Plenty of Beauty

It has been unusually warm this month, one of the latest falls that I remember.  It is so warm that last Tuesday I disturbed a nest of yellow jackets while raking leaves (fortunately I escaped with only a minor hit on my arm), something I am accustomed to dealing with in July and August while mowing the lawn.  Leaf rakers should be unmolested by yellow jackets, and our seasons should not be mixed together like this.  Even the snakes may still be out, I thought, and so I handled piles of branches carefully.

Visitors who have carefully planned their holidays in Highlands to coincide with the "height" of fall color must also be disappointed.  It normally peaks by now, although there is plenty of beauty if one knows where to look.  These maples next to the Presbyterian Church are always reliably gorgeous, and they hang on until the very last days, too.  The red light at Fifth and Main is barely visible against their bright colors.  I wasn't sure if some of our visitors made it down Main Street that far, in their exercise tights and thigh-high boots, carrying Versace purses and shopping bags.

I walked up on Sunset Rocks today and there was plenty to see there, too; there were many other hikers climbing the familiar path to the top, and they seemed to be enjoying it too, far from the shoppers on Main Street.  It was a beautiful day to be hiking.

On the way to the top, I spotted this very special leaf, which I am 99% certain is that of an American Chestnut.  Local forester Bob Zahner, who passed away many years ago, once hiked up this trail with me to help me identify some unusual species of conifers which I had been labeling as part of a project when I was working for the Town.  On the way, he  pointed this specimen out to me in an off-hand manner, much to my astonishment.  I had mistakenly thought the American Chestnut was extinct as a result of the blight that stuck in the early 20th century, one of the great tragedies of forestry.

But in fact there are millions of sprouts that can be found throughout this area, which still produce trees that can grow to eight or ten feet before taken down. The blight kills the above-ground portion of the trees, but the root system can survive and form new sprouts for years and years.

I never seem to be able to find this small surviving tree except at this time of year; perhaps it is hidden among the rest of the foliage. 

The summit is always worth the climb.  There was our little Town, nestled in the valley below, serene and quiet from this height, far above the bustling streets, the thriving shops and hotels and restaurants.  It's a different world up here.

There is always something beautiful to see!  On my way back down the trail, I was stopped in my tracks by this simple fern, waving gently from side to side.

But I also saw this sobering sight:  the tall, dead trunks of hemlock trees, killed many years ago by the hemlock woolly adelgid, a tiny insect that has killed most of this species in our area.  They are just waiting to fall.  And, unlike the American Chestnut, they will never come back again.

I stopped at the library on my way down, and a man was sitting in one of the rocking chairs out front reading a book on this fall day.  Other than hiking up a mountain, I could think of no better way to occupy the time.

And on my way back to the car, I stopped to take this photo of the old steeple of the Episcopal Church of the Incarnation, framed by blood-red leaves.  There's plenty of beauty if one knows where to look.

Bethel Half Marathon

Martha and I have both been running the Bethel Half Marathon for a long time.  The race is in its 26th year, the oldest half marathon in North Carolina and the third oldest in the Southeast.  It is a beautiful course, a figure eight that doubles back to the start halfway through, in a mountain valley east of Waynesville; the Blue Ridge Parkway on the ridge to the west is often ablaze with fall color (although not this year).  As I noted in my last post, I have run it four times, and every year the weather has been perfect.  It was my first half marathon in 1998, and the following year I ran my PR there (1:44:02).  I vividly remember crossing the finish line that first year and thinking that, with a little more training, I might actually be able to run a full marathon, and I did exactly that in December of 1999.  Martha ran her PR there, too (2:05:35, in 2011), and we have good memories of running with many friends over the years.

So we were glad to see Anthony in the Bethel School gym when we arrived, with several of his friends from Franklin.  He is planning to run a marathon in Los Angeles in four weeks, so this was a "short" run for him.  Temperatures were a little warmer than expected and had climbed into the lower 70s by the end of the race.  I was running the 5-K, which starts five minutes later and a quarter-mile or so down the road from the start of the half.  I warmed up and stood along the side of the road with the other 5-K runners waiting for the crowd to pass by us.  The siren went off and the runners started down the road toward us, but suddenly we noticed that they had turned left on the short road that leads down to the finish on the school track.  "Where are they going?" I asked.  "They must have changed the course this year," someone replied.  

"They didn't change the course!" I said.  "We drove it last night and the map was hanging on the wall of the gym this morning!"  We had driven it the night before, and we had also carefully reviewed the water stops on the map that very morning.  We later learned that the lead runners has mistakenly followed a police car down that road, thinking it was a lead vehicle; but we had never seen a lead vehicle in this race before.  As we watched one after another of the runners, including Anthony, turn down the road, suddenly a small pack came toward us on the correct course, with the rest following, and I could see that Martha was in the lead.  "There's my wife!" I said.  "She knows the way!"  Martha later told me that she had watched the runners in front of her turn and in a split second had realized that they must all be going the wrong way.  For a half-mile or so she led the race until faster runners caught up and passed her.  Anthony and most of the others came by us about five minutes later; they had run perhaps a mile before realizing their mistake.  "I should have known better," Anthony later said.  "I've run this race before."

It would not have been easy at the very beginning of a race not to be caught up in the moment, and I later told Martha that I was as proud of her for having the confidence to know where she was going as I was for finishing what proved to be a tough race for her.  They were like lemmings running off a cliff, and when I searched for the foregoing image (which I am probably using illegally), I found that (a) it is, as expected, a myth that lemmings run off a cliff and commit mass suicide, and (b) there are many political cartoons on the internet capitalizing on this mythical phenomenon, most of them featuring our current misleading con man of a President.

But back to the race.  The 5-K went well for me; I felt strong, even on the hills in the final mile where I passed several younger runners (always an immensely satisfying experience to an older runner!), and in a time of 35:17 I achieved my goal of running faster than last year by nearly 30 seconds.  I discovered at the awards ceremony that I was also first place in my age group, although there was only a handful of us over the age of 70.  

After the awards, I walked up to Sonoma Road where the race had started and watched for the half marathon runners to pass by in their seventh mile.  Anthony's wife Sharon was there, too, and we chatted while we watched first him and then Martha pass by.  Martha looked strong and positive, but with inadequate training and the temperature rising I knew the next six miles would be tough ones.

I walked down to the track where the race finished and watched runners crossing the finish line, which can be very inspiring.  Not many people were standing there, so I tried to applaud and speak to each of them.  "Good job!  Nice strong finish!"  A little word of encouragement can mean so much at the end of a difficult struggle.  As expected, Martha's time was slower than her time last year, but eventually she came into sight, rounding the curve on the track, running strong and staying in front of a younger woman.  I could tell that she had given it everything she had.

With a finish time ten minutes slower than last year, Martha found with some surprise that she was third in her age group (as was Anthony, despite his extra mile).  

So it was a good day.  In the parking lot, I passed a woman who I recognized from the 5-K.  "It feels good to be finished, doesn't it?" she said.  "It's the best feeling in the world!" I said.  We drove back to our hotel, the Waynesville Inn, recovered a little, and joined the throngs of people at the Crafts Fair they always schedule on this same weekend on Main Street.  Our late lunch was at Boojums, a little place we had discovered last year.  Then we returned and sat outside our room and watched golfers finishing up their afternoon game in the waning light.  A group of people from Chattanooga were staying in nearby rooms, and one of the women talked with us for awhile.  They come very year in October and play here, she said, and it turned out - small world - that she knew some of the same people Martha had known at Highlands Country Club.  They had ordered take-out barbecue, and after it had been delivered we were surprised and pleased to see them all stand in a circle, bow their heads, and give thanks. 

It was indeed an evening for giving thanks, to be grateful for fitness and health and for achieving new goals.  It was a beautiful setting at the edge of this golf course, and with temperatures cooling it felt like fall was in the air. 

We are looking forward to the coming weeks, with crisp temperatures, falling leaves, and the fragrance of wood-smoke in the air.

Change of Plan

In my last post of nearly two weeks ago, I noted that we had both completed a ten mile run in preparation for the Bethel Half Marathon on October 12.  "It has been an unusually steep climb up the slope of this training plan to the summit of a final long run," I said, "Still three miles short of the distance of a half marathon.  But it succeeded in making us confident that we could complete the race in two weeks time."

Now that those two weeks have nearly elapsed, I have reconsidered that confidence.  I ran six miles last Saturday, and three-mile runs twice this week, and after due consideration it has become apparent to me that, while I could complete a half marathon by walking and running at a 13-minute pace, I have no desire to do that.  If I'm going to run a race, I want to do my very best, and there has simply not been enough time for me to adequately train for a half marathon after the layoff this summer following hernia surgery and our trip to Britain and Ireland.  Also, the risk of injury would be too great in running a race that I am unprepared to run, and I don't want to miss the rest of our racing season.  So last night I sent an e-mail to the Race Director asking if it was too late to switch to the 5-K Saturday.  I received an immediate reply:   "Hi Richard! Not too late at all. I will log in and switch you now."  So it is done.

Martha, on the other hand, buoyed up by her silver medal in the Senior Games, will have no problem completing the half marathon despite her own lack of runs longer than ten miles.  For myself, I hope to at least run the 5-K as fast as I did last year, and I am looking at a series of shorter races this fall, leading up to Atlantic Beach this winter and the Crystal Coast Half Marathon on March 7.

It's good to have goals.  But it's good to have realistic goals.

Both the 5-K and the half marathon courses at Bethel are beautiful, mostly on two-lane roads out in the countryside east of Waynesville.  I ran my first half marathon there, way back in 1998, and went on to run it three more times, as well as completing the 5-K last year.  I hope to be prepared for the half marathon next year.  The weather forecast is good, with temperatures expected to be in the low 50s, and we are looking forward to the race.

Ten Miles

The week went by quickly here at the beach.  Tuesday, I ran three miles early and then we drove to New Bern, an hour away, for lunch at Morgan's Tavern.  Wednesday morning, I heard bagpipes playing again and saw our piper standing out on the beach.  He was attracting more interest by morning light than he had in the dark, and shell-gatherers and dog-walkers stopped to listen as he went through his repertoire.

For lunch, we attended a "Brown Bag Gam" at the N. C. Maritime Museum in Beaufort.  We have attended these programs in past years (in fact, we are members of both Fort Macon and the Maritime Museum).  Interested visitors pack a brown bag lunch (or pick up some take-out) and listen to a maritime-themed presentation by one of the curators.  A "gam," by the way, is "a social visit or friendly interchange, especially between whalers or other seafarers.  Today's program was about Lightships and Light Towers (as opposed to lighthouses constructed on the shore) and we found it interesting as usual.

After lunch we walked around Beaufort, one of our favorite places.  It was named by Travel and Leisure as “America's Favorite Town,” and its laid-back charm is infectious.  It is easy to find a shady bench down on Taylor's Creek and simply watch the boats come and go.

Thursday, after another three-mile run, we took a ferry from Beaufort to a destination we had never visited before, Sand Dollar Island, out in the Sound between Rachel Carson Reserve and Shackleford Banks.
 

We were surprised to find that the “island” seemed to be little more than an exposed shoal of sand, and indeed our ferry captain said that during the winter, it is often submerged at high tide.  There were no trees or vegetation of any kind, just a few shells and plenty of sand dollars.  It was a true “desert island,” and I found myself thinking of that Laurie Anderson song, Blue Lagoon:

I've been getting lots of sun.

And lots of rest. 

It's really hot.
Days, I dive by the wreck.

Nights, I swim in the blue lagoon.
Always used to wonder who I'd bring to a desert island.

The sand dollars were not lying around on the sand, but instead could be found only by wading out in the shallow water just off the sand shoal, where they told us you could sometimes feel them with your toes.  Martha found one, along with a pretty shell we could not identify, while I contented myself with wandering around on the sand taking photos.

The week, as I said, went by quickly, and every day was hotter than the preceding one.  So today, Saturday, we knew we had to get started early.  I set the alarm for 4:30 a.m. and we were ready to go by 6:00 a.m.  I did a couple of laps around the parking lot, waiting for it to become light enough to safely run on the road and not trip on cracks.

It was a tough run, ten miles in unaccustomed heat and humidity, and we were both drenched with sweat when we finished.  It has been an unusually steep climb up the slope of this training plan to the summit of a final long run, still three miles short of the distance of a half marathon.  But it succeeded in making us confident that we could complete the race in two weeks time. 

Tomorrow morning we will drive back to Raleigh, and then to Highlands, grateful for this week of running and preparation and adventure, bagpipes and laughing gulls, sunrises and sunsets, and the ceaseless sound of the surf breaking on the shore.

There's Always Something to See

Have I said how good it is to be back here at the beach?  And how much we appreciate Lizette allowing us to stay here?  What a joy it is to go out on the top of the dunes to do my Tai Chi every morning, sunrise coloring the horizon.

The sun is rising due east, behind the neighboring houses, rather than toward the southeast as it does in January, I notice.  One of the peculiar delights of this south-facing beach is that we can watch both sunrise and sunset over the ocean; it rises straight out of the water towards the southeast and sets just beyond Oceana Pier toward the southwest.  Another change I notice this time of year (aside from the outdoor swimming pool being open and enthusiastically populated) is that, when I return to the dune-top deck for the second time with my cup of coffee, it is still hot when I arrive.  Sometimes in January it has gotten cold during the quarter-mile walk out to my frosty little seat.

Martha did not waste any time identifying events we might want to attend this week, starting with a 9:00 a.m. birdwatching walk at Fort Macon State Park; we have even packed our binoculars.  It is already warming up on this first day of Fall, and I have applied insect repellent against the gnats, which are non-existent in January.  Park Superintendent Randy Newman is waiting for us and he remembers us from programs we have attended in the past.  Randy is a kind of "bird whisperer" - sometimes he will actually whistle and coo, calling birds out of the foliage.  He observes these birds all year round and knows them well; his enthusiasm is contagious.

 
In no time we spot the ubiquitous mockingbird, which Randy tells us usually repeats his song three times, as opposed to the brown thrasher (twice) and the catbird (once).  He sees a scarlet tanager, too, and I am quick enough to follow his sudden finger-point.  We walk down onto the beach and watch some seabirds, sandpipers and gulls; Randy tells us he has seen some gulls making nests on the rooftops of Staples and Food Lion, which have tile roofs. 

These brown pelicans soar into view right on schedule.  We see laughing gulls, too, immature ones whose heads are not yet distinctly black.  Randy spots what he thinks may be a frigate gull, too, though it is too far away to be sure; these remarkable birds can remain aloft for months, riding the air currents for tremendous distances.  He ends up checking off 26 birds on the list in the little pamphlet he has distributed, whereas most of us are lucky to check off a dozen.

Randy despairs, as he usually does, that there was not very much activity this morning, although we thought the Fort was bustling with birds.  "But there's always something to see!" he says, a phrase that I love to use these days.

There's always something to hear, too!  After an afternoon walk on the beach, we ate dinner and watched the sun go down.  At 9:00 p.m., Martha said she thought she heard something, perhaps someone's ring-tone out on  the walkway.  We opened the doors and discovered that somebody was standing out in the darkness by the ocean, playing the bagpipes.  Bagpipes are not designed to be played indoors, and standing on an ocean shore (or perhaps on a Scottish moor) must be the best places to wail ghostly melodies out into the night.  The piper went through several familiar tunes, including Highland Cathedral, one of our favorites.  After he had finished, I could see him walking in semi-darkness down the walkway into our building, and as he passed under the balcony, I applauded.  "Enjoyed that!"  He doffed a red cap and disappeared inside without speaking.

Atlantic Beach

It has always been beneficial to me to have goals as a runner, and while they are not as ambitious as when I was younger (half marathons instead of full marathons, slower finish times) they still help to focus training and carry us to another finish line and its feeling of accomplishment.  The next goal for both of us is the Bethel Half Marathon on October 12, less than three weeks from now.  It is as short a time to "ramp up" for a race as Martha's handful of training runs before her Senior Games.  But perhaps we will both benefit from the down time as I am speculating she did.

My tried-and-true training plan for a half marathon consists of increasing weekend long runs, once every two weeks, from six to eight to ten to twelve miles, and mixing in hills and tempo runs during the week.  With only three weeks, we have done the best we could, running six miles the first Saturday we returned, and yesterday jumping up to eight miles; the plan is to run ten miles next week, back off for a week, and then run the race.  It has become very hot and humid here after that brief respite last week, into the upper seventies by mid-morning, so we set the alarm early yesterday and got started at 7:30 a.m.  It went well, although I could feel the effects of the heat toward the end.  But it was nice to be running on familiar Fort Macon Road again, flat, sea-level, and little traffic.  That is why we enjoy training here in January and February so much.

This afternoon, we had a nice visit with Artie and his stepson Troy, and then moved into the condo for a week.  It was good to be here again, and the improvements made since our last visit are good ones - new surfaces in the hallways and the balcony.  And, of course, that glorious wide beach, significantly warmer in September than in January.

North Carolina Senior Games

It has been almost two weeks since we returned to Highlands, and it has been a bit of an adjustment.  I am finding that I still awake at 6:00 a.m. or earlier, while it is still dark.  And when I get up during the night it takes me a minute to remember where I am and how to get to the bathroom.  Of special concern for we runners (which is the ostensible topic of this blog between all the traveling) is the paucity of running during out travels, almost a month during which we were able to find time to run only twice, a total of three miles.  We both resumed running as soon as we returned, though, and Martha ran some intervals this week and said that everything felt fine.  She has a short time to ramp up to the big event of the summer, the North Carolina Senior Games.

Readers of this blog may remember that, way back on May 6, Martha qualified for the Games by running a 5-K on the Franklin track and taking first place in her age group.  That meant that she could run the same event in the State finals, which were held in Cary this year.  I am so glad that she wanted to go on to the next level in a much more competitive field, racing against women in her age group who had qualified from around the State.  At the age of 64, she knew she would be at a disadvantage in the 60-64 age group.  (As I have discovered myself, only a year or two makes a huge difference in these more advanced age groups.)  But she has become a competitive runner who often surprises herself these days.

We were concerned about the heat in Cary, but fortune sometimes smiles upon determined runners, and a weather front brought cooler than expected weather.  The race was held on paved trails in Bond Park and was mostly shady, which also helped.  We had checked into a nearby motel the day before and had an opportunity to check out the course, although as it turned out on race morning, the route had been changed and was no longer the same as the course map posted on line.  The weather was perfect.  "I wish I were running, too!" I kept saying.

A timing company was present to manage the chip timing, and the race started on time.  Martha got off to a good start, and runners quickly thinned out on the narrow paved trails. 

She told me after the race that the course was deceptively difficult, with tree roots making for uneven pavement here and there.  And at one point, the volunteer who was supposed to be directing the runners was not at his station, and she ran for several precious seconds in the wrong direction before realizing what had happened and getting back on course.

For my part, I enjoyed chatting with the other men and women who were waiting for their spouses.  I walked several laps around the parking lot at the finish and returned when the first few runners began arriving.  What a surprise to see Martha's familiar pink singlet coming around the corner, way ahead of schedule!  She looked strong, but I could tell that there was not much left in the tank; she had given it her all.

Her finish time was 27:53, faster than we had both expected, and it earned her a second place finish and a silver medal.  In reviewing her race book later, she discovered that this was the fastest time she had run since 2012.  Not many runners in their 60s can claim an accomplishment like that!  Is it possible that, rather than bemoaning the lack of training over the past month, the down time could have been responsible for the faster time?

Races like this are inspiring to an aging runner like me.  The men and women walking up to accept their medals at the award ceremony looked very fit indeed, and the loudest applause was reserved for the oldest man finishing the race, who was 93 years old.

Martha had realized when we arranged earlier in the summer to travel to Cary that we would be less than half an hour from Raleigh, where her aunt Lizette lives.  For several years, Lizette has graciously allowed us to stay in her condo in Atlantic Beach, less than three hours from Raleigh, during the coldest winter months.  It has been a wonderful escape from the cold and the snow, and we have come to love that area of the State a great deal.  So she had arranged to stay at Lizette's condo for a week after the race at a time of year when we have never been there before.  The grass might actually be green!

So we checked out of our motel and drove to Raleigh, where we had a nice visit with Lizette, who turned 90 in March and does not look it.  Two beautiful women! 

As it turns out, Lizette's son Artie, Martha's cousin, was going to be visiting the condo the same weekend, and we were looking forward to the opportunity of seeing him, too.  We had made arrangements to stay at a nearby motel while Artie was at the condo, one that we had often passed while driving down Fort Macon Road, the Caribbe Inn, a name so corny it was cute.  The little motel is family operated and has five stars on TripAdvisor, and it was a gem, brightly painted in pinks and turquoises, slightly retro but clean and neat.  The owner, Trish, was (as we say in the south) "as friendly as she could be."

The Inn backs up on Money Island Bay and features boat slips; we watched one visitor arrive in a small boat, tie up, and go inside to register.

Out in the parking lot were several big pickup trucks with ice chests on racks behind the tailgates and holders for fishing poles.  The next morning we watched two or three of them depart shortly after sunrise for a day of fishing.  I sighted this fellow doing the same thing off the dock by the boat slip - a Great Egret.