS watch, mile by mile.

Friday and Saturday I walked a mile, and Sunday morning I increased that distance to two miles.  Today, one week after surgery, I felt good enough to take over some of the errands that Martha had been doing - taking the trash and recyclables to the landfill, going to the post office and the bank, going to the grocery store - and then I parked at Founders Park and started out walking on the same route on which I usually run.  I was so happy to see my friend Fred just finishing up his run, and we stood on the sidewalk and visited for some time.  Eighty years old, Fred has been through a lot of injuries, including placement of a stent in one of his arteries and hamstring injuries; he said he was now able to run 10-minute miles again.  He could well sympathize with someone starting from scratch again.  We chatted not only about the race he had run on Saturday, but also the benefits of running intervals, how some of our friends are doing, the British mystery books in which we share an interest, and the big trip Martha and I are planning for our 40th anniversary this summer.  While we were talking, Martha arrived at the park and started out on her four-mile run.

"I'll be glad when I'm running again so we can have a good long talk!" I told Fred, and I realized as I began my slow way around our running route how much I missed visiting with my running friends.  Envious of Martha's four-mile run on such a fine morning as this, I thought I might be able to complete three miles, but by the time I had reached that long sunny stretch of road in front of the school, I knew that I was not quite ready for that.  As Wallace Stevens wrote in a poem taken completely out of context, "It was not yet the hour to be dauntlessly leaping."  But I am dauntlessly walking.

Our big trip is something we have been planning for quite a while, a 23-day tour of the United Kingdom, which will begin in London and include Scotland, Wales, and Ireland.  We have only been overseas once before, in 2003, on a six-day trip to London and environs.  But this will be far more extensive than that, and we are quite excited!

We do not know if this trip will allow any time for running, although we will be staying two nights in four or five cities.  During our trip across the United States in our Mini Cooper in 2016, after all, I was able to run five times - Green Bay, Napa Valley, along the Pacific Coast Highway in San Simeon, along the crest of the Grand Canyon, and in Oklahoma City - and I will remember forever running in these five spectacular locations.  Would it be too much to hope for that we might be able to run along the White Cliffs of Dover?  Or perhaps get in a few laps around Stonehenge?   We shall see.

Runway Runaway

My convalescence following hernia surgery is going well.  Yesterday, I transitioned from Floorwalker to Roadwalker, venturing down our road for a solid one mile.  It felt good to be moving again, even if only for a single mile, but I found much to my surprise that I was tired afterward.  This morning I walked another mile, this time on an airport runway where Martha had signed up to run a race.

The race was the "Runway Runaway 5-K" (Race Directors are fond of alliteration - note all the Turkey Trots and Jingle Bell Jogs), and it took place on the runway of a private airport called Heaven's Landing just outside Clayton, GA.  It was a cool morning and the mist was still drifting upward out of the nearby valley on what turned out to be a warm morning.

We did not know what to expect for a race like this.  It was being held on Armed Forces Day to raise funds for a local charity.  Although it was a low-key event, we were surprised by the good turnout.  One thing it was not was flat, which we had sort of expected for a runway.  Runners lined up in the middle of the runway and headed uphill, then turned up another hill onto a road that paralleled the runway, then ran one-and-a-half miles downhill before turning and running up a long, gradual incline to the finish.  There was not a speck of shade (which we had also sort of expected).

“This is an active airport,” the Race Director announced at the start, “and although there are no scheduled flights right now, it is possible that somebody in trouble might want to land.  So if you hear car horns honking, get off the runway!” 

And then the runners took off, as it were, and I was left alone with the handful of family members and race officials and non-running spectators waiting at the finish line.  I used this time to walk my mile on the runway, and while I was walking I thought I heard an airplane droning high overhead in the bright blue sky.  I looked around nervously but could see nothing.  It didn't take long for the first runners to appear up the runway (finishing in 20 minutes or so), the rest of the field stretched out far behind them in the hot sun.  Martha appeared then in the distance, looking strong and determined - she had her "race face" on!

The effort was good enough for first place in her age group (out of six women), and she also finished in 14th place overall.  Martha has always had a very impressive finish-line kick.

We stood around waiting for several walkers to finish, some of them in well over an hour.  I am never impatient or condescending to these last runners, some of them overweight or recovering from injury, or perhaps running their first race; one of them was a cute little six-year-old who was very serious about filling out her little finish-card.  Everybody else was waiting for the awards, and I seemed to be the only one giving some of them a hearty round of applause, saying "Good job!" and "Strong finish!"  It is easy for the slim 20-minute runners to dauntlessly cross the finish line; these folks had to struggle.

Martha struggled, too, but she has the great advantage of being fit, which makes struggling a little easier and more forgiving.  I believe she may be in the best condition of  her running career, though of course her race times are slowing (as are mine) as she keeps advancing into new age groups.  We like to say that runners never grow old; they just rise into new age groups.

While we were waiting, the Race Director announced that a airplane would be taking off, and sure enough as the last one or two walkers moved off the runway, a small airplane taxied up the runway and rose into the air, much smaller than I had expected, dipped its wings from side to side.  In a little while, it turned around and buzzed us all again.  What a great morning to be up in the sky, I thought, as I watched the airplane disappear, and a hawk glide above the trees off to the side, rising gently on thermals.

First place!  The thrill never grows old, whether it is an impressive or unusual trophy or a simple medal hung around the neck, whether there is loud applause or a faint scattering.  It is a recognition of another accomplishment, and it simply makes a runners day.

And soon I hope to be back out here myself once again, enjoying the fruits of fitness.  Maybe even on this runway next year. 

 I’ve never had my picture taken standing next to a windsock before.

Highlands Floorwalker

It is said that Lao Tzu first wrote the famous proverb, contained in Chapter 64 of the Tao Te Ching, "The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step."  It is an especially good saying to keep in mind as I begin my steep climb up the mountain of fitness again with just a single step, and then another step, and another.  I have a long way to go.

I had not anticipated how uncomfortable hernia surgery would be during the first day or two.  A little blood had pooled up under the bandage over my umbilicus, and we drove back to Franklin on Tuesday to have it replaced; Dr. Robles said everything looked fine.  But later in the day, as a large, sensitive bruise began to spread around the area, I realized that I would not be walking the long distances that I had planned this week.  (Runners are famously optimistic.)  But by Wednesday morning, I had improved enough to begin walking around the house.  I even picked up a pair of three-pound weights that Martha uses in one of her exercise programs and did some curls as I walked, round and round the house, curling my arms. 

Today I became curious about the distance I was walking.  (Runners are also famously compulsive about measuring distances.)  So I woke up my GPS watch from its long slumber and asked it if it would like to go for a walk.  Round and round again, out of the kitchen and around the dining room table at a dizzying pace, across the living room, into the sun room to the bay window, back down the corridor past all those photos of my marathon finishes which Martha urged me to display several years ago (and which I sometimes refer to as "The Wall of Dubious Behavior"), and back into the kitchen again:  64 steps.  I was surprised that my GPS watch worked just as well indoors as outdoors; it told me that ten laps equaled 0.12 miles. 

I have a long way to go.  But at least I'm going.

Hernia Surgery

Exactly one week ago today, we were driving down to Franklin on the "Gorge" Road where Martha ran the 5000-meters in the the Senior Games.  (It is an eye-opener, by the way, to see the long stream of traffic that commutes to Highlands every morning, consisting of the many contractors, housekeepers, yard maintenance men, and service industry employees who cannot afford to live in Highlands.)  But this morning we left a little later since I had been told to be at Angel Medical Center at 11:00 a.m.

After we had registered and they had fastened that white plastic bracelet firmly on my arm, I was led into our room for surgical prep.  "I have never had general anesthesia before," I remember saying, "So this will be an adventure!"  I tried to keep that positive, almost jovial attitude throughout this long day.  These nurses are exceptional people, and they must deal with all kinds of patients, some of them no doubt ill-tempered, unhealthy, perhaps terrified about the entire experience.  Michelle and Stephanie couldn't have been nicer as they inserted the IV, hooked me up, and stripped me of clothing and dignity, as expected.  (Really, why does that gown fasten behind you?)  Michelle had worked at Highlands-Cashiers Hospital and we had many friends in common.  Stephanie turned out to be a runner with four marathons behind her and many running friends in common.  Dr. Blue, my anesthesiologist, introduced himself and explained to me all of the things they were going to do, and asked me if I had any anxiety; some patients, he said, changed their minds at the last minute and were grabbing wildly at the door as they were being wheeled out of the room.  I told him no, not especially, at least until after he had explained it all, including the tube they intended to insert down my throat.  I felt some pride when he pronounced my airway excellent and expressed surprise that a 70-year-old man was not taking any medications except for vitamin supplements, all the while thinking that with a name like Doctor Blue he was surely missing his calling as a blues musician, or a disc jockey at the very least.

Dr. Robles came in, too, my surgeon, in whom I had the utmost confidence.  As they wheeled me into the operating room,I was told that I was in  good hands, and I realized that I really was, in the best hands possible:  not only the hands of the Great Healer who carries us all in his hands, but that kind and patient hand of Martha (which I held until wheeled from the room), and the hands of the small but dedicated group of men and women who had said they would be praying for me, and the skilled hands of these doctors and nurses who took me into their care.  "What did men who developed hernias do 100 years ago, before modern medicine?" I wondered.  Martha reminded me that life expectancy was not very long back then.  As the effects of the drugs dripping slowly through my veins took effect, and the bright lights of the operating room appeared, I was thinking of this "cloud of witnesses" supporting me, supporting all of us. To believe you can go through life alone, not caring for anybody else, is easy (as one of our Pastors once memorably told us at a funeral).  But such a person is a fool.

The rest was all a blur, as readers of this blog who have themselves undergone the "adventure" of surgery and general anesthesiology can attest, and I awoke after an hour or two of completely dreamless sleep to blurred shapes and friendly voices, welcoming me back to the world, and examined with interest that tiny bandages where the laparoscopy had occurred, through which the supporting mesh had been mysteriously inserted, unfurled (in my imagination) like a scroll, and sutured to the wall of my abdomen.

And then finally there was the face of Martha greeting me in my room again, my faithful partner, taking charge, driving me to the drug store and then back up that green, green Gorge to Highlands and home.  And I slept well last night, partly due to that little oblong white pill from the drug store, but partly from the knowledge that now my convalescence can begin.  I like that word better than "recovery" or "recuperation."  It is borrowed from the Middle French, my etymological dictionary tells me, and in turn from the Late Latin convalēscentia (“regaining of health”), and from the earlier Latin convalēscō (“regain health, grow strong”).  And so I shall.  Beginning with writing this post.

Macon County Senior Games

It is always a good thing for runners to experience new adventures - perhaps a new distance, a new location, unusual terrain.  Today Martha had many new experiences all at once as she completed the 5000-meter event in the Macon County Senior Games.

⧫ It was the first time she has ever run an event in the Senior Games, which are open to anyone in Macon County over the age of 50 and include many tracks events.  (I am not certain why this is off the radar for most of the runners we know, who are willing to drive long distances to run 5-K road races).

⧫ Although she has run many 5000-meter (5-K) road races, this was the first race she has ever competed on a track.

⧫ Although the field was not a large one, this is the first time she has ever come in first place in a race - not just in her age group, but overall.

This latter experience is something I have never experienced nor am likely to at my age.

I have run on a track before; I have run on this track before, although not in a race.  When I was working for the Town I would sometimes be called upon to attend a meeting in Franklin wearing one hat or another, and if the time worked out I would sometimes manage to wear my running shorts under my pants, trade in my shirt and tie for a singlet, and complete a hard track workout before heading back up the mountain.  One-quarter mile on the inside lap makes for endless variations in training!

The field was small - one woman was taking walking breaks and Martha lapped her several times - but this is actually a disadvantage in a track event.  Roger Bannister famously broke the four-minute mile on May 6, 1954 - coincidentally, the same day as today! - but he did it with the assistance of two pace-setters.  It is very difficult for a runner to maintain a hard pace running all by herself, as Martha often was today.

Another obstacle was the condition of the track, which our time-keeper told us had recently been resurfaced.  The resurfacing job had been a botch, however, and their were patches and bumps everywhere, which is not how a track should be.  So she often had to run in the second lane, losing time in the curves.

And finally, although she said she felt strong, that tough Flying Pirate Half Marathon was only three weeks ago.  Still, her finish time was 28:56, good enough for first place even if the field had been much larger.  As I stood proudly at the finish line with iPhone-stopwatch in hand, calling out splits to her at every lap (which she later told me was very helpful), I felt a pang of regret that I was not out there with her on this perfect morning, cool and overcast.  Next year, I tell myself.

Where do we go from here?  As a result of placing first in her age group, she advances to the State finals in September in Raleigh.  That  would be an exciting event to attend!  And another new experience.

Things I Learned While I was NOT Running

These past two weeks have been a difficult period of time for me.  I have not been able to do any real work, other than puttering around the house, so I have watched in frustration as Martha has done the heavy lifting while cleaning out the garden shed, hauling trash to the landfill, and even gamely turning the soil in the garden beds by hand.  I have not been able to go to the gym or walk, so exercise has been limited (gingerly) to my morning Tai Chi.  And, worst of all, I have not been able to run.  Yes, this is the longest period that I have gone without running in nearly four decades, and now I know what it is like to be NOT running.

I met on Thursday with the surgeon who will be repairing my hernia, Dr. Robles, and liked him very much.  I had hoped unrealistically that he would schedule the surgery for the following morning, but it will not be until the Monday after Mother's Day, May 13.  But at least I have a date circled on the calendar now after which, according to the doctor, I may resume walking almost the next day.   He also assured me that all the abdominal exercises I do, including planks and sit-ups every morning, has had no effect on preventing a hernia. "It's just wear and tear," he said with a slight accent. "It's like losing your hair."  That made me feel somewhat better. An injury that is not my fault is something I don't think I have ever experienced.

"I have a friend who is a marathon runner," he told me.  "I tell him, running is for dogs, not for men!"  As for the timetable for resuming this questionable activity that is the foundation of my fitness, the anchor in my life - the very subject, after all, of this blog - that will depend upon the progress I make after surgery.  I can hardly wait.

These days of limited exertion are reminding me of the many reasons why I am a runner.  First and foremost, I seem to have little or no energy these days.  Non-runners fail to understand that running energizes the body, which is designed to be in motion, rather than the opposite.  When I was working long days in my demanding career, that afternoon run at 4:30 p.m. is what kept me going through the long evening board meetings.  "Is this the way most 70-year-old men feel?" I asked last week.

Another thing I have to be careful about is what I eat.  Our friend Jim Askew, who passed away almost a year ago, once famously said when interviewed by the Asheville Citizen-Times after a race we had both run, "I run so I can eat!"  And that is very true.  The calories burned while running are almost as important as the elevated metabolism that keeps those calories cooking all day long; during training for a marathon or half-marathon, they burn away like a lump of butter on a hot griddle.  Fortunately my weight has remained constant.  Martha, too, who has a big race coming up tomorrow morning, has been disciplined about what we both are eating.

And then there is the frustration of not being able to do that hard physical work that I enjoy so much:  turning the garden, mowing the lawn, mixing mortar, building and clearing and lifting.  Martha has been a great help in this, not only in taking the initiative but in dissuading me from doing more than I should.  I am thankful that she is fit enough to be able to this work.  I had to call upon my friend Dale, who retired from his job with the Town a year ago, to mow the knee-high grass, however, which might have clogged our mower.  "Be sure and tell him you have a hernia," Martha said, "So he won't think you just don't want to do it!"  I did, and he thought that was as funny as I did.

And why is it that I have taken every opportunity to drive the Mini up to Town, preferably with the top down, and often two or three times a day this week?  Friday, I partially opened the top on the way up the Walhalla Road and watched in awe as a very big bird, owl or hawk, silently winged its way overhead, going around the same curves I was driving, 20 feet overhead.  I have been missing the out-of-doors, the sunshine and the wind in my face and the sensation of the road unwinding under my feet . . . or my wheels.

It is a beautiful time of year, though, perhaps the most beautiful other than in fall when the leaves are all on fire with color; the world is suddenly so green, every variation of green, and the flowers are blooming everywhere.  We have been able to eat dinner at our little table on the deck most nights.  So that is a great balm for me in this frustrating time of inactivity.  Martha has planted herbs and flowers all around, and we have already begun to use the shiny, pungent basil leaves in pasta sauces.

Among our friends and neighbors, we know so many who are struggling with injuries and illness far more serious than a mere hernia.  They have not only undergone multiple surgeries, but have felt that withering onslaught of radiation and chemotherapy and the fatigue it causes.  They struggle, some of them, with hopeless diagnoses.  So I am keeping this all in perspective.  "Gratitude." I wrote that single word on our little blackboard in the kitchen last week.  I am grateful for our good health and for this good life and for the lessons that this little bump in the road are teaching me.  

This morning it was Martha's turn to write on the blackboard, and this is what she wrote.