An End and a Beginning

The end of one year and the beginning of another is always cause for reflection.  We look back at what we accomplished in 2021, and we look forward to what we intend to do with the opportunity of 2022.  Christmas has come and gone, and in only a couple of days we have taken down the tree and all of the decorations.  What is left behind is the warm memories of the holidays – visits with Martha’s two aunts Anne and Mary, with our daughter and her husband, with friends and neighbors.  That means more to us than any gifts we might wrap up and place under the tree.

For 40 or 50 years, I have received or given myself a copy of The Old Farmer’s Almanac, a quirky little publication containing detailed but dubious weather forecasts for each part of the country, some good gardening and nutritional advice, weird but interesting articles such as “The Art and Science of Animal Tracking,” and back pages containing outrageous and thoroughly enjoyable advertisements for everything from Spiritual Oils and Lucky Eye bracelets to “Powerful Soaps.”  But I think the thing I like the most is the dense, detailed descriptions of the motion of the moon and the stars and the planets, of Ember Days and Halcyon Days and moveable feasts.  They remind me how small we are after all on this little blue planet beneath the great revolving constellations.  With little ceremony, I will consign the 2021 edition to a dusty bookshelf somewhere and open the first page of 2022.

Another tradition we have kept for many years now is to print out the things we took turns writing on the little blackboard in our kitchen throughout the year.  It is a record of holidays celebrated, funerals attended, hopes and dreams and promises made and kept.  The first thing Martha wrote in 2021 was in Atlantic Beach:  “More long walks, more books, more music, more dancing, more sunsets, more hugs, more road trips, more laughter, more fun, more love, more memories, more beach.”  We sought and found most of those things last year.  As I scan down the page I see Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, birthdays, Valentine’s Day, Anniversary.  “Workers in the driveway,” we wrote when our new addition and carport were under construction and we were greeted by the sound of construction early every morning.  Right before that is “Bells in the Night,” the book that I published this summer.  “Take every chance you get in life,” Martha wrote just after that, “Because some things only happen once.”

Now I have written the last thing on the blackboard to mark the end of a long, tumultuous year, a year that began with a violent insurrection and a deadly pandemic, but pivoted into new and competent leadership in Washington, the return of some justice and truth to the political arena, the hope of a vaccine and new treatments.  We are looking forward to a New Beginning.  It is time for our annual Sabbatical.

It was John Muir who famously wrote, “The mountains are calling and I must go.”  But now we are looking forward to the opposite, to returning to Atlantic Beach for another Sabbatical, a time for reading and reflection, for writing more poetry, for drawing closer together and struggling to find peace during a time of turbulence and change.  And for hiking and running.  This year, we managed to complete eight races since September after an 18-month hiatus due to Covid, and we are looking forward to continuing to race with two already on the calendar.  Because although it has been unusually warm for the past two or three weeks – breaking an all-time record in Asheville just after Christmas by four degrees, and here in Highlands yesterday a balmy 60 degrees in the morning – the weather will soon change, and the older I am the more I seem to feel the cold.  The Asheville weather report predicts an abrupt arrival of winter on Monday which it is calling a “Weather Whiplash.”  While we don’t expect it to be 70 degrees in Atlantic Beach very often, neither will it often be 23 degrees, and we hope we can avoid that icy blue face with icicles.

Yes, we are looking forward to the wide Atlantic Ocean, the moon and the stars, the sunrise and the sunset, and the unending rhythm of the surf.

Tell me . . . have you walked out today,
Out the short walkway to the top of the dunes,
Where the sea oats are quivering in the breeze,
And children are running heedless with joy into
The abundant surf, the gracious wide-open ocean?

Trotting for Spot

I have participated in some small races over the years, but today’s Trot for Spot 5-K was a new record.  Martha had signed up two weeks ago, but I was unsure whether I was ready for another race – this would be the third in less than a month.  The race benefited Evelyn's Place Rescue, a no-kill shelter for canines.  “I’ll bet there’s a dog on the shirt,” I told Martha, and there was indeed (although, surprisingly, there were no dogs in the race).  

It was a beautiful, warm day, temperatures in the mid-50s only six days before Christmas.  We arrived at Pitts Park in Clarkesville, where a dozen or so people were gathered near a FINISH banner.  I do enjoy these small races, perhaps even more than large crowded events, but as we warmed up and the time approached for the race to start, there still were not many runners at the park at all.  We lined up on a sidewalk and I counted heads; there were twenty-one of us trotting for Spot today.  These small races are informal affairs; the race director walked over and described the course to us, and then just like that we were off, crossing a bridge over the Soquee River, and then out Beaver Dam Road into some pretty countryside with rolling fields and cows.  The road climbed higher and higher up a long hill, then after an intersection down another hill to a traffic-cone turn-around. 

The Race Director was at that intersection and I called out, “I’ll bet that turn-around is at the bottom of the hill, isn’t it?”  And it was.  I had noticed that he seemed to be picking up rocks from the side of the road; Martha told me after the race that she guessed he was counting out rocks into a pile to be sure all twenty-one runners passed him.  The long hill that we had climbed was an advantage now as we headed back to the finish.  I heard footsteps behind me and a man passed on my right.  “Oh good, I’ll follow you to the finish!” I said.  “Those directions seemed a little sketchy at the end.”  He laughed and said, “I don’t know the way either!”  The blind leading the blind.  He stopped to walk and I passed him, and he did not pass me again, and in no time we had turned, crossed the bridge, and then down a short and very steep hill to the finish line, so steep that I walked for the first time in the race.

Martha had done well, taking First Place Master’s Woman and receiving a very nice trophy, the old-fashioned kind we used to always get in races, a shiny gold woman on a little pedestal.  I took first place in (I think) the 70-74 age group and was happy with my time of 36:53, almost as fast as my time in the Reindeer Run two weeks ago. 

It was another good day, as it always is when we compete in a race, no matter the size.  The largest race I have ever completed was the Boston Marathon ten years ago, where I was lost in an ocean of 50,000 runners, and today's was the smallest race.  Size really doesn’t matter.

 

 

P. S. - The day after I posted this - Monday, December 20 - Martha found our official times for the race on the internet and printed them out.  "Thirty-five: fifty-three!  That can't  be right. It was thirty-six: fifty-three!  They have these times all wrong," I insisted.  I checked the history on my GPS watch for Sunday and confirmed that it was . . . 35:53, one minute faster than I had thought - not "almost as fast as my time in the Reindeer Run two weeks ago," but nearly a minute faster.  I realized that I had not had my reading glasses on when I looked at my watch.  "Thank you!" I told Martha  "You just made my day!"  35:53 made this my fastest 5-K time since we resumed running in September after not having run races for 18 months.  To a runner, gaining an entire minute in a 5-K is significant progress.  So I must conclude that running a race every two weeks or so, as we have been doing at Martha's urging, has had a positive effect on my running, which is especially empowering for an aging runner who is accustomed to saying, "The older I get, the faster I was." 

When's the next race?

Gingerbread Houses

For the past two months, I have been limiting topics covered in this blog to running and races.  But it is mid-December, and now that Covid restrictions have been easing we have been attending some holiday events, such as the Van Gogh Alive exhibit at the Biltmore House over the Thanksgiving Holiday (see post of November 25).  Last Sunday we attended a show at the Highlands Playhouse called the Scott and Patti Holiday Spectacular and it proved as entertaining as it had been billed (“Join Scott & Patti as they celebrate the season through songs, dances, side splitting comedy, and a bevy of special guests.”)  The Sunday before that we attended the first performance from the North Georgia Players since before Covid, We’ll be Home for Christmas, four cute mini-plays, and it was equally entertaining.

This week, we attended the National Gingerbread House Competition at the Grove Park Inn in Asheville.  We have been to this competition in past years, and the Grove Park Inn is always a treat to visit under any circumstance.

Constructed in 1913 and listed on the National Register, the Inn was built by Edwin Wiley Grove and Fred Seely near Sunset Mountain overlooking Asheville.  It was constructed of rough-looking granite quarried from the mountains above the inn and transported by mule and wagon to the site.  William Jennings Bryan, Secretary of State at the time, was present when it opened and gave the keynote address, proclaiming the Grove Park “was built for the ages.”  I attended conferences a few times at the Inn when I worked for the Town years ago, and it was always a special treat to wander its long corridors and look at the old photographs showing its construction. 

The roof, for example, is five-and-a-half inches thick, a single pour of concrete to avoid seams – it was promoted as a completely fireproof structure at the time.  The granite is deliberately rough as intended by Seely, and I spotted this sign among the photographs which poetically described the intent of the builders.

In contrast to this massive structure, we marveled at the dozens of intricate miniature houses constructed not from granite and concrete but from gingerbread and candy.  Curious about the construction, I read on-line the rules and regulations for the competition: 

Everything above the base of your entry must be composed completely of edible materials. . . The main structure of your entry must be constructed of at least 75% gingerbread, some of which should be exposed.  Edible materials are not limited to candies and icings. Use of gum paste, fondant, pastillage, chocolate, modeling chocolate, royal icing, isomalt, cast sugar, gelatin and pressed sugar is encouraged. Use of "Disco Dust," "Rainbow Dust" or “Hologram Powder” is permitted.  Due to the danger of working with hot sugar, techniques using poured hot sugar or isomalt are reserved for the teen and adult categories only. This includes melted sugar candies.  Candies must be unwrapped and free of any non-edible materials, for example: lollipop sticks.

I wondered what "Disco Dust" might be - it sounded like a performing-enhancing drug.  And lollipop sticks!  I had not thought about it, but that would have been a structural element that would have come in handy; I noted that one or two of the non-adult houses were already starting to lose their roofs.  But lollipop sticks, though serving the same purpose as steel rebar in the Grove Park Inn, would have been cheating, and apart from the wild imagination and technical skill exhibited, it was a marvel to think about the construction and transport of these houses to the site of competition.  Unbelievable!

It was unseasonably warm in Asheville for December, and as we left the Grove Park Inn in mid-afternoon the temperature was sixty degrees, so pleasant that we were able to put the top down on our Mini Cooper.  We drove the relatively short distance to Candler, just west of Asheville, and had a nice visit with Martha’s aunt Mary, whom we had not seen since before Covid.  Mary will be 90 years old in a week or two and is doing quite well; it occurred to me that she is nearly as old as the Grove Park Inn, and like the venerable Inn is apparently constructed of equally sturdy material.  When she saw our little car, she said she would like to go for a ride in it some day.  “Why not right now?” Martha said, and so they did.  

Reindeer Run

We ran this race in Brevard two years ago on a day that was just as clear and bright as today, but considerably colder - I remember there had been frost on the windshield.  The temperature this morning at the start was about forty degrees, and it warmed up even more by the time we finished.  We drove over on Friday morning because we both had appointments at Looking Glass Eye Center, and then we re-acquainted ourselves with the course, which has some steep hills in the first mile but then a nice, nearly flat two-mile stretch out into farm country east of Brevard.  We had the obligatory pasta with marinara sauce at Big Mike’s Pizza downtown, which we remembered from two years ago, and then walked up and down the street a little, enjoying the festive decorations and mild temperatures in downtown Brevard.  We spent the night at the Sunset Motel, our usual accommodation.  When we tell people about this place they assume it is a dump, because it was for many years.  But new owners came in, renovated all of the rooms in retro 50s-style décor, put in nice modern bathrooms, and acquired a good rating on TripAdvisor, which is how we found it.  

This race is well organized by the Center for Women and takes place at the Boys and Girls Club building, just off Highway 276 outside of Town.  A former school, it features a warm gymnasium and good restrooms, which are always appreciated.  We gathered at the start and listened to a very good rendition of the National Anthem, and then in keeping with the reindeer theme we were encouraged to sing that silliest of Christmas songs, Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer. I had noticed that there were a disconcerting number of dogs in this race, and we realized we needed to be aware of leashes and unruly canine behavior, especially at the crowded start.  But the first hill sorted things out pretty well, children stopping to walk and then thundering past us on the downhill, dogs safely avoided.  At one point, though, I felt a sudden and unusual cold spot on my right leg, and realized it was the curious nose of a dog checking me out and fortunately not tripping me up. 

The course circles just before the two mile mark and returns again, the road flat and fast at this point.  Martha passed me and she was looking strong.  In the last half-mile, I noticed that the runner ahead of me was a man who might be in my age group (it turned out later that he was in the 80-99 age group), and he seemed to be slowing down, so I tried to "reel him in."  I cut the distance in half, but did not quite catch him before we passed under the big blue arch of the finish line; still, I ran a faster final mile because of him.  I was surprised when I reviewed my splits afterward that I had run nearly even miles – 11:54, 12:00, 11:52 – and only two seconds different in the first and last miles despite those hills.  I was pleased with a finish time of 36:37, 22 seconds faster than the Turkey Trot we had completed only nine days ago in Lake Junaluska.  It was good enough for third place in my age group, especially since the man who took first place, who was only a year younger than I, clocked an incredible time of 23:36.  I also realized later that this was my fastest time this year since we began running races on September 11.

Martha finished four seconds slower than at Lake Junaluska – which had been her fastest time since September 11 – at 32:12.  And with four women in her age she took first place once again.  What a great day this was!  We again realized how thankful we are to still be running races together, enjoying the competition and the struggle, celebrating out fitness and strength . . . and then celebrating afterward.

The celebration today consisted of a very good barbeque lunch and good local beer at the unfortunately named “Hawg Wild Barbeque” with our good friends Skip and MaryAnn, whom we had not seen since early September.   

Is there a better way to celebrate an achievement, no matter how modest, than with good food and drink, and with good friends?

Lake Junaluska Turkey Trot

For some reason neither of us can understand, we have somehow in our wide-ranging rambling explorations of this part of the country never actually been to Lake Junaluska, though we have often driven by it.  It is a beautiful little jewel of a lake, and the race we ran this morning was one of the nicest we have completed in awhile - perfect weather conditions, a beautiful course circling the shores of the still waters of the lake, relatively good footing despite some sidewalks and bridges - a good venue for a race.  The buildings around the lake, including two inns, several bed-and-breakfast places, and many smaller homes, are all part of the Methodist Church's Lake Junaluska Conference and Retreat Center.

We stayed at the Lambuth Inn, constructed in 1921 on the ruins of an earlier Inn that had burned, and it is a charming old building which is listed on the National Register.  Last weekend, we had spent a night at the Echo Mountain Inn in Hendersonville and then two nights at the Inn on Biltmore Estate in order to see the Van Gogh Alive exhibit and take a candlelight tour of the Biltmore House.  It had been absolutely wonderful, but the Inn was an exceedingly posh place, with valet parking, dozens of Christmas trees, carolers, and very nice facilities everywhere.

But checking in to the Lambuth Inn, we were not at all disappointed with the absence of a squad of valets at the front door and an afternoon glass of champagne thrust into your hands.

The lobby and parlors downstairs are filled with antique furniture and comfortable chairs, fireplaces, and nearly as many Christmas trees as the Inn on the Biltmore Estate.

While the elevators at Biltmore had whisked us to the sixth floor more rapidly than we thought possible, the rickety elevator in this Inn paused for a long, long time pondering over the matter before deciding to close the doors and rise slowly and majestically to the third floor.  But we liked it very much, and the room was clean and comfortable with everything a traveler, or a runner preparing for a 5:00 wake-up and a race start a mile away, could expect.  Martha's grandfather, a Methodist minister who had served in various churches in Western North Carolina, had very likely stayed in this place, and I wondered if he might have even been in the same room.  And the view was gorgeous out over the lake.

It is not often that everything goes this smoothly in traveling to a race.  We found a small, family-owned Italian restaurant in a shopping center only a mile or so away, where we apologetically ate the usual spartan dinner of plain spaghetti with marinara sauce and drank water instead of wine.  “We’ll have to come back here another time when we can enjoy the lasagna and a bottle of Chianti,” I told our friendly waitress.  We returned to a quiet room, but without any chairs, so Martha went down to the deserted lobby and read a book while I stretched out in the room and consumed several magazines.

The race start was only a short drive away and we were able to park close by.  It was a little cold, 35 degrees, but the sun was shining and we warmed up quickly.  We had expected some treacherous stretches of sidewalk and narrow paths, but the course began and ended on wide roads so that we 300 runners had plenty of time to sort ourselves out.  And what a beautiful course it was!  We came onto a paved walking trail and then crossed a long pedestrian bridge, the first of two, with the still waters of Lake Junaluska on both sides. 

There are always some obstacles in a race – tree roots buckling the pavement, dogs, and strollers – but they were at a minimum this morning.  One energetic 10-year-old kept flying past me, then coming to a stop in the middle of the path as I maneuvered past him.  In a little while I could hear him holler, “Arrggh!” and hear his thundering footsteps coming up fast again and sprinting past me.  But then I passed him for good, and I hope the little fellow finished the race and learned a lesson about pacing.

Martha was waiting at the finish and was very happy with her time of 32:08, her fastest, I think, since we started back running races in September.  With ten-year age groups and a surprising 15 women in her age group, she was happy to take third place.  There were only four men in my age group and I took first place.

We had been wondering what kind of award would be provided since we had not spotted any on the table where ceremonies were being conducted.  It turned out that we received a small dowel of wood, described by the Race Director as a “rolling pin,” but, alas, woefully too small for such a use,  And possibly the most unusual age group award we have ever received.  "That's why they didn't have them out on display," Martha said.  "They would have rolled off the table." 

But who can complain?  Not I.  This race was especially sweet for me - my 200th, according to my Race Journal.  So we gave thanks on this Thanksgiving Day for our good health, our fitness and strength, and our shared love for each other and the joy that we derive from competing in races together.  And then we returned to our Inn, showered and changed, and headed for dinner at the Terrace Hotel after visiting a place called Inspiration Point just outside the Inn overlooking a large cross, illuminated at night, and stopping to admire an impressive stone chapel.  Dinner, with appetites honed by a Turkey Trot, is always a glorious thing to enjoy on Thanksgiving Day!

The Flight of the Vampire

The Flight of the Vampire 5-K has been held in Brevard for many, many years, and the course has apparently changed every year.  Martha ran it several years ago just a couple of weeks before I was scheduled to run a marathon, so I sat it out and took photos.  Our friends Skip and Morris and Vicki also ran that year, and it started and finished downtown just below East Main Street.  I found a course map from last year which looked like the same course we had completed at the Firecracker 5-K in 2019, except that the start/finish was at the new Depot building on Railroad Avenue.

Rain was in the forecast but never materialized, so conditions were perfect for running, overcast and cool.  I had decided to wear my 2011 Boston Marathon shirt – why keep it hidden in the drawer?  We arrived a couple of hours early to pick up our race packets and drive the course, and we discovered that Halloweenfest was going on and most of the roads downtown were closed.  Costumed children were trick-or-treating as we made our way around the event and drove most of what we expected the course to be, always a helpful thing to do if possible.  We both remembered the long, steep hill up Tinsley Road halfway through the course, where there was a pasture below the road with cows grazing.  It was surprising how close this bucolic setting was to Main Street in a city the size of Brevard.

We parked at the Depot Railroad Avenue Park, a new facility constructed last year and used for many local events, including this one.  It was nicely situated at the end of the Greenway, which now extends several miles to the Davidson River, and it had clean, warm restrooms, always a welcome feature at a race.

We picked up our packets and wandered about for awhile looking at the costumes of the 150 or so participants who were vying for the Best Costume contest.  There were Cruellas and skeletons, a young man wearing a pink sailor’s uniform, and even a large white chicken.  We wondered how long some of these costumes would last going up Tinsley Road.

We lined up, not where the course map I had found indicated but on the Greenway itself, a little concerned at the close quarters with Covid still in our midst.

The man in front of me had a cap with a little propeller on top, and off to my right was a vampire with her bat wings floating out behind her.  After a soulful recording of the National Anthem was played, we were off, quickly winding our way past the walkers and young children who for some reason always line up in the front of some of these smaller races.  In no time, we were heading south on Railroad Avenue on a completely different course than we had driven, climbing a hill where we lost some of the walkers and children, circling over to West Main Street, down a steep hill, and finally making our way to the familiar Tinsley Road hill, the only feature of the course that had not changed.  I chatted with a husband and wife pushing a stroller for awhile, whose toddler passenger insisted on climbing out from time to time, then climbing back in again.  “Are you going to ride for awhile?” the mother asked.  “Daddy run!” the child shouted in glee, and Daddy did.  “Is that a motorized stroller?” I asked her suspiciously.  She laughed.  “No, but that’s an idea for next year!”

I felt strong, and apparently Martha did, too, because she was nowhere in sight as we climbed up that long hill, passing younger runners who had stopped to walk (always a treat these days for this old guy!), and then the fragrance of cow manure as a half-dozen of the cud-chewing creatures calmly watched us climbing toward them, and then circling around a small summit.  The view was glorious from up there, purple mountains off to the south, pops of brilliant foliage here and there along the way, and I felt suddenly elated, glad to be running on this fine afternoon in good company, with costumed runners and leashed dogs and children in strollers.  And to be going downhill at last!

It was a gentle descent, and then we were on the Greenway for the last quarter mile or so, wide and smoothly paved.  Comparing notes after the race, we both put the hammer down at that point, and our final mile was the fastest one as a result.  An announcer saw me coming and said, “That’s a Boston Marathon shirt, by the way, folks.  I think I’ve got one just like it,” which made me kick just a little harder the last few yards. 

We wandered around for awhile, cooling down and watching other runners crossing the line.  Unfortunately, there was no food or water for many runners.  Martha said she had grabbed the last water and had asked where the food was, and an official had told her, “We thought most of the runners would eat before they came.”  You can’t always expect these small races to have the same quantity of finish line food and drink we had found two weeks ago at the Walhalla Oktoberfest 5-K, but you would think Brevard’s Rotary could have sprung for a few more bottles of water.  (We later received an e-mail apologizing for the lack of water, which had been taken to the Mile Two water stop and remained there unbeknownst to the Race Director.)

A woman approached me and said she had been following me going up Tinsley Road hill.  “You were my inspiration,” she said.  “I thought, if you’re not going to stop, I’m not going to stop either!”  I thanked her and told her she had done a good job, too.  Just then, there were some cheers and applause, and that big white chicken came across the finish line, apparently having run the entire race inside that costume.

It had been another good day, and we talked about the race on our way home, stopping to pick up a pre-ordered pizza at Four65 Woodfire Pizza in Highlands.  The results were up by then, and we found that I had taken first place in my age group.  But Martha could not find herself in her age group. “They dropped me!” she said, before realizing she had been bumped up to “Top Senior Female Finisher.”  And best of all, we both beat that silly chicken.

Oktoberfest

Oktoberfest in Walhalla, South Carolina, has been taking place for a number of years.  There is even a website that describes in detail the Oktoberfestivities:

"Oktoberfest is a wonderful fall celebration of Walhalla's German heritage with something fun for everyone! Each year, thousands of people come to Walhalla to experience Oktoberfest!  Listen to the Little German Band while munching on a bratwurst with kraut. Enjoy a refreshing mug of cold German beer. Reunite with old friends. Join the dance floor for the always fun "chicken dance". Explore our amazing arts & crafts with vendors from all over the Southeast. And don't forget an apple dumpling for dessert!  The kids will love our carnival rides and games as well as a delicious funnel cake!  There's truly something for everyone at the Walhalla Oktoberfest!"

Nowhere on the “something fun for everyone” website is a race mentioned, although there has been a 5-K held every year for nearly as long as the Fest itself.  It is organized by the Rotary Clubs of Oconee County and seems to share the same date as the main event at Sertoma Field, a little over a mile away, but none of the other activities outlined above, unless this aging runner’s form has started to resemble a “chicken dance.”  The mug of cold German beer would have been welcome after the event, but alas was nowhere in evidence at the finish line.

It was a good race, though, and not only because the conditions were completely the opposite of those in our last race.  We encountered a few light showers on the 40-minute drive down Highway 28, the beginning of a cold front making its way eastward through our part of the country.  By the time we arrived, the rain had disappeared, leaving a sweet fragrance on the quiet streets and lawns of Walhalla.  There was bright blue sky overhead and a light breeze had dissipated the humidity – perfect conditions.  We had driven the course a week ago and knew pretty much what to expect, including a challenging hill at the 2.5-mile point. 

The race was well-organized, too, by a group of friendly Rotarian volunteers, and had all the hallmarks of the kind of event we like:  a USATF certified course, five-year age groups, relatively smooth paved roads through interesting neighborhoods, good traffic control by local police, and plenty of food and drink at the finish line.  We warmed up briefly and made our way to the start, where we heard a nice prayer by a local pastor and then pledged allegiance to the flag in front of the Oconee County Courthouse.  Miss Oktoberfest, a pretty young local girl, was there in her sash and crown, and she started us off down Main Street.  A person dressed in some ape-like costume, possibly Bigfoot, was also there at the start, but I don’t think he ran the entire way.

I watched Martha disappear ahead of me, and then shouted out support for her a mile later when she had circled a traffic barrel and returned on the other side of the road.  I ran for awhile with a man and his 10-year-old son, his first race, and chatted some with them.  It was nice to hear a Dad counseling and encouraging his son.  “Now don’t go too fast, we’ve got a little ways to go still.  We’ll take a walking break at that water station when we come back.”  They eventually disappeared ahead of me as Martha had, so his counsel must have been effective. 

I had fun during the race, as I usually do, asking volunteers at the water station if there was anyone behind me, or asking it there would be beer at the finish line.  It lifts everyone’s spirit, including my own, and makes us all run just a little faster to spread some laughter along the way.  I once ran a marathon – at Tybee Island, Georgia, I think – where I kept asking volunteers at mile markers along the way, “Mile ten!  I thought this was a 5-K!” It earned me the nickname “The 5-K Man,” I learned at the end of the race.  As we turned the corner at the beginning of the steep hill at the 2.5-mile mark, I made a police officer laugh by saying, “Hills!  It’s about time!  Now I can put the hammer down!”

It was a downhill finish and Martha was waiting for me at the finish line.  While we were waiting for the awards, I enjoyed watching slower runners (there are fewer of these in every race these days!) cross the finish line.  When we had turned around the traffic barrel on Main Street, I had noticed one very obese man who was right in front of the ambulance taking up the rear, walking steadily along, and now I saw him coming into the finish, running just a little down the hill.  “Let’s give this guy a cheer, guys,” I said to some others standing around, and he got a big round of applause and shouts of “Good job!”  A woman told me, “Thanks for reminding us to do that,” and I replied, “It’s easy for some of these thin 15-year-old cross-country boys, but it took a lot of courage for a guy like him.”  I used to be especially moved at marathons to watch those slower runners finishing, some of them so exhausted they could barely lift their feet, often breaking into tears.  They had to dig so much deeper than the fast runners.

Martha ended up finishing in 32:30 and taking first place in her age group.  It was a special milestone for her:  this was her hundredth race.  And if I am not mistaken this was her fourth first-place finish in the past four races.  I was second in my age group in a time of 37:35, my fastest time since we began running these races every couple of weeks since our hiatus of a year and a half.  Whether it was because of the better conditions and smoother course or not is something I will discover in our next race two weeks from now.

By the time we left Walhalla, the wind had begun to pick up.  We drove on country roads to the Chattooga Belle Farm, site of our race back on September 26 (see post of October 3), for lunch.  The parking lot was surprisingly full of cars for a Saturday morning just a little after 11:15, and we discovered that preparations were underway for a wedding that afternoon - big round tables with flower arrangements, and about fifty folding chairs set up.  The wind was really blowing by then, and we found a table that was in full sunshine but partially sheltered, though not sheltered enough to prevent the occasional tortilla chip from blowing wildly off our plates.

It suddenly seemed like Oktober!

Stonewall Creek Vineyards

We have not been to many Center for Life Enrichment (CLE) events this year, but one that we had signed up for was a tour of the Stonewall Creek Vineyards, located in beautiful rolling countryside south of Clayton in an area called Tiger.  I had always wondered about the origin of that name, and it took only a few clicks of the mouse to discover that it came from either the name of a Cherokee chief named Tiger Tail or the cry of roaming panthers.  Even more surprising was to learn that Tiger, Georgia, has its own Wikipedia page.

Rather than driving to CLE headquarters in Highlands, 20 minutes out of our way, we had arranged to drive straight through Warwoman Dell (named by the Cherokee after a Revolutionary-war era woman – and yes, there is a Warwoman Dell Wikipedia page).  We had never visited this area before now, even though it was not far away, and we learned that there were two other vineyards nearby as well, Tiger Mountain Vineyards and Noble Wine Cellar.  The vineyards are part of the Georgia Wine Highway, an August event that we now want to explore next year.

The area seemed to be a prosperous one, with nice homes and well-maintained yards, and we were surprised by the amount of grape vines, which we later learned amounted to seven acres, planted in the rolling fields. 

 
The main building, where the wine is fermented, had a tasting room and some outdoor tables in a beautiful setting overlooking the vineyard.  We were the first to arrive, followed shortly by another couple who had driven directly here as we had.  It was nice to finally be able to socialize, in an open-air setting, after being so confined by the circumstances of Covid. 

The owner, Mark Diehl, a retired orthopedic surgeon, had bought the vineyard in 2018 from the original founder, also an orthopedic surgeon who grew up in an Italian family that had always made wine.  It was obviously a labor of love for Mark and his wife Sandi, and he gave an articulate and informative tour of the vineyard and the winemaking process to 15 CLE wine enthusiasts.  We had visited big vineyards in Napa Valley in 2016, but it was nice to find that smaller vineyards like this were so nearby, and also that they were making good wine.  Most of the wines were varietals, chosen from French grapes specifically for the climate in Northeast Georgia, with its abundance of rain.  There was Chardonnay, Cabernet Franc, Malbec, and a wine I was unfamiliar with, Petit Manseng.  We walked down into the vineyard to see up close some Cabernet grapes behind protective bird netting, ripe and ready for harvest later in the week.

After the tour, which included tasting some Chardonnay straight from the barrel – fizzy and very cloudy, but tasting very much like Chardonnay should taste – we adjourned to the tasting room and then lunch out on the patio.

Each of us was given four wines to taste.  I chose reds and Martha whites, and while we are not wine connoisseurs, we have been to a number of wine tastings over the years and we thought they were all very good, better than expected for a region not known for producing wine.  We ended up taking home a bottle of the Red Velvet Ruby Port, made from a blend of Norton grapes fortified with American brandy (distilled just down the road a little) and aged in American oak for 18 months. 

Lunch was salad with homemade dressing and classic Quiche Lorraine, and for desert, wine brownies.  We shared part of a bottle of the Petit Manseng, which complemented the lunch perfectly.  We lingered a little at the table, as others did, reluctant to leave, enjoying these last days of an unusually warm October, the leaves just beginning to turn a little in the higher mountains in the distance. 

As we eased out of the parking lot, top down on our Mini convertible, I looked over at Martha and said, “Life is good, isn’t it?”

Autumn Breeze

It was raining when we left Highlands on Sunday afternoon to run the Autumn Breeze 5-K in Tallulah Falls, a scenic race that we have completed more than once over the years.  By the time we reached Clayton, it was raining more heavily, but by the time we arrived at Tallulah Gorge State Park, it had tapered off and the sun was shining.

Not that we mind the rain.  We have gotten very, very wet in past races, including one memorable Flying Pirate Half Marathon in 2012.  I remember that the previous time we had run that particular race, the weather conditions had been perfect, and we had lingered at the finish line for a long time listening to a live band and soaking up sunshine.  But in 2012, it was already raining by the time we lined up at the start, and it never relented.  When we crossed the finish line, we eschewed finish line ceremonies and made a beeline for our car, where we huddled with the heater on.  There is a “selfie” of us buried somewhere on my computer of the two of us, and I think I will keep it buried.

It had only been a week since our last race, so it would have been easy to have remained in Highlands, or even to have remained in our car once we had arrived.  Running in the rain in a half marathon or a marathon for which you have trained for weeks or even months is one thing, but getting drenched in a small 5-K is another.  But the sun was shining and we chatted with some friends at the start, including Anthony, who was not running the race because he had just completed a half marathon the day before and was planning to run the Boston Marathon in six days.  So it was partly a matter of not wanting to lose face, and partly a matter of having already pinned that race bib on our shirts (there can be no turning back after that point), that we lined up, while the rain (naturally) began falling again, heavier and heavier, as the race officials seemed to drone on forever about the course and the beneficiaries of the proceeds from the race.  “Come on!” we were all thinking.  “Let’s go!”  Just before the start, Martha looked at me and said, “Are you sure you want to do this?”  But, of course, we both knew the answer. 

After about a half-mile of running in that kind of rain, a runner simply forgets about dodging the puddles and keeping his shoes dry.  It’s too late for that.  And there’s really no sense in stopping and going back.  Being a DNS (Did Not Start) is one thing; being a DNF (Did Not Finish) is another, and neither of us has been the latter.  I watched Martha pull away from me until she was out of sight.  And then we just hunkered down and tried to avoid the deeper puddles, flinching as a loud clap of thunder echoed through the Gorge at about the One Mile mark.  The course is normally a fast one, following a gentle grade downhill and then crossing and running alongside the rocky Tallulah River, finally returning on a paved greenway trail.  Roots had pushed up the asphalt in many places on that trail and avoiding tripping on them consumed much of my attention.  Still, it was a beautiful day, leaves just starting to turn, and there is a kind of defiant bravado about running in truly horrendous conditions.  “Hey!  Can I borrow that umbrella for a mile or two?” I asked some bystanders.

By the time we crossed the finish line, the rain had tapered off again, and then while we waited for the results it returned, and 159 cold, wet runners huddled under a few sparse tents.  We were pleased to learn that Martha had taken first place in a time of 35:05, while I took second place in 39:19.  Not bad for these conditions!

Martha also got to select a hand-made piece of local pottery, which she learned had been made by someone named “Rayne.”

After the awards, we hurried back to the car, contorting ourselves comically as we stripped off wet shirts and replaced them with dry ones as best we could.  As we dried out and warmed up a little, we began to feel better and better about the day.  It was what runners like to call a “character building” run, and I suppose that even at our age we can benefit from some adversity.  “The greater the obstacle, the more glory in overcoming it,” Moliere said. 

And we had a plan:  take-out pizza from Fortify Pi in Clayton, called in just as we left the Park, and cold beer just around the corner at Currahee Brewing.

Now my shoes are slowly drying on the stone hearth of our fireplace, and it looks like it will be several days before that happens.

Race Recap – Chattooga Belle

Only two weeks after the Never Forget 5-K, Martha found our next race, the Chattooga Belle Farm Wine Run 5-K, and it sounded just perfect for our second race since an 18-month-long hiatus due to Covid.  It was to be held in Long Creek, South Carolina, a 45-minute drive on quiet two-lane roads at an orchard and vineyard which we had probably driven past over the years but never visited.  It was billed as a cross country race, and each adult participant was to receive a wine glass at the finish line.

Wikipedia defines cross country as “a sport in which teams and individuals run a race on open-air courses over natural terrain such as dirt or grass. Sometimes the runners are referred to as harriers. The course, typically 4–12 kilometers long, may include surfaces of grass and earth, pass through woodlands and open country, and include hills, flat ground, and sometimes gravel roads.”

The only thing close to a cross country race I remember running was way back in 2003, and I delved into my race book to help me remember it.  It was the Black Mountain Valentines Day 5-K which I ran with my daughter Katy and another friend from Highlands.  Katy and I had signed up in the Father-Daughter category in what was billed as a “Sweetheart Race,” but while my book recorded my time (24:27 – gosh, I was fast back then!) it did not record how we did in the category.  My race book noted:  “Tough course – snow, mud, grass, trails, hills, steps, etc.  A good day!” 

A good day!  While we did not expect snow, all of the other features I wrote about in 2003 were possibilities this morning.  We arrived early at the Farm, which was situated on a knoll surrounded by rolling countryside with acres of apple and peach trees and a small vineyard.  Its use as a wedding venue was apparent from the rose petals we noted on the grass near the start.  

The starting line was just behind the main building, which contained a store selling T-shirts, apples, beverages (including cold beer), and take-out food from a little on-site bistro.  Scattered out in the fields, we would soon come upon these sort of baskets made out of metal chains and mounted on posts, and we later realized that this was a disc golf course, and very likely the reason this “Farm” in the middle of South Carolina countryside could be dispensing beer and wine on a Sunday morning – as in North Carolina, that would make it a “sports club,” thereby evading the ABC laws.

The start was to be a staggered one, and the time we had signed up for was 10:00, but when we approached the inflated balloon-like arch of the starting line around 9:30, we were casually told that we could begin anytime we liked, so the two of us crossed the mat and began running.

Martha went out ahead, while I began navigating the first part of the course, a steep descent on which I was focused mostly on not falling down, let alone running competitively.

I saw up ahead that Martha had stopped to walk, too, and in only a short while, it became obvious to both of these "harriers" that running, as we like to think of it, would be a foolish thing to do.  The terrain consisted of all of the features of that race I ran in 2003, except that the wet grass had not been mowed, the hills were so steep and uneven that I was forced to pick my way gingerly down them at a walk, and at one point we even found ourselves descending into the woods and crossing this little bridge. 

We wisely decided to walk most of the course, as most of the other participants were doing, and the experience turned into a good one as we simply enjoyed this beautiful morning, winding through apple orchards, past some primitive camping sites (where we no doubt surprised some sleepy Sunday morning campers), and up and down the truly daunting terrain.  Climbing to the start-finish balloon, we had spectacular views out across open fields and woodlands to distant blue mountains all around.  We did a second lap around the course and were glad to cross the finish line, hand in hand.

We did, indeed, receive two very nice stemless wine glasses, and I even went over and had a small amount of Chardonnay poured into mine.  Then we ordered delicious sandwiches and cold beer from the bistro and sat out at a little table enjoying the morning and taking in the view out over the orchard, happy with the slowest finish time either of us have ever recorded in a 5-K “race,” which I shall neglect to record in this blog.