The Running of the Turkeys

Martha and I love running races on Thanksgiving Day, and I have run Turkey Trots and Gobble Wobbles in destinations as far away as Orlando and Charleston.  Last Thanksgiving, we drove to Winston-Salem and ran the Turkey Strut there with nearly 1900 other runners.  I recall that Martha had been better positioned than I had been at the start of that race; I had been stalled behind countless walkers and strollers and dogs so that I don't think I hit my stride until halfway through the race.  This year, Martha found a race in Greensboro, a city which we always seem to drive through on our way to Raleigh and the east coast but never actually visit.  And based on last year's participation the Run for the Turkeys promised to be smaller in size.

Greensboro is four-and-a-half hours from Highlands, but with some stops along the way we were not able to pick up our race packets until late in the afternoon.  It seemed to be a well-organized event, with chip timing, nice long-sleeved technical shirts with hoods, and silly turkey hats which were not aerodynamic at all - they might have functioned well for strutting or trotting or wobbling, but not for running.  As a result of the late hour, we did not have an opportunity to drive the course and had no idea what conditions we would be facing.  It was being held at Greensboro Country Park, so it might conceivably consist of unpaved trails.  It's nice to know what to expect on a course, but sometimes it's fun to be surprised, too!

This would be my 190th race, I realized from my running log, with distances varying from a single mile to a full marathon.  Martha has run about a hundred fewer than that but is catching up.  All of those races have given us a good idea how to prepare, and for most of our races it has been the same the night before:  pasta with marinara sauce, a little bread, a little salad . . . and very little sleep.  The alarm went off at 5:00 a.m. and we had our usual breakfast, then drove to the Country Park and a parking lot that was already filling up.  Temperatures were in the 40s but the wind was a factor, and we waited in the car until it was time to warm up.

Most Thanksgiving Day races are family events and this was no exception, with many young children dressed like turkeys, pumpkins, and pilgrims.  What a wonderfully appropriate event for an active family to do together on this national holiday when we pause to give thanks for our many blessings, to celebrate the bonds of family - in the words of the hymn, to gather together to ask the Lord's blessing.  Of course, we both thought about our own families growing up as children, the trips to Florida to be with my Mom and Dad while they were alive, and then the many years that we traveled to Raleigh to be with Martha's family, to see her grandmother "Mamah," and to eat a delicious and bountiful dinner prepared by her aunt, Lizette.  Only later in life when we prepared dinners similar to this did we realize how much work went into it!  Thank you, Lizette!

It turned out that there were about 1200 participants today, including 300-or-so walkers in a Fun Run that began before the timed 5-K race.  This was more than we had anticipated, but we both lined up toward the front, nervously eyeing the many strollers and dogs around us.  I have almost been tripped by both in races before, so we were both apprehensive.  "Just make sure you don't trip," I told Martha, and she told me the same.  A few minutes before the start, a young woman sang the National Anthem - for a 5-K, this race had everything! - and then we were off, on wide, paved trails, elbowed by throngs of runners but soon thinning out a little.  I came very close to tripping over a stroller, and one or two dogs seemed to be on unusually long leashes.  The stiff wind was in our faces.  And there were hills, and lots of them, also unanticipated.  But that is a challenge we are accustomed to overcoming; in fact, I found myself passing many runners on the uphill, and in turn being passed on the downhill.  And these children!  They would sprint past an old guy like me, weaving back and forth, and then abruptly stop, out of breath, often right in front of me.  Even at the finish line, I could hear the sudden commotion of little feet behind me, and five or six children ran by on either side.  I threw up my hands in frustration:

And then I realized that they were children, out here having fun, and I know their parents were happy that they were not sitting in front of a TV, or gazing down at the tiny screen of a mobile phone, as so many were.  And the look on their faces was pure joy at having run a race, an invaluable experience for a young child.

We both found ourselves running well, and I realized that I was finally beginning to get back in good race condition after this year's setbacks.  And that is a good feeling - pulling hills, passing younger runners, and no pain in that troublesome right knee whatsoever.  I had planned to try to finish under 35 minutes so was pleased with my 34:27 time; Martha finished in 30:04.  "Guess what?"  Martha told me a minute or so after I finished.  "We both placed!  Second place!"  That was a surprise; I discovered later that there were 6 men in my age group, and Martha had an incredible 29 women in hers, nearly all of them younger than she was.  Somewhat reluctantly, I donned the silly hat for the awards ceremony photo, and was glad I did. 

Now it was time to celebrate!  Martha had identified a local restaurant called Lucky 32 Southern Kitchen, which featured "exceptional renderings of classic Southern dishes."  Thanksgiving dinner consisted of smoked turkey, pureed parsnips, collard greens, and spoon bread, a different take on the usual fare and one which we appreciated.  It was good, healthy cuisine.  And despite the wording on the back of our shirts, we did not overeat!

After dinner, we found our way to a local movie theater and watched a movie that we had been looking forward to seeing, A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood, about Mr. Rogers.  I knew that Fred Rogers was a fellow Rollins College alumnus and an ordained Presbyterian Pastor, and I also knew that Tom Hanks was playing the lead.  It proved to be a very good movie, a tribute to a true hero to many young children who grew up learning that wonderful lesson:  "I like you just the way you are:

We could sure use more people like Mr. Rogers in this day and age.

Baking Bread

We once had a real estate client who told us, when he learned that we had planted a vegetable garden, someday maybe we would make enough money that we wouldn't have to grow our own food anymore.  Martha posted it on Facebook and it received a lot of comments.

In reality - if one takes into account the cost of fertilizer, plants, and seeds (not even including man-hours of labor) - it probably costs more to grow one's own food.

But of course one cannot count the cost of labor, the good gentle exercise out of doors.  Let's start at the very beginning.  First there is the raking of leaves (which I have finally completed this year), hauling several loads uphill to the compost bins where they slowly decompose over the winter.  In the spring, there is the hand-tilling of our raised beds, incorporating all that compost hauled back downhill into the soil.  And then there is the laying out of rows of beans, the placing of tomato cages, and the careful planting of the young seedlings in the best possible location, dirt accumulating under the fingernails, the sweet smell of fertile soil.  And during the summer the mulching, watering, placing deer-netting over the succulent young plants.  That's a lot of work to finally enjoy the easiest "labor" of all, wandering down to the garden on a late summer evening with bucket in hand to pick ripe vegetables.  Surely there is nothing better than a vine-ripened tomato still warm from the sun.  My mother-in-law has a plaque in one of her gardens that I have often seen in this part of the country, a quote by Dorothy Frances Gurney:

Why, indeed, would anyone spend good money on seeds and plants, and expend so much labor?  You don't need to ask a gardener.

In the same way, baking bread is like gardening.  Our client might just as well have said that maybe we would make enough money to be able to buy a loaf of bread.  But in the same way, we would have missed the sweet smell of bread baking in the oven and the lovely fragrance as it cools on a wire rack on the kitchen counter, which is what is occuring while I post this.  It seemed like a good day to bake bread, with temperatures plummeting rapidly outside and the wind beginning to howl (wind chills close to zero are expected by morning).

Not bad for my first loaf of the year!  It's a boule, and I used the same method I have used for the past two years as set forth in Artisan Bread in Five Minutes a Day, by Jeff Hertzberg and Zoë François.  And it really works!

The reality is that Martha and I both enjoy doing things ourselves, and have always done so.  We love to cook our own meals, and to bake.  We designed and built our own house.  And, in a way, we designed our lives, which is as it should be.  There are far too many people in this world who allow their food to be sold to them out of a big store, their bread to be delivered in a plastic bag from the bread aisle . . . and their lives to be designed by others.

The Big Picture

The unseasonable warmth that is preceding the Arctic Chill continued on this Veterans Day; it is supposed to be raining or snowing by midnight, but it doesn't look like it today, with the sun shining and temperatures again in the upper 50s.  I wasn't sure where I was going to run this morning, but I wanted to try a different route.  It is easy to get in a rut as a runner, running the same route every day, the same races every year.

As I neared the top of Chestnut Street, I realized that I had not run to the summit of Big Bearpen Mountain in a very long time.  We began the year running in Atlantic Beach shortly after New Year, and when we returned in early March I was recovering from the Myrtle Beach half marathon and preparing for the Flying Pirate half marathon in April, so long slow runs were on the agenda.  And then I had my hernia surgery.

But I have missed this mountain, the familiar, relentless grade that never lets up until the determined runner reaches the very summit, legs aching, ears popping with the altitude, rounding the first curve with its view of Satulah Mountain.  I always stop here to stretch and to marvel at the uncanny silence at the top of this mountain, a phenomenon I have noticed at the top of Mt. LeConte and other mountains.   On clear days, Lake Keowee can be seen shimmering in distant South Carolina, far off to the southeast.

On the back side, to the northeast, there is a splendid view of Whiteside Mountain with its steep cliffs.  I pause here, too, and gaze in wonder at this distant mountain I have climbed dozens of times.

The descent is always a delight, the gentle downward road.  I thought about all of the other runners who have climbed this mountain with me.  The first one was veteran Fred (see previous post), who lives at the very top.  When he was quite a bit younger, he would run down the mountain and meet the running group on Saturday mornings, run a few miles, and then run back up to his home; the unspoken rule was that one of us should accompany him, and I was often that companion.  I've run up here with Martha, too, and countless other runners, some of them no longer alive.

But today I climbed it, as I usually do in recent years, all by myself, along with my thoughts and my prayers of gratitude.  This is one way to get out of a rut:  run up a mountain, and take a long look at the big picture.

Tough as Old Boots No More

Halloween has come and gone now, and the weather continued to be much milder than usual through all of October.  The leaves are still on some of the trees down in Clear Creek Valley, which is unusual for the first week in November.  And when raking leaves on Tuesday I discovered another yellow-jacket nest in the yard that was still active.

But we finally had our first frost this week and were reminded of how uncomfortable cold-weather running seems to be these days.  Veteran 80-year old runner Fred is a hard one to discourage - "tough as old boots," they would call him in Britain; even when the temperature drops below freezing, he usually wears shorts.  But he doesn't like it much, either.  "I used to not like running when it was below 20 degrees," he told me last year.  "Then it became 30 degrees.  And now it is 40 degrees."  We all feel the cold more and more as we grow older.

This weekend we skipped the usual Saturday-morning run and ran on Friday instead because temperatures were predicted to be below freezing.  We were in the post office on our way out of Town that morning and ran into our friend Bob, who no longer runs because of knee problems but was once one of our regular companions.  "Richard!" he said.  "What are you doing here?  Why aren't you out running?"  I mumbled something about cold temperatures, and he laughed scornfully.  "We used to get out in weather like this!  Remember that old picture you send out from time to time?"

I did remember that picture, and I found it:

That's Bob on the left, then Brian, then me, then Skip.  And I well remember that magical day, when we all started running our normal three-mile route and it began snowing, accumulating an inch or so before we could return to the Town Hall.  I think the year was 2003.

And I found this one, too, in the same photo album.  January, 2016, and another exhilarating snowy run in Highlands!  That's an impressive accumulation of snow on my fleece vest.

But these days I avoid running in weather like that, and I am not ashamed to admit it.  I slipped on a patch of ice crossing Fifth Street a week ago and went down in an instant.  Fortunately, only my butt and my pride were bruised and nothing was broken.  But I do not like to take chances anymore.  This year I was sidelined by hernia surgery for several weeks, the longest I have been forced to stop running, and I do not want to be sidelined again because of carelessness.

The weather miraculously warmed up again this afternoon to the upper 50s in Highlands, just for a day or two.  Martha had a good five-mile run and found that she had overdressed.  I am planning to run tomorrow morning when it is going to be equally pleasant - short sleeves and shorts.  But looking ahead, on Tuesday, this lovely little respite will end and winter will arrive in earnest as an Arctic Chill sweeps relentlessly southward.

It doesn't look like we will receive what weather forecasters like to call "significant accumulations" of snow.  But the temperature Wednesday morning is predicted to plummet from the 50s to a bone-chilling 17 degrees.  I will be indoors on Tuesday, making sure the generator is ready to crank up and the heaters are on in the well house.

I will not be running.