Valentine's Day

There were a lot of good things about running ten miles this morning.  First of all, it was a cool, overcast day, with just enough of a northerly wind to keep from overheating.  We started early and finished by lunch time.  Moreover, last week, I had picked up the pace in the last mile of an eight-mile run, something I used to do in marathon and half-marathon training, a test to see if I was still able to summon up a finish-line kick at the tail end of a long run.  I had been pleased with an 11:52 pace, fast for me these days.  Today I did the same thing and was even more pleased with an 11:35 pace.  Non-runners may not be able to appreciate how much just a few seconds can contribute to a feeling of blissful accomplishment.

Another good thing about running ten miles was that Martha was doing the same thing as I was, my wife of 40 years and my Valentine of 42 years.  We passed each other several times during our different back-and-forth routes to Fort Macon and back, and each time we did I thought again how wonderful it is to be able to share this joy of running (and many other joys) with someone I love.  On the kitchen counter is a small bouquet of flowers I gave Martha for this occasion, and two Valentine's Day cards that we gave each other but have not yet opened.  (The daffodil was liberated from a generous patch at the Maritime Museum in Beaufort.)

And finally, there is the matter of dinner tonight.  It is always nice to have a reward on the horizon after a long, hard run.  I have visualized a delicious dinner in the final miles of many marathons!  That dinner tonight will be a romantic one as well, and will be enjoyed at Amos Mosquito's, a local restaurant right down the road from here that only takes reservations on New Year's Eve and Valentine's Day. 

It is an unusual name for a restaurant, and its origin is explained on the website by Chef and co-owner Hallock Cooper:

"Knock, knock.

Who’s there?

Amos.

Amos who?

A mosquito!

"Not very funny, but it really is where we got our name. We had a picturesque, waterfront location. We had a unique, outdoorsy decor theme. We had a good start on a tasty menu. And, we had a long list of really bad names for a restaurant.

"During a brainstorming session someone suggested 'Skeeter’s.' We all liked it because it went along with our décor, but felt it didn’t sound nice enough to reflect the high quality food and service we planned on providing. That’s when Pam remembered how Hallock would mis-tell this joke: Hallock always said “Amos Mosquito” instead of “a mosquito.”

 We are eagerly looking forward to it, our appetites made keen by many miles!

Rescue Men

Tuesday we attended another interesting program at the Maritime Museum in Beaufort.  It seems as if they are doing more events this year, both the "Brown Bag Gam" series of talks and also some documentary films.  Today we watched a documentary called Rescue Men:  The Story of the Pea Island Lifesavers.  Inspired by the book Fire on the Beach, Recovering the Lost Story of Richard Etheridge and the Pea Island Lifesavers, it told the story of Station 17 at Pea Island, the only African-American crew serving in the U.S. Lifesaving Service, and Richard Etheridge, born a slave but ultimately the first commanding officer of a life saving station.

We have actually passed this abandoned station many times, on our way to Hatteras Island just on the other side of Oregon Inlet, and often wondered about it. 

The story is also a story of the injustice and racial segregation that permeated this part of the country for so long.  It was a remarkably progressive thing to do in that political climate to allow African Americans to man a lifesaving station, and they served with distinction.

The documentary began, appropriately enough, with the well-known quote by Martin Luther King Jr.:

The ultimate measure of a man is not

where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, 

but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy.

That is surely a quote we should remember in these political times!

After the film, we walked around Beaufort, surely one of the most beautiful little towns that we know.   In fact, it was named “America’s Favorite Town” by Travel & Leisure magazine several years ago, and Southern Living designated it the "South's Best Small Town 2019."  It is filled with little gardens and alleys, like this narrow courtyard on Craven Street. 

  
Beaufort also contains some beautiful historic homes dating to the 16th and 17th centuries, many of them reconstructed following hurricane damage over the years.  I have always loved this little architectural gem right on Front Streeet, the historic Carteret Academy Building, ca. 1842, with its distinctive mermaid weathervane.

I wandered down to Taylor's Creek and walked along the waterfront for awhile.  Across the water is the Rachel Carson Reserve, accessible only by boat, where a small herd of wild horses live; locals say they can occasionally see them on the far shore. 

This morning, we returned to Beaufort's Maritime Museum once again for another "Brown Bag Gam" luncheon talk called The Great Dutch-Net Debate.  Museum Curator David Bennett told us about the introduction of the pound net in North Carolina in the 19th century and the transformative, although controversial, impact that it had on the state’s commercial fishing industry.  Fishing until then had been done using seine nets, and the Dutch net, also called the pound net, was a technical innovation that was also less expensive.  That sounds like a dull subject - dare I say a dry subject? - but it touched on many topics, including the efforts of moneyed interests in the fishing industry to lobby the State legislature for favorable treatment.  And now we know the distinction between Dutch nets, seine nets, and gill nets.

Next time we go to Blue Ocean seafood market we will have to ask what kind of method was used to catch all those fish displayed on ice.

Movies and Oysters and "Butter Butts"

It was an eventful weekend in Atlantic Beach , starting with our eight-mile run on Saturday morning.  The temperature was 39 degrees, but the wind had died down to five miles per hour so it was pleasant running.  I checked the weather in Highlands and discovered it was snowing there, and Martha saw on Facebook that there were many cars that had slid off the slick roads.  We would not have been running eight miles in such conditions.

The Beaufort Picture Show was continuing its excellent series of films this weekend, all of them critically acclaimed and a far cry from the movies showing in the Atlantic Beach and Emerald Isle cinemas this year, although we have enjoyed those venues in the past.  This afternoon we returned to Beaufort for a showing of Paterson, which was absolutely wonderful, starring Adam Driver as a bus driver in Paterson, New Jersey, who also wrote poetry.  "How do you make a whole movie about the mundane that doesn’t stay mired in the humdrum? You enlist a filmmaker and an actor who are both so attuned to the poetry of the everyday that they seem like a match made in cinema heaven," the movie review in Rolling Stone Magazine said.

Sunday morning, we attended the Methodist Church once again and were treated with a sermon by Pastor Powell, one of his finest in the series:  The Way, the Truth, the Life.  What a wonderful church this has turned out to be for us.  I don't always fit comfortable in a church pew, I like to say, because of my long legs, but this church fits me well.  We learned that all of the churches on Main Street in Highlands had cancelled services due to the snow.

After Church, we returned to Beaufort for an event we discovered last year.  On the Sunday before Valentine's Day, the Beaufort Historical Association welcomes the public to enjoy food and fellowship at the Beaufort Historic Site, where several historic buildings have been restored.  It was a sunny day, just like the Sunday afternoon last year when we had attended this same event.

Local restaurants had donated a wide variety of food.  And on long tables beside the historic Apothecary building, two men were dumping oysters onto a table, some of them raw and some of them steamed.  "These are the best ones!" one man told me as he expertly slid his oyster knife into a raw oyster and popped it open.  I held out for the steamed ones; all of them were local North River oysters, that body of water that lies between Beaufort and Otway.

 

This morning I awoke at first light, well before dawn, because we planned to attend another Bird Hike at Fort Macon, something we have done now for three years or more.  It seemed as if the whole world was in a perfect state of equilibrium when I went onto the dune-top deck for my morning Tai Chi.  The sun was rising in the east, and the full moon was setting in the west, both of them visible from my little platform on top of the dunes.  And the wind was exactly zero miles per hour, balanced for a few brief hours between a south wind and a north wind coming later in the week.  The warmer temperatures seemed to be encouraging birds, which I suppose had been huddled in shelter during the high winds last week; I could hear them chirping and twittering all around me.

The bird hikes are led by Head Ranger Randy Newman, who is both enthusiastic and very knowledgeable.  He carries a battered and well-thumbed copy of Peterson's Field Guide to Birds in a little pouch by his side, and it is uncanny how quickly he can pull it out and find the right page.  "See, this is the red-breasted merganser.  This time of year it looks like this.  It doesn't have its colorful plumage until mating season."  Randy also has a collection of interesting facts that he shares in an off-handed way.  "Now, mockingbirds all call three times, and brown thrashers twice; we call them the second cousins.  And catbirds one time - first cousins."

I always attempt to take photos of the birds we see on these hikes and blow them up afterward, but usually without success.  We saw red-winged blackbirds and yellow-rumped warblers (which one couple in the group said they call "butter butts" in Indiana), but they were too small to be seen except through our binoculars.  An exception was this pair of white ibises in the leafless trees standing over the swamp west of the Fort.

This is a popular places for ibises to roost.  Two years ago, we came along this path and saw dozens of them roosting in the trees, which was a sight to behold.  It was my 69th birthday, I remember, and Martha reckoned there must have been 69 of them.

We also saw this shy night heron, his back turned to us, down on a little island on the other side of the swamp - well-camouflaged in this photo, but perfectly clear in our binoculars with its delicate green legs.

Then we crossed over to Beaufort Inlet and walked along the ocean, spotting mergansers and bonaparte gulls and gannets, and a king bird high in a red cedar tree, none of them visible when I checked my photos later.

The gannets have black tips on their wings, and I had always thought they were sea gulls.  "They come down here this time of year but nest in Newfoundland," Randy told us confidently.  All told, we spotted (well, Randy spotted) 26 species of birds on our hour-long hike.

Martha overheard a woman from Jacksonville ask Randy how long he had been there, and if he had done the loggerhead turtle program in the past.  He said he had been there for 35 years and always did the turtle programs.  "Then you must have taught the turtle program to a class of children I brought here 20 years ago!" she exclaimed.  "It was so interesting!"  That must have made Randy feel good, to be remembered for so long.

While we were walking along the channel, I spotted this starfish at the high tide line; everyone else was gazing through binoculars at the sky and ocean, and I nearly stepped on this little fellow.

I scooped it up on a shell and hurried to where the others were gathered, and the woman from Jacksonville was especially thrilled to see one.  "Would you like to have it?" I asked.  And she cradled it in her hand on the shell for the rest of the hike.

On the way back to the Fort, we walked past the newest exhibit, a 150 mm cannon, circa 1918, used here in World War II for coastal defense.  Most people think of the Fort as a part of Civil War history - it was bombarded by Union forces in 1862 - but it also served a defensive purpose in the early 1940s.

It was mid-morning by the time we returned, so we quickly dressed out and went for a short run - three miles for me, four for Martha - on a sunny, warm, windless day.

Small Craft Warning

Last night, we experienced the most severe storm that I remember while staying in Atlantic Beach.  There was rain off and on all day yesterday, and by afternoon the wind had picked up considerably.  We were watching TV, something we rarely do, because the President had delivered a long and rambling post-acquittal "speech" that we felt we needed to hear.  From time to time, the sound was muted and a tornado warning message streamed across the screen for nearby areas, including Carteret County.

Sometime in the small hours of the morning, perhaps 1:00 a.m. or 2:00 a.m., we were awakened by the full force of the storm front.  For an hour or two, bright flashes of lightning lit up the room, and booms of thunder seemed to shake the condo.  Torrential rain blew into the condo on a powerful south wind; it seemed as if someone had opened a fire hose on the windows, and I kept thinking, "Surely these windows will blow in."  What a disaster that would have been!  We just installed new mini blinds in the master bedroom, and I had also installed a piece of molding on one side that had been missing since we have been coming here.  I could imagine shattered glass all over the bed and the new mini blinds plastered to the opposite wall.  But then I remembered that this place had withstood several hurricanes over the years, most notably Florence in September of 2018.

This morning, the rain had disappeared and there was blue sky, but the wind had increased even more.  I struggled to push open the south-facing doors leading to the walkway, and ended up doing my Tai Chi under cover, partially blocked from the wind.  My weather app confirmed that there was indeed a Gale Warning in effect all day, with west winds 30 to 40 knots and gusts up to 50 knots - that's 57 miles per hour for us landlubbers - and a Small Craft Warning, with waves up to 16 feet expected.

We had planned to run this morning, but as the Gale Warning notice on my phone advised, we decided to alter plans and to remain in port, in the safe harbor of this sturdily constructed condo building.  I ventured out this morning to check our mail at the post office and mail the latest printout of this blog to Martha's Aunt Lizette.  The traffic lights on Fort Macon Road were swinging wildly.  It is amazing that the power did not go out as it surely would have in Highlands.  But I noticed that the power poles are tall here and sturdily constructed, higher than any of the surrounding trees.

This afternoon, we went to another Brown Bag Gam at the Maritime Museum in Beaufort, an interesting talk that we heard in slightly different form last year called Love at Sea, prompted by Valentine's Day next week.  The wind had not relented at all, and I held the steering wheel tightly as we crossed the three high bridges between here and Beaufort.  Ironically, the temperature is mild, 62 degrees, and the sun is brightly shining.  We would be walking on the beach right now except for that wind, which as I am writing is rattling the palm trees around the swimming pool like feather dusters being vigorously shaken out.

The small craft warning remains in effect all day.  And while I have often braved the wind to go running, on days like this I consider myself a small craft.

Huggins Island

As the previous post indicated, we are indeed fortunate to be able to spend January and February here in Atlantic Beach.  It is because of the generosity of Martha's Aunt, Lizette, that we are able to stay in this condo and pursue the running and other outdoor activities that we enjoy, as well as the many other cultural and educational activities that we have discovered over the years.  We have joined Friends of Fort Macon and the N. C. Maritime Museum, and so we have access to the many activities there.  Martha has also learned how to discover additional activities, such as at the N. C. Aquarium in Pine Knoll Shores.  We buy the weekly paper on Sunday, and that's where she learned about an excursion to Huggins Island.

Huggins Island History Tour, the notice in the paper said.

I had noticed that "Dress for the weather" sentence.  Temperatures were in the 60s but there was a brisk 17 mph wind from the southwest.  So we prepared for the outing by wearing Goretex hiking boots and windbreakers.

It was a beautiful morning, and I found myself awaking before dawn, just in time to witness another sunrise from the dune-top deck.

The ocean had calmed down overnight, and overhead I watched several squadrons of pelicans, one after another, flying in formation from east to west, as if they had been released from captivity at the same time as the sun. 

We had visited Hammocks Beach State Park last year for the first time.  It is located on the other side of Swansboro, about a 45-minute drive from Atlantic Beach.  The Park, named the Coastal Park of the Year two years ago, covers 1,611 acres  and consists of the relatively large Bear Island (where there are campsites and hiking trails) and three smaller islands, Dudley, Huggins, and Jones, located in the nearby mouth of the White Oak River.

We arrived at the handsome Visitors Center early and had plenty of time to look at some of the historic artifacts and displays, including a Civil War-era cannonball discovered on Huggins Island which our guide later told us had been determined to be a live one; it had been defused and was resting safely in a glass case.

Our fellow passengers began to arrive and we enjoyed chatting with them while waiting for our guide.  One couple said they lived "right over there," and gestured toward the west; their home was on the banks of the Intracoastal waterway, and the woman had lived there since the Second Grade.  She had visited Bear Island often but never Huggins Island.  We thought we might be the most far-flung passengers until we met some folks from upstate New York near Syracuse, one of them a runner only a year younger than I am.

Our guide, Renée, had been at Hammocks Beach since 2009 and was very knowledgeable, although she said that when she arrived she had to learn to drive a boat.  Most of the State Park is scattered among the nearby islands.  Huggins lies east of the Visitors Center on the mainland.

The boat was a small, flat-bottomed ferry that held thirteen of us, including Renée.  That's an unlucky number, I thought to myself, but although the Intracoastal Waterway seemed a little choppy, Renée seemed to know what she was doing.  And there were life jackets under the seats.

We were surprised to find ourselves out in open water approaching the waterfront in Swansboro on our way to the eastern shore of Huggins Island.  We could see the familiar sights of the "Friendly City by the Sea" which we had visited many times (see post of January 14), including the tall two-story Saltwater Grille from which we had often seen boats passing by while eating lunch, perhaps even this very one.

Renée was a font of information, and as we approached the shore she told us that the island had been settled for farming in the 1800s.  Old photos she had seen showed it clear cut of trees, with houses and barns.  The channel had been dug out by hand, along with several small coves.  It was now uninhabited and had been acquired relatively recently by the State Park system for $1 million.  It was home to wild pigs, deer, possums, many species of birds, and at least one coyote.  During the summer, she said, it was also well-populated with chiggers, ticks, and snakes.  We were glad that it was February.

We circled around to the north side of the island, and the water was pretty choppy out in the open water, throwing up sheets of spray over several of the passengers.  I had brought a light windbreaker and it served its purpose well, although my Goretex rain jacket would have been a better choice.  One or two of the passengers looked miserable, soaked in their blue jeans and sweatshirts.

We pulled up to the shore and walked up into the woods, where the remains of the earthen-walled fort from the Civil War were still visible.  The White Oak River had been the dividing line between Union and Confederate forces, and artillery had been placed here, but it had not suffered the bombardment that Ford Macon had received before its surrender.

The woods were a tangle of live oak trees.  Martha and another man, among the first ashore, saw a large dog-like creature running away through the woods, which they were sure was a coyote.

We climbed up on top of one of the earthen walls, sheltering a bunker, while Renée told us a little about daily life for the 80 soldiers garrisoned here in wooden buildings.  It is hard to believe that this little island was inhabited by farmers and then by an army those many years ago.

We were hoping to see some birds, but although we heard them high in the trees, we did not spot any.  Renée said she had been told that one particular bird inhabited the island; she had tried to see one for a year or two - often hearing its high, flute-like call -  before finally spotting one:  a painted bunting.  She passed around a photo of this beautiful bird, that looked like an artist's palette.

It was growing late in the afternoon and the wind had picked up as we boarded the little ferry again and crossed the Waterway toward the Visitors Center.  The water was rough and we all got pretty wet, so it was a relief to finally return to shore and a heated building before going our separate ways.  One woman who had sat next to me, huddled in a soaking wet sweatshirt, said she was cold and wet.  "But you had a great time, didn't you?" I asked, and she instantly agreed.

Saying Grace

One of the abiding pleasures of running races is the enjoyment derived from eating delicious food afterward.  Our friend Jim, who passed away two years ago at the age of 82 - an extraordinary award-winning runner - was once quoted in the Asheville Citizen-Times on this topic.  He was being interviewed at the finish of the Biltmore 15-K and he said, "I run so I can eat!"  I suppose that's a variation on the question, "Do you live to eat, or eat to live?"  It is true, though, that food always tastes better after a race, and the pleasure is directly proportionate to the distance of the run.  I well remember those protein-filled dinners after marathons in Huntsville or elsewhere, and especially the breakfasts the next morning.

Although it was only a 5-K that I had completed on Saturday, Martha convinced me that I should derive the same enjoyment from a hearty breakfast, and it was not difficult to convince me.  So we drove to the Four Corners Diner in Atlantic Beach for exactly that.  Open Year Round, the sign proclaims on the outside of this iconic building at the main intersection.  The inside looks like an old timey diner, all chrome and curves and booths with plastic-covered menus, and huge baskets containing packets of butter and jams and jellies of every imaginable flavor.

It is always appropriate to return thanks before eating, and this has become an ingrained habit for us, even if it amounts to a mere non-denominational "We have a lot to be thankful for!"  A prayer of thanks does not need to be lengthy, after all.  I remember Rev. Charlie Parrish, our long-time Sunday School teacher and retired preacher once unexpectedly returning thanks at a Church supper with the venerable, "Good food, good meat; good God, let's eat!"  And he meant every word.

So I was touched as we walked up the ramp inside the Four Corners to see a man and a woman sitting at a table with bowed heads.  How sweet! I thought.  It reminded me of that famous Norman Rockwell Saturday Evening Post cover, "Saying Grace."

It is a beautiful painting, and I have always especially appreciated the reverence with which those two young street-smart non-praying men on the left, cigarette dangling from a mouth, look on in quiet awe as a mother and her son are praying.

My illusion was shattered as we sat down across from the young couple and noticed that they had their cell phones in their laps, on which they were doubtless completing some useless business.  "Checking in at the Four Corners," perhaps.  Our own breakfast was delicious, and after returning to the condo, we drove across the bridge to the Methodist Church again:  Communion Sunday, no cell phones, and real praying.

During the afternoon, the wind picked up again, making it uncomfortable to be out on the beach.  I donned wind breaker and gloves and hat late in the afternoon and went out on the dune-top deck, only to return in a little while.  One of our neighbors, though - a woman we have seen before from the condo - walked past me on the walkway toward the beach, straw hat flapping wildly in the wind.  "Not too bad if you bundle up against the wind," I said.  She replied, "As long as my hat stays on!  If my hat comes off, I come back in!"  Her hat stayed on - it must have been attached with a strong cord under her chin - and she stayed out on the beach for a long time beside the churning ocean.

Superbowl Sunday - Game Day!  The highly-anticipated spectacle got underway, we understand, sometime late in the afternoon.  We are not fans of professional football, although I genuinely appreciate the game itself and the skill and athleticism and team strategy that is involved.  I am more likely to watch a marathon or the Olympic trials, which football fans would find as exciting as watching paint dry.  We watched excerpts from the half-time show on our computers this morning, though, and I'm glad we did not tune in.  What a tasteless spectacle!  And the music was absolutely awful, we both thought.  So I do not apologize for spending the evening reading our books and listening to the wild wind outside the windows.

What a difference 12 hours can make!  We awoke this morning to temperatures in the 50s and just a light breeze blowing.  Not only that, but the tide has once again turned in our favor, working its way through another cycle so that low tide occurs in the morning - 8:52 a.m. this morning.  I was out the door on a three-mile run a minute or two after that, Martha not far behind me.  I turned into the Fort Macon Picnic Area and from there down onto the beach.  It was wide and flat and glorious, and if not for my tiring legs I could have run all morning, dodging the slowly incoming tide, the piles of sea foam, and little sanderlings skittering out of the way.  What a beautiful morning, and how good it felt to be alive!  I am thankful for every day, but especially for days like this one.  On the horizon, a big freighter was shimmering in the morning sun, making its way unhurriedly into Morehead City.

I showered and dressed and sat on the balcony, watching for Martha to return from her own run on the beach - five miles, all the way to Fort Macon.  In a little while I saw her shape, walking up the ramp to the dune-top deck, throwing up an arm when she saw me.   I could tell by her beaming face that she, too, had had an exceptionally good run.  I had wondered if I would see her on the beach - whether we would "meet on the beautiful shore," in the words of the hymn - but of course she had gone farther than I had.

"What a wonderful run!" she said as she came into the condo.  "We are so fortunate, aren't we?"  I agreed, and (I hope it is not too personal to say so in this blog,) we simply stood hugging each other for awhile here in the living room.

Saying Grace for another day.

Rabbit, Rabbit, Rabbit

This was the fifth consecutive year that I planned to run the Cocoa 5-K, a small race in Morehead City that is part of the annual Carolina Chocolate Festival.  Despite only a week since our last race, I was as prepared as I could be; I had run easy on Monday, and on Wednesday I had included two "intervals" in the Fort Macon Picnic Area, my fastest since we have been here.  Unfortunately, Martha was having some issues with a recurring foot injury and decided to forego the race.

Light rain was blowing hard against the windows when I awoke at 4:30 a.m., the result of 20 mph winds out of the north.  It's a short drive across the bridge to the Crystal Coast Civic Center, but this year the starting line and race registration had been moved to an adjoining building, so I was running late and had time for only a short warm-up.  They were also out of Extra Large T-shirts, which was all right with me, although I have always thought that the logo on the shirt is hilarious:  a chocolate bar in full flight, with a bite taken out of his upper corner by some predatory chocolate-eater.

The rain had stopped, exactly as it had last Saturday in Havelock, and conditions were actually the best I have seen in five years, with temperatures in the upper 40s and a diminishing wind.  The race begins in parking lots and on narrow sidewalks, so I held back until we reached Evans Street, a long, straight section, an abrupt turn around a traffic cone, and back again.  Rounding the traffic cone, I asked the volunteers, "Hey, is there anybody behind me?" which always gets a big laugh.  And there were other runners behind me!  I had a great time, calling out encouragement to runners who were ahead of me (i.e., most of the runners).  There were several strollers and a lot of young runners, too, encouraged by a $45.00 "family" entry fee that in one case that I witnessed apparently covered a pair of parents and three children.

I was pleased with my finish time of 33:31, and wandered around afterward in that post-race euphoria, chatting with other runners and waiting for the awards ceremony.  Several youngsters won awards, including a young tow-headed boy I had seen on the course completing his first race who received the loudest round of applause.  The awards were being given out by a race official who apparently did not have much experience with older runners, because I was surprised when he reached my age group of 70-79 and said, "I can't imagine this!  I hope I can still be walking at that age!"  And then he called my name.  I may have received more applause than the young man running his first race, and I was a little embarrassed.  A week ago, there had been four of us old codgers 70 and over.  And what about my friend 80-year old Fred, who (I had discovered) was the oldest runner in his 10-K in Asheville last week?  Now he's an inspiration!  I'm a spring chicken.

But I was happy to be recognized, and I think I was the oldest runner in this race as Fred had been in his.  We aging runners, I have found, reserve the heartiest applause for the old veterans in their 80s and even 90s.  All of us are thinking, "I hope I can still be running when I'm that age!"

Afterward, over lunch, Martha asked me if I knew what "Rabbit, Rabbit, Rabbit" meant; several of her friends had posted it today on Facebook.  I admitted that I had never heard of it, and she explained that it is a superstition where a person repeats these words on the first day of a month to ensure good luck for the rest of it.   

I felt a little like "Tortoise, Tortoise, Tortoise" this morning.   But I liked that round of applause for perhaps being the oldest runner in the race but by no means, I had discovered when I circled that traffic cone, the last.

And now I have good luck to look forward to all month long!