Snowbound

There will be no running today.  We are SNOWBOUND:  what a wonderful word!  John Greenleaf Whittier's well-known poem resided somewhere on by father's bookshelves when I was growing up in Connecticut, and I remember pulling it from its dusty shelf to read on long snowy days.  Whittier began his poem with this little verse from Emerson:

"Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,

Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,

Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air

Hides hills and woods, the river and the heaven,

And veils the farm-house at the garden's end.

The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet

Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit

Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed

In a tumultuous privacy of Storm." 

What a lovely picture those verses paint.  We sat at our little bistro table last night lingering over dinner and watching the falling snow through the screened window as it piled up on our deck:

This morning we awoke to about eight inches of snow.  I have never lost my love for the magical transformation that snow brings to the most ordinary of objects:  the white gnome cap on St. Francis, the birdhouses snowbound, too.  So before I shoveled the sidewalk and driveway - the adult excuse for "going outside to play in the snow" - I walked around marveling at the changed world of our little kingdom behind the fences.

Our little tabby Coffee does not like the snow.  She walked only on the rock walk and driveway that I had shoveled, and when she stepped on a little bit of snow she would stop and shake it off her paw as vigorously as she could.  But I was enjoying myself so much that I shoveled far more than I needed, remembering my childhood in Connecticut and the epic storms (or so it seemed at the time) that stopped everything in their tracks including Highway 5 to New Haven.  My brother and I, budding entrepreneurs, would venture out with our snow shovels and make good money (by 1960s standards) offering to shovel driveways in the neighborhood.  The air so quiet!- Emerson's "tumultuous privacy of snow."  I seemed to be living in the middle of a Japanese woodblock prints by Hasui:

Running in the Snow

When we returned from our trip to the Biltmore House on Wednesday, we knew that snow had been predicted for the afternoon.  The words "significant accumulations" were even used by some meteorologists, which is a very exciting phrase.  I drove back up to Town late in the afternoon, perhaps 4:00 p.m., intending to get in a three-mile run to loosen up legs that had been too long in the car.  The sky was that shade of gray unique to a snowstorm coming, but it was not precipitating at all, and in fact I nearly left my hat in the car.  But by the time I had run one-half mile, snow was all around, first in a flurry, then a brilliant swirl all around me, and finally driving almost horizontally into my face.  In no time, my vest was white, and the roads that had been dry were covered with a half-inch of snow and starting to be treacherous.  I cut my run short at two miles, and was glad I did:  the drive home was very dicey, and took me perhaps three times as long as usual, to the extent that my patient wife and my neighbor Dori were exchanging worried text messages about me.

But what an awesome experience it is to run in a world at the very beginning of that magical transformation of which I never grow weary:  the snow clinging to everything, the line of traffic creeping slowly and gingerly down the Walhalla Road on the way home.  Glad to have run, glad to have come home to a warm house.

The Biltmore Estate 15-K

On Monday of this week, we left for a short trip to the Biltmore House in Asheville, a place we had not visited for many years.  We have fond memories of visiting here perhaps 35 years ago when my Mom and Dad were both alive, and I also ran the Biltmore Estate Classis here in 2002, 2005, and 2007.  Martha ran it in 2006 (I was apparently injured that year).

I think I still have some of those classic Biltmore 15-K shirts in my drawer!  And I definitely have some of those memories of gathering at the Winery, running up that long hill, turning and heading straight down the iconic driveway toward the house, and finally rambling downhill through the gardens and back to the finish near the French Broad River.  I would like to do this race again, and soon!  What wonderful memories runners have of races!  We forget the pain and the effort, but we remember the good times, the beautiful scenery, the post-race celebrations, and friends who go the journey with us.

Some great friends ran this race with us, and they are still with us in spirit even though Richard (on the left) is no longer with us.  Helen and Jim are still very much alive!

All of those memories came flooding back Tuesday as we awoke to a beautiful snow, the kind that clings to everything - icing on the cake for a visit to this breath-taking house and estate:

Slower and Slower

Looking at photos of Sunday's race reminded me that, although I took first place in my age group, my finish time was the slowest I have ever run at this particular race.  It was almost a minute slower than last year,  At this rate I will be running 10 minutes slower when I turn 75, if (God willing) I should be that fortunate person who is still running at the age of 75!

Still, looking back over my race times with a little bit of despondency, I noticed another interesting statistic:  in the last nine races I have run (since June 1, 2003), I have placed in my age group in seven of them,  In four of them, I took First Place.  And the only two races I did not place in were marathons.  From this data I can draw several conclusions:

• If I continue to run races, I will simply outlive other runners!
• As slow as I think I am, there is always someone slower (or more injured) than I am.
• I should give up running marathons
• I should not be so hard on myself.

I am reminded of what George Sheehan, running's great philosopher, said many years ago:

"My times became slower and slower, but the experience of the race is unchanged:  each race a drama, each race a challenge, each race stretching me in one way or another, and each race telling me more about myself and others."

Bundling Up

This was the first day I have been able to run since Sunday's race, and I was surprised to find so much dry roadway.  Main Street is always a safe bet - lots of Town and D.O.T. treatment and full sunshine - and it was also pretty dry over by the School.  I bundled up pretty well but realized that my cheeks, nose, and neck was still taking a beating from the wind - 24 degree temperatures and 15 mph winds added up to a significant wind chill.  So half-way through my run I stopped by the Highland Hiker, nestled in the pines right on Main Street, and asked David Wilkes about some better gear.

"There is no bad weather," David said with a smile, "Only inadequate gear."  So he sent me next door and I soon found myself back running with a brand-new Mountain Hardwear balaklava - $20.00 and worth every penny, David.  And I also appreciate living in a Town where David's son Jonathan will cut the tag off for me and let me wear it out of the store on a promise that I will return and pay for it after my run!

Three miles!  Snow swirling around in tight little circles, ice still lingering in the maple trees on Main Street, and the bright dazzle of a cold February morning dancing all around me.  Life is good!

David has some of that stuff at Highlands Hiker, too.

Icebound

It is a rebuke to the ordinary progress of days,

One after another – the rapturous pastels, the icy winds,

The unseasonable warmth:  all the different mornings

That greet me when I do my Tai Chi on the deck.

But this one is different – everything shut up in ice,

Bound as tight as a fist – the door on my car will not budge,

And gravel and mulch and concrete alike all

Iced the same.  As good as dead.  Icebound.   

Time stops during this interregnum; nothing moves.

And light glints on everything, sharp winter light,

Light that holds the blindness at bay,

That hones the visible to a keen edge.

I imagine that I can see to the top of Satulah,

Miles away, in its lofty gleaming solitude;

To the very top:  bright rime on Satulah –

Hallelujah!

Resourcefulness

As I write this blog today, it is beginning to snow, and as we say in the country, it is beginning to lay as well - to stick to the cold ground, white and pure, covering up all the kindling blown down in the yard that I have not yet had the time to pick up.  The forecast calls for 5 to 8 inches, as well as some freezing rain which, the weatherman warned darkly, may stick to power lines and cause outages.

And yet, I can also hear as I write, in the background, the soft reassuring hum of our woodstove, quietly pouring heat into our house, and the furnace clicking on from time to time as well.  There is a big stack of wood (three stacks, actually, in various states of proximity to the back door and readiness to be burned) and plenty of fuel oil in the tank.  The furnace was serviced last week.  We have plenty of soup and other canned food.  And if (or when) the power goes out, we have a generator in the basement with a spark plug I replaced this month which I cranked Saturday to be sure it would start.

It is a good feeling to be resourceful.  In a world filled with uncertainty, with sickness and death and violence, we can take some small comfort in knowing that we are just a little bit in charge of a small piece of property, a small house.  We can address the essentials:  build a fire, stay warm, eat, stay safe.  And as runners, it is also important to be resourceful:  to train smart, to nourish ourselves with healthy food, to rest when we need to rest.

Today I realize that I am a little sore from the effort of that hilly race yesterday, so it is a time of rest and a day of gratitude.  And a day to enjoy our resources as the snow quietly lays, deeper and deeper.