For Times Gone By

We have been organizing a New Year's Resolution Run for more than a decade now - at least as early as 2004, because I have photographs going back that far.  Most of them have been taken by Bob Sutton, and although he is no longer running with us because of injuries, he showed up faithfully to take another photograph today.  We decided to have our run a day early this year because New Year's Day falls on Sunday and most of the runners in the photograph would have had to choose between going to church and going to run.

I always enjoy this run.  We encourage walkers and ex-runners and dogs, old and young, and it was good to find so many of each gathering at Founders Park in 27-degree temperatures to start (or end in this case) another year with a goal of staying fit.  I started out with the front runners, and then I circled back for the slow, the injured, or the happily walking (because I have been in all of those categories this year), wishing one and all a Happy New Year.  Then I circled back again, and again I passed friends going this way and that way on the frigid streets, finally hooking up with Fred and Jennifer as Fred finished out his 10-mile run - what a warrior he is!

I spent some time looking at all of the photos, remembering past New Year runs in colder temperatures than today, in light rain, in blustery wind - "running about the hillsides."  Here is the earliest one I have, and it was indeed sobering to scan over the faces and remember the sunny days of past years.

Many of the runners in this photo were here again today.  But there are some who are no longer with us, and some who have crossed the final finish line.

Should old acquaintances be forgotten,
And never brought to mind?
Should old acquaintances be forgotten,
And days of long ago!

For times gone by, my dear
For times gone by,
We will take a cup of kindness yet
For times gone by. 

We two have run about the hillsides
And pulled the daisies fine,
But we have wandered many a weary foot
For times gone by.

No SIM Card Installed

Technology can be frustrating these days.  Everything seems to be clicking along fine as I type this post, but who knows what hurdle Microsoft or Apple will place in this runner's path?  I have already narrowly escaping an unwilling upgrade to Windows 10 (check out the program "Never10" you Windows 7 lovers out there).  Yesterday I had to learn what a SIM card is and why, even though I successfully transferred the content from Martha's old phone to her new iPhoneSE and activated it two weeks ago, suddenly the message NO SIM CARD INSTALLED appeared and it has stopped working.

It turns out that SIM cards break just like everything else, I suppose.  So after reading countless articles on line and making a fruitless visit to a Verizon store in Clayton, I chatted with a faceless Verizon representative today who was actually quite helpful.  "The easiest way to check the SIM would be to try the SIM card from the other phone." suggested Gini.  "OK," I chatted back, "I can try that," but I told her I did not have the little SIM Card Removal Tool that the woman in the Verizon store had used earlier.  "You don't need a tool to pop it open," Gini said.  "An earring, or paperclip will work, too."  I had already found that my colored, plastic-covered paperclips did not work.  So I rummaged around in my desk drawer and found this little costume-jewelry brooch, which brought back wonderful memories, so fitting as we near the end of 2016:

I had forgotten that this little keepsake was in my desk.  My Mom, who died four years ago this coming January, had it carefully packed away among her things, with a hand-lettered note saying that my brother Fred had brought it back from Sicily on his first "Med" cruise.  Fred was a Marine, and so this little brooch reminded me of him, too.

And it popped the little drawer in the side of Martha's iPhone open immediately, as if it had been designed for that purpose, a purpose utterly unimaginable in 1964.

The new SIM card is on its way via FedEx.  Thanks, Fred - Semper Fi.  And thanks, Mom.

Running in the Fog

Today I ran six miles in unseasonably warm weather and thick fog.  Nobody else was out except for that couple I keep seeing walking their dog on Horse Cove Road.  The drizzle thickened a little from time to time, bringing me almost to the brink of discomfort but not over.  The fog was a little dazzling; I stayed on back roads because of the poor visibility, and the fragrance of the wet woods was all around me, the only sound my own footsteps on the gravel.  It made me understand a little bit that well-known and enigmatic line from Macbeth:

"Light thickens, and the crow

Makes wing to the rooky wood."

Round and round I ran, up Lower Lake Road, around Gibson and Harris - the route my companion runners now call "Mary's Four Miler" - back around by the school, and then finally braving Main Street where the cars were scant after all.  It was a misty twisty run in the thickening light this day after Christmas.

I am relieved that this holiday is over, after all.  It has been a stressful time as we have struggled with loss.  Now we can look ahead down the road to a new year, as I talked about in my previous post -  new races to run, new books to read (perhaps I will take up again that Ngaio Marsh book Light Thickens of which Wikipedia reminded me when I looked up the Shakespeare!), new music to listen to and to learn.  Let's go exploring!

Christmas Eve Run

I wasn't sure who would be running this morning.  It is Saturday, but it is also Christmas Eve with all of its time constraints:  obligations of family, holiday dinners, and candlelit services in churches.  But Bob and Skip were there, and after we warmed up a bit, Vicki and Jeff arrived.  The temperature was remarkably warm, perhaps the warmest Christmas Eve in recent memory.  We had run a mile and a half when we heard Fred coming up behind us, and then we passed Sam and Derek, too, all of us out for a Saturday run despite the steadily worsening drizzle.  Fred and I ended up running the longest - eight miles for him, nine for me - probably because we had fewer obligations than the rest.  I ended up running the last mile by myself, calling out "Merry Christmas" to the dog-walkers and shoppers on Main Street.

It was a good time to remember once again how much I enjoy the company of friends on the road.  I ran two runs entirely be myself, both of them 5-K time trials, on Monday and Thursday this week, and like most hard workouts I did not want any company.  Solo runs are a time for reflection and prayer, a time for practicing how to focus, a time for looking around and seeing the ever-changing world around us.  But it is a good thing to have friends, too, and to be enjoying together the gifts of running and health and fitness. 

We talked about upcoming races, books we wanted to read, vacations we were going to take; and we talked about larger plans too:  Skip moving to Tryon next month, Fred moving to another house.  It is the season for summing up what we have accomplished during another year - and in my case in particular moving forward after loss, accepting with gratitude the gradual recovery from injury - and for looking ahead with eager anticipation to the next one.  That's the phrase Fred told me his Preacher had been using in his Advent season devotional.  And my run today was a kind of devotional, as if often is.  The long road winds around and around the curves in the road ahead of us and we cannot see very far down it at all.  But it is true comfort and joy to be sharing that road with friends.

In the Dark of December

These are unusually mild days for December, and I have been enjoying walking the streets of Highlands on the days when I am not running.  It is great cross-training and, as I have declared in these pages before, a slower pace reveals a different world passing by.  It is a world seen and heard in more minute detail:  blue skies, the fragrance of chimney smoke on the air.  Today I walked beneath the outstretched tobacco-colored leaves of oak trees on Fifth Street that were still tenaciously hanging on as they will be for most of the winter.  They made a high, tinkling sound, like sleet falling lightly on the roof.  In the distance a hammer was being swung idly somewhere on Village Walk, where all of the roofs are being replaced by crews of Hispanic carpenters.  I could hear their jovial chattering and laughing as I walked up Chestnut Street.

If you walk through this little Town at night, it is even more magical:  all the lights are on, and the skating rink is beautiful even when unoccupied after dark.

Tomorrow is Christmas Eve, and the streets today were filled with visitors - families with children, folks exclaiming at the decorations in the shop windows.  I exchanged "Merry Christmases" with so many friends and complete strangers that I lost count.  Despite the alarming headlines in the national news, people in Highlands today seemed to be filled with a peaceful, amiable kind of seasonal warmth.  I am under no delusion that this is the way most of the world lives - strolling brick-lined streets with shopping bags in hand - but I decided to forget about Trump and Assad and refugees drowning in the Mediterranean for just a little while and simply savor the feeling of peace on earth, goodwill toward men, as we pray it might eventually be in God's goodness and grace.  Winter Solstice has come and gone and tomorrow is Christmas Eve.

“I heard a bird sing
In the dark of December
A magical thing
And sweet to remember.

We are nearer to Spring
Than we were in September
I heard a bird sing
In the dark of December.”
 – Oliver Herford"

Unlike Any Other

My last post was about the rain and so is this one.  After such a long drought, it is wonderful to hear the rain on our roof during these December nights, to spend days gazing out the window at fog and drizzle. 

This morning I was doing my Tai Chi on the deck in light drizzle.  The early morning light cast a dim bluish light on the foggy yard below me, but midway through my morning session - I think I was at "golden rooster stands on one leg" - I became aware of shadows moving down through the yard:  two deer, strolling through the apple trees, turning to look at my slow movements but unperturbed by my presence.  I counted myself fortunate that they did not gallop off in terror, as if they thought I was a part of the natural world, like the hemlock boughs gently moving up and down in the breeze. 

My early-morning Tai Chi is such a part of my daily life that I look forward to going outside first-thing, regardless of weather conditions, curious to see what I can see.  If it is raining harder than this morning, or if the deck is slick with ice, I will stay under the overhang of the porch.  Each morning is completely different; each day is unlike any other.  Often I see a thin wash of bright golden light along the northern horizon where the sun is already beginning to fall on the side of Satulah and Brushy Face above Clear Creek Valley.  The school bus with its bright flashing light rolls past at precisely 7:20 a.m., brakes hissing in the curve below our house.  Sometimes I see snowflakes gently floating down.  I have had memorable mornings on sandy beaches watching the sun rise over the Atlantic.  But I am seldom rewarded as I was this morning by seeing these graceful creatures below me, so close and magical.

As I drove up the Walhalla road, I could see fog lying in the valley below, the trees along the road finally bare of leaves by mid-December, the rhododendron glistening with what had now become light rain.

I wondered if anybody would show up at for our Saturday-morning run and was pleased to see Bob in his car; we started off quickly, sensing that heavier rain was on the way.  The rain was really not very heavy - I have run marathons in much worse conditions, something Bob and I laughed about.  We passed two runners we did not know near the School.  And then Sam came up behind us and we rain together, and he had a story to tell, too!  He remembered running his first marathon while loudspeakers were telling people to take shelter from the thunder, lightning, and terrible downpour at the starting line.  And then the gun went off.

I know that drivers see us out in conditions like this and are certain that we are lunatics.  But if this is what lunacy feels like, count me in.  Each day is unlike like other; each run is completely different.

Sweet November Rain

I decided several years ago not to complain about weather conditions, and although there has been a little bit of grumbling and backsliding from time to time, I have not wavered far from that decision.  I recall one day several years ago when I was running with Fred and complaining about the "heat" (by which I meant temperatures in the 80s); he informed me that he had just returned from Atlanta that weekend where it was a very humid 98 degrees.  There really is nothing to complain about up here where runners from Louisiana and Savannah and Florida and "Hot-lanta" escape and join us during the summer for a little relief.  (Runners in those places begin their daily runs at 5:30 a.m.)  On the hottest of days, we run "The Shade Route," down to the end of Fifth Street, up Chestnut, and back around unpaved Lower Lake Road in the cool of the rhododendron, under the shade of towering trees.

So I am the last to complain about the rainy cycle we suddenly find ourselves in, after weeks and weeks of drought - 36 days without a drop of rain recorded at the Asheville Airport, and Gatlinburg in flames.  The wildfires have finally been extinguished, the water table is rising, the lakes are filling up again, and the mountain streams are gurgling under the roads where we run.  I ran up Big Bearpen yesterday morning (which I have avoided because of the dust), between the rain on Sunday and the rain this morning, and all along the way I could see little streams and waterfalls cascading down the side of the mountain.  It is a time of year for watching the weather radar, choosing the best opportunity to run, and perhaps actually getting wet again! 

After such a long drought, what a wonderful experience it is to get wet from time to time, the satisfying fragrance of fallen leaves all around in this sweet November rain, the Christmas lights sparkling in the fog, wet shoes squishing and splashing in puddles on the road.  And a warm home to which we return again in soggy thankfulness.

"He will give the rain for your land in its season,

The early and late rain,

That you may gather in your grain and your new wine and your oil."

 - Deuteronomy 11:14

Christmas Party

On Sunday afternoon, most of the local members of the Highlands Roadrunners Club braved a cold but very welcome rain and met for the Annual Meeting and a drop-in party at Mountain Fresh.  The side porch has a gas fireplace, and aside from the cumbersome picnic tables, it was a cozy place, the rain escalating from time to time to a downpour, then tapering off.  It was a time for seeing old friends who are not running at the moment, make new acquaintances, share memories and stories and plans for the future.  What a gift we share!  I counted 27 in attendance, including little Klara Wilmarth, nestled the whole time in a warm sweater at the chest of her father, Kevin, this future runner looking around with 8-week-old eyes at the commotion all around her.  We run for at least 27 different reasons, and many of  us spoke about what running means to us, and what Skip Taylor means to us.

In my newsletter I will write this:  "The guests of honor were Skip Taylor and MaryAnn Sloan, who will be moving to Tryon next January.  Skip was a Founding Member (AKA “Foundering Member”) of the Club and the Secretary for 20 years; he served in many capacities, helping with races, serving as Race Director himself, organizing the annual parties for the past two years, and raising funds for Scholarships and for the Kelsey-Hutchinson Founders Park.  He has been a steadfast friend and companion to many of us and we have enjoyed countless good miles out on the road with him over the years.  Both he and MaryAnn will be greatly missed by the Club, the Community, and First Presbyterian Church."

But that only touches the surface of our friendship, for we have shared many confidences during those long, deep, wonderful conversations out on the road, as the beauty of the world slides by and the road climbs and turns and meanders its way in deep shade and dappled sunlight, where ideas form and take shape.  There is little that compares to a genuine Running  Buddy!  I hope we will continue to meet from time to time and run some miles together.

Christmas Parade

Today was the day of the annual Christmas Parade in Highlands, so our Saturday morning running group was sparsely attended; only Skip, Bob, and Sam showed up, and I ended up doing the last five miles in my eight-mile run by myself.  I circled the block by Highlands School several times and noticed increasing activity every mile, and finally, by 10:30 or so, vehicles and floats were beginning to assemble over by Harris Lake.

There is nothing like a small-town Christmas parade! - lots of fire trucks and other emergency vehicles, the High School band (this year, inexplicably, the Franklin High School band marched), the Garden Club and their choreographed program, several vintage T-birds and Corvettes, many cute dogs attired in their seasonal best, the men of the free Dental Clinic dressed up like tooth fairies, and of course the Mayor up at the front and Santa in the rear. It is an interesting mixture of the secular and the religious (as, indeed, Christmas in America has become).

The Highlands parade also boasts something many small parades do not have - real camels, handled by three stalwart men from the Methodist Church, and Joseph leading Mary on a real donkey - "The Reason for the Season "  The camels are huge creatures, and somewhat alarming up close as they swing their heads curiously over the crowds lining Main Street. 

A Christmas Parade is not for the cynical!  Some years it seems as if there are more people in the parade than watching it.  But as I walked along Main Street, I found myself exchanging greetings of Merry Christmas again and again, with dozens of friends and neighbors and complete strangers. Of course it was bittersweet, tinged by memories of my Mom who used to enjoy these parades every year and my Father-in-Law who always drove the Mayor in his T-model, both of them gone and missed.  But life goes on and the parade takes place each year regardless of those who are no longer here.  That mysterious warmhearted suspension of everyday life this time of year that we call "The Christmas Spirit" began to materialize in Highlands this morning as Advent begins. 

Rain At Last

What a wonderful sound it was to hear rain on the roof all Monday night!  A gentle, sustained rain, just the kind we needed.  Tuesday it cleared off for the day, but then today a second wave came through, off and on, gently at times but at other times absolutely pouring.  And there is more rain (or snow!) coming Sunday and into next week.  It seems as if the great weather patterns which determine our daily weather, the jet streams and the high- and low-pressure areas, are finally converging into a period of prolonged rain and snow.

I had one of those perfect runs this morning, getting started a little after 9:00 a.m. before the rain came.  The streets were still wet from Monday, the temperatures warm, and after a mile, I decided there was no reason not to run fast.  So I turned in a 9:38 mile, and then a third mile pulling hills as hard as I could.  Might as well make a hard day as hard as I can, I thought, especially since most of the stiffness from these nagging injuries seems to be at bay for now.  I glanced at the sky and thought, it still isn't raining, why not go an extra mile?  I did, and finished up sore quads but that wonderful feeling of having done one's best.  I stretched, got in the car, and almost immediately it started to rain, and rain pretty hard.  Perfect timing!

I only hope that this same rain is also drenching the Great Smoky Mountains, where it is so badly needed.  14,000 evacuated from Gatlinburg, four dead, and many building damaged.  Douse those flames, O Lord!  For the same devastation could so easily happen here. 

"Drip down, O heavens, from above, 

And let the clouds pour down righteousness; 

Let the earth open up and salvation bear fruit, 

And righteousness spring up with it. 

I, the LORD, have created it."  

Isaiah 45:8

Thanksgiving

Running was easier this week because cool northerly winds kept most of the smoke from wildfires out of Town.  So Monday I was able to run six miles, mostly with Fred - he was doing some road intervals and I arrived just in time to join him - and today I ran six miles, mostly with Vicki.  Running with friends makes the journey easier, a little maxim that applies to more than just running.

And just in time for Thanksgiving, the weather forecast is suggesting a 30% chance of showers.  Wouldn't that be a cause for genuine thankfulness, if it actually materialized overnight?  Our parched land is so thirsty that even a few drops would be welcome. There is a better chance next Tuesday, and we patiently watch the progress of low pressure systems making their way across the nation, hoping that the moisture will not dissipate before it arrives as it has so frequently this month.

Tomorrow is a time for giving thanks, and despite this being a year of great loss - the death of Martha's Dad, other losses close and hard to bear, and perhaps even the loss of progressive government in these dark, parched times - we continue to remain hopeful and to give thanks.  Martha read about a wonderful idea this year:  a "gourd of gratitude" in the center of our table, a pumpkin on which we wrote all the things for which we are thankful.  "Rain" found its way on our little gourd, and "friends," and "running" (since this blog is ostensibly about running, after all), and so much more that we quickly ran out of room.

That's how it should always be, after all.  There should be so much thankfulness in our hearts that it overflows, so that there is not room enough for it all to fit, on little pumpkins or in little blogs.

Wildfires Surrounding Us

My friend Anthony took this photo of Germany Valley, clear as it should be in November on top, and under it the current view obscured by smoke from all of the wildfires surrounding us.

These are indeed frightening times!  We have just elected a completely unqualified and truly disturbing man as President of this nation.  And each day the long drought continues, as if it echoes the drought of reason and civility in our times.  It has not rained in a very long time, and the leaves are like tinder, crinkled and completely dry, waiting for the arsonist's match.  Because that is who has been causing the many fires all around us:  an arsonist, spotted here and there lighting these many wildfires.  Yesterday he tried to burn the mighty Bob Padgett Poplar Tree in Horse Cove, but fortunately they were able to put the fire out.  Who would do such a thing? 

We owe our firefighters a debt of gratitude as they have struggled to contain fires in Cliffside, Whitewater Falls, Lake Lure, and Warwoman Dell only 10 miles or so from our house, in rugged terrain.  The smoke blows over the mountains and it is hard to tell where it is coming from - one day it will be clear down here in Clear Creek and smoky in Highlands, and the other day just the opposite.  Running and hiking are risky in this unhealthy air, so we wait for relatively smoke-free air and get on the road when we can.  Last week I drove out to Zachary Hospital to get in a short run because it was so thick in Town.  On the satellite map it is truly a shocking sight.

So we continue to pray for rain, and for reason, and for the good that we have to believe lies in most of our hearts despite the hatred, racism, and bigotry.

Transition

We awoke to a strong wind this morning, heralding a transition to a new season.  We could hear it sifting through the crack of the bedroom windows, and something loud clattered sharply on a roof somewhere (I could find no damage on our property, and wondered about our neighbor's metal roof). 
I sat on the deck to drink my coffee, and the wind was making that deep, low whining sound all around that it often makes in this valley.  Leaves were swirling down from the tall tulip poplar out front, and suddenly a small maple leaf fell into my coffee - a little orange tea-bag that I carefully removed.  High clouds were moving briskly west to east, and the treetops were swaying wildly back and forth.  The world seemed to be spinning wildly into another season.

What a change from only two days ago!  Those maples next to the Presbyterian Church on Fifth Street are now completely stripped of leaves. 

I walked up to the top of Sunset Rocks again today, hoping to avoid the snarl of traffic in Town, only to find myself being passed along the road by three or four cars, Lexus and Cadillac SUVs.  I stepped reluctantly out of the way, but when I reached the top I excused the traffic; coming down form the rocks I encountered a tiny, tiny little hiker, perhaps only 9 or 10 months old, an elder on each side of him more or less floating him over the rocks, laughing and enjoying perhaps his very first hike.  It was a great day to be outdoors, whether walking or driving.

The view from the top was especially beautiful - the turbulent sky off to the west, the side that we properly call "Sunset."

The other side, "Sunrise," is not as well-known and is sometimes overlooked.  Horse Cove seemed quiet and peaceful, its green fields far from the bustle of downtown Highlands - two sides of a coin.

And so we transition from October to November, and I dig on the laundry-room shelf for my gloves and warmer shirt in preparation for tomorrow's run when the temperatures is predicted to drop from the unseasonably 70s and even 80s of this week to a sharp 34 degrees.  I am ready for it.

Fall Color

After a late start, the Fall color is finally reaching Highlands, creeping up the sides of the mountains from greens into yellows into reds.  It has been unusually warm - the warmest October I remember since living here - and there has only been one light frost so far in Town (last Wednesday).   We are also in a drought, which at the ower elevations is making leaves turn brown and simply drop off early.  But up here on the Highlands Plateau there is spectacular color here and there - the maples on Fifth Street are stunning, and the burning bush on Smallwood Avenue is a hedge of fire.

"Beautiful day," visitors will say as we pass them on morning runs.  I told someone the other day, "Absolutely!  We wait all year for conditions like these!"  A breeze springs up and suddenly there is a shower of golden leaves coming down all around.  Bright, clear blue sky for days and days.  Surely there is no better season for running than this, or for simply walking as I did this afternoon, up Sunset Rocks.  The color is just at its peak now, and it won't last long.

Autumn Breeze

Martha has run this early-October race in the Tallulah Gorge twice, if I remember correctly, but I had never run it before today.  I always seemed to be nearing the end of a marathon training program this time of year, with a 20-mile run the day before, and remember standing at the finish line taking her photo and feeling a little rueful not to be enjoying what she described as the most beautiful course she has ever run.  But there will be no marathon this year, and it was a fine day, leaves just starting to turn, temperatures in the low 70s and a little cloud cover, too - just perfect conditions.  The setting is indeed gorgeous, and the course follows the shore of Tallulah Lake and then a paved Greenway through the woods.

These days I am running according to that aging runner's dictum, "The older I get, the faster I was."  Slowed by the uneven path and its branches under the pavement, I ran a minute or so slower than expected (but still faster than my last race) and more importantly I felt strong all the way through the 5 kilometers, a first this year, I think.  It is indeed a good feeling to improve after an injury, to feel strength returning, as I have recorded in the pages of this blog.

While I passed a few younger runners (always a satisfying experience at my age!), I could not catch several others, including an amazing little boy who had no legs - no legs! - who was propelling himself forward by swinging rhythmically side by side on a little three-wheeled platform, pushed up the hills by his Dad who was running with him - truly incredible!  And as I neared the finish, I heard the sound of runners coming up behind me on both sides, left and right, and although I held on gamely I could not fend off two younger runners catching me at the line.  Martha took this classic photo:

"We are not now that strength which in old days

Moved earth and heaven;

That which we are, we are." - Tennyson

A New Season

Fall officially arrived at 10:21 Thursday morning, and it is beginning to look like it in Highlands.  The tips of those maple trees next to the Presbyterian Church on Fifth Street look like brushes whose tips have been dipped in crimson paint and are standing on end. 

The Joe Pye weed is nodding along the road, the jewel weed is flecking the woods with gold, and the burning bush has begun to blaze.

It is beginning to feel like it, too, cool enough in my chair on the deck this morning to see the steam rise in wisps from my coffee cup.  It is surely the best time of year for running, which is why so many races are held here in the South during these coming months.  We are eyeing some of them, starting with the Autumn Breeze 5-K on October 2.  And who knows what more?  It is a new season.

Buck Trott

I have attended too many funerals this year, and I wonder if that is normal for someone of my age.  Now Buck Trott has finally succumbed after lingering in Fidelia-Eckerd for a very long time, not knowing family and friends in the past few months, and I attended his funeral today at the Church of the Incarnation.

I knew him when he was a vital, energetic, hearty Mayor when I served as Town Administrator.  He knew every single employee of the Town by name, and would often visit the Warehouse on Poplar Street at lunch time to talk to them; he was a tireless advocate for good salaries and good benefits, and he appreciated (as did I) the important and often thankless jobs of the Electric Crew and the Sanitation Crew.  Well into his 70s he still had more energy than most of us.  I remember "fighting the good fight" with him on more than one occasion.  Once we left for Raleigh early in the morning to battle against some misguided folks down the river who were trying to thwart our plans to expand our environmentally superior wastewater treatment plant.  I remember him standing and passionately addressing whatever Committee it was - everybody in Raleigh knew Highlands when Buck was Mayor! - and persuading them by, I think, his sheer earnestness.  At the end of a long day we were driving back to Highlands, and it was growing late; I kept asking, "Buck, would you like me to drive?  Take a break?"  But taking a break was not his style.  "No, I'm fine," he would insist, and then embark on the next topic of conversation, looking at his instrument panel in the dark, as I imagined he did on one of those many missions he flew in Vietnam; I could almost see him gazing left and right to check his engines.  He sometimes attributed his good healthy and energy to his exposure to Agent Orange, which I decided might be a Fountain of Youth if a soldier could outlast it.

He did so much for the Boy Scouts and the Church of the Incarnation, and when he was no longer Mayor he stayed involved in everything.  He delivered home delivery meals to my Mom every week for a long time.  "How's your Mom?" he would always ask.  And, of course, he was the best Santa Claus anyone has ever seen.

Now he has flown his final mission.  And I will miss him.

Climbing into Fall

I have written in this blog before about climbing to the summit of Big Bearpen mountain.  It has become a weekly event for me on Mondays, and since returning from our trip out West it has paid just as many dividends as the weekly long runs and the intervals.  Two weeks ago, upset about the sudden death of my father-in-law, I even ran it twice.  You can burn up a lot of stress running up therapeutic mountains like this one!

We cancelled our planned trip to Cades Cove this year, too, an annual outing which had been scheduled for Friday (Alan's birthday) and Saturday (Jane's birthday).  It was surely not the right time to leave and we could not have enjoyed it.  But Anthony, Sharon, Vicki, and Art all went and Anthony took this gorgeous photo, which made us want to return to this magical place next September, or perhaps even sooner.  As I was on the way down Big Bearpen this morning, I ran into Vicki on the way up, and stopped to ask her all about the weekend; eventually, I decided to run with her to the summit again.  And by the time I reached the top the second time, all of the lingering fog had disappeared and you could see far into South Carolina, and around the back side Whiteside Mountain stood out clearly against a blue sky.  Leaves had begun to turn a golden shade on some of the oak trees on the summit.

And so I felt that I was climbing the summit of another season this morning, leaving behind not only the hot and humid mornings, the thick curtains slanting through green trees, but also the heartbreak and the sad memories of the past.  I felt that I was climbing with renewed strength into new possibilities, a place where the bright colors and the distant vistas grow clearer once again.  Climbing into fall.

Alan Lewis

I see that my last post on this blog was August 29 and it was called "A Little Suffering."  The rest of the week was very encouraging - Big Bearpen on Monday, a set of 400-meter intervals on Thursday, and 10 miles on Saturday as planned.

But everything can change so rapidly, in the blink of an eye.  Martha was talking to her Daddy on Saturday night a little after 7:00 p.m., finding out about his day.  It had been a good one for him, too, taking his King Midget to Town twice (pictured below with his friend Bill) - visiting with his fellow lovers of old cars on the Loafer's Bench on Main Street - and now he was sitting in his favorite chair watching NASCAR on television.  And then suddenly he stopped talking, and just like that he was gone.  "Out, out, brief candle."

The rest of the evening was a blur - the frantic dash to Town, the blue and red lights flashing in the dark, the EMTs there in less than five minutes working as hard as they could to bring him back - but Martha knew in her heart that he was already gone.  His 86th birthday would have been September 16, and now there is a large void left where this decent and gentle man used to be, his wonderful sense of humor, his devotion to his family and his church.  We miss him so very much!

But he always insisted after all that he was living on borrowed time; his own father, a Methodist minister, had died in his sleep at the age of 51 of a heart attack.  And surely this is the way he wanted to leave this world, with absolutely no suffering and no pain, as if God had tapped him gently on the shoulder and led him away in a moment when he was supremely happy.  Immediately after his death, the house was filled with an astonishing outpouring of love and support for Jane and the family.  He was buried on Wednesday, a sunny and unseasonably warm day, family and friends filling First Presbyterian Church and then gathering at beautiful Highlands Memorial Park to celebrate a life well-lived. 


And I will miss him, too.  I ran hard yesterday, and although he was not a runner he was with me every step of my run.  And now he has crossed the final finish line.

Rest in peace, Alan Lewis.

A Little Suffering

It's been more than a week since my last post, and I was thinking about that statement I made:  "This means I have to do some real work, and experience some suffering, if I am going to get back in reasonably good condition again." 

One of the earliest lessons I learned about running was that in order to get faster you have to do some training, and that training puts a runner out of the usual comfort zone and into the area of suffering.  There isn't anything wrong with simply running every day, at the same pace and distance.  Running like that has plenty of benefits.  But I remember standing at the finish line of our local 5-K many years ago with Coach Richard Smith, who at the time coached cross country for Highlands School.  "I'd like to be able to run a little faster," I admitted, as we were watching runners finish the race.  "If you want to run faster, you have to train faster.  You have to do speedwork," he said.  So I began to learn about interval training, from him and from other runners in our running club like Morris Williams (who is reaping the benefits of grueling hill repeats these days).  It is not easy to do this kind of running, physically or mentally, but it never fails to pay off.

Keep in mind that there is a distinction between pain and suffering.  I used to admire those T-shirts that brave young boys would sport at races that said, "Pain is weakness leaving your body!"  Those are the slogans you use when you have never been injured.  Real pain is your body telling you to slow down, or stop.  Suffering, on the other hand, can be endured.  And those of us who do speedwork on a regular basis suffer through it because the results are almost magical.  Week after week, those interval times become faster and faster, maybe only by a second or two, but there is definite progress.

My commitment to running intervals was reinforced when the daily motivational quotation I receive from Runner's World arrived in my in box today:

Suffer on,  fellow runners! 

The 2016 Twilight 5-K

It has been two weeks since we returned to Highlands, and I have been working on this blog ever since, going through the notes I took in my journal, and also taking care of all of the chores that have accumulated over 30 days - an overgrown yard and garden, new drapery rod for the sunroom (that suddenly collapsed in my hands when I went to open them last week), and all of the bills and mail that have accumulated.  You know how it is if you have traveled for some time:  returning is sometimes difficult!  But we have been rewarded by the memories we have, and updating this blog reminds me what a wonderful journey we had.  So many people have followed our journey on Facebook over the past month, and now perhaps some of them will read this blog.  My friend Christy told me at the race last night, "I want to come with you next time!"

Running - since that is what this blog (ostensibly) is all about - has also been difficult.  I fared pretty well from the long drive, because in reality Mini Coopers are designed for motoring and they are comfortable cars.  But I am terribly out of shape!  Over the past 30 days I managed to run only 14 miles, although admittedly they were runs so memorable that I will never forget them.  Last week I managed to get in 13 miles, and this week 15 miles, including the Twilight 5-K last night for which I was totally unprepared but was not about to miss.  (Martha had better judgement!)

This race has become a big one, and it is well-organized by Race Director Derek Taylor and the Rotary Club of Highlands.  The new timing system went well, and participation was up from last year despite the rain that, as expected, waited all day and then obligingly began to come down in cool, silvery curtains midway through the race.  I was surprised and gratified to win a second place award in my age group!  (Beaten out of first place by Mayor Pat Taylor).

But this means I have to do some real work, and experience some suffering, if I am going to get back in reasonably good condition again.  So be patient with me, fellow runners, as I struggle over the next few weeks, and as my speed and distance gradually improve.  Because I have faith that it will.

The next big challenge will be running the 11-mile Cades Cove Loop in four weeks.  And perhaps there will be a race or two before then?  Who knows? 

"Crossing the starting line may be an act of courage, 

but crossing the finish line is an act of faith."

– John Bingham

Chatanooga to Highlands

On the last day of our journey, I go outside to do my morning Tai Chi, and find myself gazing at a little mountain behind the hotel upon which a cloud had nestled overnight, just like it does in our part of the world, and it makes me a little homesick.  And then I run out of ink in my pen for taking notes in my journal!  I have run out of everything, including the last of the Holy Granola from San Simeon 4000 miles away.

Lookout Mountain is a revelation, a beautiful place, and I regret that we did not make a special trip here years ago to walk on these trails, through Fat Man's Narrow, up to Lover's Leap, through narrow passages, over gracefully arching rock bridges and across swinging bridges.

I have indeed run out of everything, because at the top of Lookout Mountain, a message comes up on my phone that I have no more storage and can take no more photos.  So I reluctantly begin deleting some of them, including a great shot of a soaring hawk that keeps circling high above us where we sit down for lunch at Cafe 7.   There we sit and enjoy the view of seven states, as advertised (although in the haze of the morning I admit that I could not see them all).

I know we are back in the South, in Tennessee, when our waitress tells us her name is Scarlett, and she grew up in Chattanooga.  "That river used to be polluted!" she said.  "But now it is beautiful."  And we have the quintessential gourmet foods of the South:  not tacos or pasties or buffalo quesadillas, but catfish, fried green tomatoes, pimento cheese, and succotash.

I have always enjoyed the drive back to Highlands along the Ocoee River (which we have made many times after marathons), site of the 1996 Olympics.

It is hard to believe that they were held exactly twenty years ago! ( I am looking forward to watching this year's contests when we return.)  Today the river is packed with white-water enthusiasts as it never is in December when we have always driven this road.

And so the roads become more and more familiar as we near Highlands - Murphy, and then Franklin, and then as evening approaches a lovely little town unlike any we have seen on our journey.

I try to take a photo of Main Street as we drive down it, but by now I have definitely used up all my photo storage.  But there it is, peaceful, with a little bit of August haze on the mountains.  It is good to be back home again!

And as if a book-end for our long 9000-mile journey, we pull in the driveway in heavy rainfall, dash down the walk in the kitchen, turn on the light switch, and . . . nothing.  Our power has been out since 11:00 a.m., we later discover, and will not come on until 1:00 a.m.  As it was the night before we left!

But perhaps it was meant to be.  Instead of busying ourselves with unpacking and doing laundry and sorting through our mail, which we have stopped to pick up at the Post Office, we sit at our little bistro table on the back porch in the waning light, straining to read the newspapers and find out all that has happened in our little town in our absence, enjoying a cool glass of Pinot Grigio.  And thinking back over the last 30 days and our epic journey across America in our little Mini.

Memphis to Chattanooga

We have been on the road for nearly a month now, and I must admit that while I began this journey with Tennyson . . .

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees

. . . I am starting to remember Paul Simon now - not "America," which we feel we have experienced at least in part from one end to another, but this one:

Homeward bound,
I wish I was,
Homeward bound,
Home where my thought's escaping,
Home where my music's playing,
Home where my love lies waiting
Silently for me.

(Although in reality my love does not lie waiting silently at home, she is my constant companion on this wonderful trip!)  Yes, one begins to miss the comfort of one's own mattress.  And good coffee!  (I won't mention any hotel chain in particular, but, really, coffee in a tea-bag?!  That is just wrong!!) And a room where there is no air conditioning, simply an open window letting in the stridulation of crickets and the dry ratcheting of cicadas.

Martha suggests, however, that, as long as we are seeing all of the highlights of the country that we have missed, we should not make a "beeline" for home but stop in Chattanooga to see that most famous sight of all, Rock City, depicted on the sides of so many barns throughout our part of the world.

We have been through Chattanooga many times, but always, it seems, on the way to the Rocket City Marathon in Huntsville or back again.  I never wanted to climb Lookout Mountain before a marathon, and was too tired afterward on the long drive home, exhausted and sore and triumphant.  So now we will take the time to visit this city which is benefiting from another successful story of downtown revitalization.  The Tennessee Aquarium and the Chattanooga Greenway along the river have been on the radar for a long time.

I learned more about those barns, by the way, scattered here and there along the highways of the South; they were actually a stroke of genius in advertising that I read about here:

But before we arrive in Chattanooga, we have a very pleasant drive through northern Mississippi, through pretty rolling hills that remind us that we are homeward bound.  We stop in Corinth, which still has one of those thriving downtowns that are fast disappearing.  And then Decatur, Alabama, for lunch at The Railyard - very good, and discovered on TripAdvisor.  They told us in Decatur that many of the buildings downtown here are owned by a 95-year-old lady who keeps the rent affordable so that it can remain alive.  This is a very nice little city, which hosts an art festival every year.

We do see many SEE ROCK CITY signs on the lovely drive along the river to Chattanooga, competing with BIG DADDY'S FIREWORKS, and I wonder if they are original or are now more modern advertising.  We find the downtown area in Chattanooga where Terminal Station and the Chattanooga Choo Choo is headquartered.  Schoolgirls are laughing and enjoying the cool evening; one of them says her friend is looking for Track 29:

Pardon me boys, is that the Chattanooga Choo Choo?
(Yes Yes) Track 29!
Boy you can give me a shine
(Can you afford to board, the Chattanooga Choo Choo?)
I've got my fare
And just a trifle to spare.

We have discovered a tiny but very well-known place called the Terminal Brewhouse (as opposed to a Terminal Disease), which is packed with lovers of good beer and delicious food; we don't mind waiting for both.

After dinner, we walk next door to Terminal Station (ca. 1909) and appreciate the grand architecture of a bygone era when Railway Terminals (like the one in Cheyenne, too) were central to the life of so many cities.

 

Conway to Memphis

It is already getting warm in Conway - not that "dry heat" out west, but that humid heat in the South that leaves a person without a moisture-wicking running shirt in heavy sweat.  I walk through the lobby to get some coffee and the 24/7 news is blaring on the TV:

"Twin toddlers die in hot car, father charged"

"Trump walks back story"

We have avoided news as much as possible on this journey, except for the occasional snippet of Political Convention and Olympic Games, and it is always so sad to hear it again.

On our way to Memphis, we pass many "reliefs" and "sloughs" (rhymes with either "cow" or "moo," depending on what side of the road you are from) along the White River.  And swamps - so different from country we were just in a few days ago, where there were dry gulches and "washes" that were really dry riverbeds.  Here there is water everywhere, too much water in some places.  We drive past fields of rice and beans, and Martha sees them harvesting melons in one field, laborers tossing them down a row  like basketballs, a fire brigade of harvest.  We pass by "Maggot Slough" and I try to imagine trying to market property there as a Real Estate Broker:  "Property backs up on historic Maggot Slough.  Minutes to Town."

We cross the mighty Mississippi again on a big steel bridge and then we are in Tennessee, in Memphis, home of the Blues and of Elvis.  Our destination today is Graceland, which we have heard about for years but never visited.

But first we check into the "Heartbreak Hotel," directly across the street.  In the lobby there are 50s-era TVs playing old Elvis movies continuously, and the decor is from that era as well, but it proves to be clean and efficient.

I admit that I had a little cynicism about Elvis from the outset - the gaudy outfits, the persona that he created, the bad movies - but I was very impressed with Graceland.  The house itself is more modest than I thought it would be.  And how endearing that he invited his Mom and Dad to come live with him - he always said he would take care of them when he made it big.

The rooms are decorated in 50s-era style (some might call it kitsch), but this was how the man lived, and my eyes were opened a little about the laid-back, low-key person he was at home, inviting friends over to play the music for which he had such a passion.

They were showing film clips of interview he had given in the 50s and 60s, and he came off, too, as a modest person.  When critics complained about his early gyrating performances that made the girls scream, he would merely say, "I have always tried to live a clean and straight life, and I just want to make music that people enjoy."

And music he did make!  All of his gold records are on display here, but also some sound clips about his early songs.  I am not especially a fan of Elvis the Crooner or the Gospel Singer, but go to You Tube and listen to his first recording of "All Shook Up," and some of his other earlier music.  He really did make a huge step forward in the creation of Rock and Roll, and that's how he got this plaque embedded in the sidewalk on Beale Street.

I was especially struck by this little portrait, down in the corner of a display case, where he is kneeling to just be nice to a little girl on one of his trips to Hawaii.  He was a humble and generous man at heart, and I have come away with a new appreciation for this "King."

Although my nerves are already frayed from driving in Memphis traffic, Martha persuades me that our visit to the city would not be complete without a visit to Beale Street.  So we make our way downtown and park in a big parking garage, and walk around a little to see what is going on in this place where the Blues began.  Because I do love the blues!

There are families out strolling around everywhere, and the place seems safer than I had imagined (although we were told at our hotel to be sure to get out before 11:00 p.m., when it turns into a different kind of place entirely - one that I might have enjoyed at one time in my life!).  Small black children are doing cartwheels down the middle of the street.

B. B. King's Blues Club is here (another King) and he has his own plaque in the sidewalk out front.  What a legend he was, he and his guitar Lucille!

We follow the sound of LOUD and very good blues to its source, a makeshift stage in a little courtyard, where this guy is playing - I don't even know his name - a skinny little guy in a T-shirt, a bass player over to the side in his own world, and a ferocious drummer, playing some of the most awesome Stevie Ray Vaughn covers I have heard in a long time.  He looks like he grew up out in the country listening to John Lee Hooker and B. B. King and Stevie Ray his entire life.

We enjoy a cup of very good gumbo, have a cold beer, and sit listening in awe to this band for a long time, while his manager (I guess) would come and pass a bucket around from time to time.  This is what I came to hear in Memphis - the blues still being born and re-born, in new fantastic iterations, out here on the streets.