Williamsburg Turkey Trot

Five hundred miles may seem like a long way to drive for a mere 5-K race, but we have been enjoying traveling to Turkey Trots these past few years to celebrate Thanksgiving.  We have “Run with the Turkeys” in Winston-Salem, Greensboro, and Lake Junaluska.  I don’t know where I first heard about this race – it may have been while visiting Colonial Williamsburg after running the Richmond Marathon several years ago – but it sounded appealing, and we have not been to this beautiful, historic city in a very long time.

Martha had signed us up last summer so she had ample time to arrange for accommodations in a little place called the Fife and Drum Inn, which promised to be very close to the starting line.  And, better yet, she was able to reserve a table at the Williamsburg Winery for Thanksgiving Dinner, a place which we have enjoyed on previous visits.  We especially remember one magical afternoon going to a wine tasting there and then having lunch in the Gabriel Archer Tavern across the courtyard, watching the rain outside from a window seat.  It is always surprising how we remember in such vivid detail those special moments in our lives.

Five hundred miles is a long way for us to drive all in one day, so we stayed half-way both going and coming at one of our favorite safe harbors, the Historic Brookstown Inn in Winston-Salem, just on the outskirts of Old Salem, a former cotton mill with high ceilings, uneven floors, and a heating system that is not always operational.  The Brookstown was already decorated for the holidays, with a miniature village set up and wreaths and garlands in the dining room.

The Inn also features a tabby cat named Sally, who hitched a ride in a moving van and traveled cross-country years ago and (her owners being located by the chip in her ear) decided to take up the post of Hotel Cat.  Sally can usually be found curled up in the most comfortable chair in the lobby, or dozing in the sun high on a wooden beam in the courtyard, but alas she could not be found on this visit.  Here's the little sweetie on a previous visit.  "You weren't thinking of sitting here, were you?"

We arrived in Willliamsburg on Wednesday and found our room, one of only nine, at the top of a steep stairway above a shop in Merchants Square.  The George Washington Room was very nice, decorated with colonial furniture, although a little on the small side, as indeed it would have been in colonial times.  Proprietors Billy and Sharon were helpful and informative.  “Where is the Blue Talon Bistro?” we asked, the location of the starting line, and Billy pointed across the street.  In fact, we learned that the street immediately outside the Fife and Drum was the location of both the start and the finish, as convenient as any race we have ever run with the exception of the Rocket City Marathon in Huntsville, where the starting line is also right outside (although farther than in this case) and the finish line chute takes you directly into a corridor of the host hotel and the post-race food and drink.  And let me say, by the way, that there is nothing better after a marathon, when the stomach can be as shaky as the legs, as warm vegetable soup.

We found an Italian Restaurant a block away, La Piazza, and enjoyed our customary pre-race pasta dinner, then walked around Merchants Square a little to shake off travel stiffness.  The wide pedestrian streets, with its little cafés and outdoor tables, reminded us of Paris, except that the buskers (a very nice fiddler and a saxophonist) were playing Christmas carols from each end of the street.

I awoke ahead of the alarm to an unusual sound, as if someone were dropping silverware into a drawer. Practicing my Tai Chi on the rooftop patio next to the dining room, I found that volunteers were already setting up portable steel fencing on both sides of the road below me, and the starting line and clock were being installed.  The race was capped at 2500 runners, so we decided it would be smart to get close to the start on this narrow street, hopefully in front of the walkers, children, dogs, and strollers that can be more hazardous to a runner than potholes and manhole covers.  We warmed up, placed ourselves close to the start, and enjoyed the lively camaraderie of runners preparing to take part in a Turkey Trot, which I learned have become the most favorite race in the country, with over a million people participating in some 800 races.  There were families everywhere, and some of the runners were wearing turkey hats and other outlandish attire.  Such fun!

Despite the large number of runners, we both got off to a good start.  The weather was just perfect, the sun had risen in a bright blue sky, and the roads were flat and smooth with the exception of a narrow dirt road around the Capitol Building halfway through the course.  By that time most of the jockeying for position had been completed, with children darting back and forth, strollers sailing perilously past, and walkers in the middle of the road, all enjoying the race for the Fun Run it really was and thus oblivious to the usual rules of running in a serious road race. 

And there we were, running right down the middle of Williamsburg, past Bruton Parish Church and Chowning's Tavern and all the little shops and pretty colonial houses, then returning to run up both sides of the Palace Green to the Governor’s Palace, before finally making a loop around the campus of the College of William and Mary and coming into the finish line.  I had been hoping to break forty minutes, but was pleased with a time of 40:10, especially when we found the course was 3.16 miles long; had it been the correct length I would have finished in 39:30, by my calculation, and for Martha to have shortened her time of 31:39 to 31:02.  The lines for the post-race food and drink were congested, but I managed to find my way to (of course) the beer tent and enjoyed a complimentary plastic cup of cranberry lager, surprisingly delicious for 9:30 in the morning.  There were also delicious croissants, and many, many wonderful prizes being raffled off by the owner and the chef of the Blue Talon Turkey, who had organized the event.  We did not win any prizes, and we did not expect to win age-place awards in a race of this size, but Martha later found that she had finished in an impressive fourth place among 40 in her age group.

Thanksgiving Dinner at Williamsburg Winery was as delicious as we had anticipated, and afterward we returned to Merchants Square to shop and graze on light appetizers at the Blue Talon, where we were able to thank the owner for a flawlessly-organized event.  “We enjoy it!” he said, and he genuinely had seemed to enjoy calling out the awards and raffling off the prizes with good humor.

The next morning it was raining, but not very heavily, so we had Williamsburg mostly to ourselves, a lovely place to be on a rainy morning.

 I took many photos along the way, and we especially enjoyed the creative wreaths on the houses and shops.

We enjoyed a light lunch at Chowning’s Tavern, built in 1766 by Josiah Chowning, which featured a flight of beer (have I mentioned how good beer tastes after a race of any length?) and a Crock of Cheese with “good bread,” and pickled vegetables.  A talented fiddler in colonial garb played some lively jigs for us on a fiddle and on a fife. 

 
By that time the rain had stopped, and we returned to Merchants Square for some Christmas shopping.  Martha asked me to check out possible places for dinner, but I had not had much success until I spotted a sign for a seafood restaurant one block farther on.  It was starting to get dark as I stood outside Berret’s Seafood Restaurant and Taphouse Grill, and one look at the menu posted outside convinced me that it would be perfect for us.  I approached the hostess and asked if she had any table for two for this evening.   “Sorry,” she said, consulting the iPad in front of her.  “The only thing I have is at 6:30.”  I said that was later than I wanted but would check with my wife.  Then I discovered a message on my phone from said wife with a picture of Berret’s sign saying, “This looks great!”  I called to give her the bad news.  “That’s OK,” she said.  “I got one at 5:00, the last one except for 6:30.”  Like minds; like appetites.

The seafood was fresh and delicious – grilled oysters, she-crab soup, crab cakes, oysters Rockefeller, and shrimp.  Have I mentioned how good seafood tastes after a race of any length?

On Saturday morning, after packing up and bidding farewell to the Fife and Drum, we literally walked across the street to Wren Chapel in William and Mary and enjoyed a 10:00 a.m. organ recital by the organist at Bruton Parish.  The organ and the intimate space married perfectly together, and the historic organ moved to this chapel in the 1970s, with only one manual and no pedals, filled the space beautifully.

I talked to the organist after the concert and told her that my Dad had once told me he had played the organ at William and Mary, which would have been in perhaps 1939 or 1940 when he had been stationed in the Navy at the base near Scotland Neck during World War II.  It was apparently not the same organ that had been in that space at the time, but the connection was a powerful one, and it made me remember him and my Mom, both long gone now, who had met at Scotland Neck and been married in Elizabeth City, and the Thanksgiving dinners of my childhood, which I had thoroughly enjoyed even without the benefit of running a Turkey Trot beforehand.

We returned via the Brookstown in Winston-Salem (still no Sally), and on Sunday morning we heard another very fine organ while worshiping at the Home Moravian Church in Old Salem on this first Sunday in Advent.
 

We sang "O Come O Come Emmanuel," and we listened with hope and appreciation to the beautiful language in the Moravian liturgy for Advent:

"We long for you to inspire
all the nations and peoples of the world
to turn to cooperation and nurture
rather than to hatred and destruction."  

And that wonderful scripture from Isaiah:

"They shall beat their swords into ploughshares, and spears into pruning hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation; neither shall they learn war anymore.”

Amen.

Autumn Breeze 5-K

Last year’s Autumn Breeze 5-K took place on October 4, and although Martha took first place in her age group and I took second in mine, no photos survive of us standing at the finish line afterward beaming proudly.  That’s because we were huddled with all of the other runners under a tiny tent in a downpour that began almost as soon as we began running the race.

“Anyone who was here last year, raise your hands,” our friend and co-race-director Anthony called out at the start of this year’s race, and several hands went up.  We looked around at all of the other proud veterans of insane weather conditions last year who had lined up in light rain, listened to Anthony describe the course and thank the sponsors in great detail while it began raining harder and harder, and decided that we were already wet so we might as well do this thing. 

As if to make up for last year’s horrendous conditions, this year it was clear and cool, just perfect for a race on one of the most beautiful courses we know about.  We both lined up close to the starting line because there was no chip timing, and almost immediately began climbing up a slight incline (which would mean a fast downhill finish).  Despite the paved surfaces, there was plenty of uneven terrain, especially in the final mile where roots had swollen the asphalt pavement on the greenway trail.  But whenever I could, I glanced to the side at the picturesque Tallulah River.  We crossed several bridges, one of them a swinging bridge that swayed underfoot.  The leaves were just beginning to turn.  It was a very beautiful race!

I passed a man with a bright red shirt and double knee braces in the first mile who I thought could have been in my age group, and then he caught up to me again and we began talking.  He said he was 79 – “Ah, not in my age group!” I said – and he told me that a man up ahead in a white shirt was 82 years old, and he thought he might be able to overtake him.  He pulled away from me gradually, and ultimately both Red Shirt and White Shirt finished ahead of me. 

I had wanted to finish in under 40 minutes, but as I approached the finish line I knew that would not be possible.  Still, I was happy with a time of 40:54.  I had run my best, and that is reward enough.  This is one of those races where they hand you a numbered card as soon as you leave the finish chute, and I wandered around for a few minutes before dutifully filling it out with name, age, gender, time, and home town.  When a young lady hung it on the big age-group board behind her, I was surprised to see that I was No. 1.  I looked over at the Female 65-69 group and found Martha’s name on the top, too, in a time of 30:50.

 So it was an especially rewarding day at Tallulah Gorge, and we celebrated at a place called The Edge Café and Bar, located just up the hill from where the race had finished, in the old Visitor’s Center which had been vacant for several years.  It turned out to be a very nice place – good food and good beer – and we sat outside watching children throw frisbee and play corn hole on a wide lawn and climb on a child-sized climbing wall.

Oskar Blues Race to the Taps

The Post Covid Fatigue I wrote about in my last post has begun, I think, to diminish.  My running is still languishing, but I have been able to get some work done in the yard.  In fact, I even mixed up some mortar by hand this week and worked on the stone patio at our new entrance, although a day of running and a day of physical work means a third day of needed rest.

We had signed up for the Oskar Blues Race to the Taps in Brevard long ago, so I decided on Monday that I would see if I could run 3.l miles non-stop at a fairly good pace (although these days I don’t know what that means anymore).  Martha kept telling me, “You don’t have to run this race if you don’t want to,” which I appreciated.  But I had managed last week to run two miles non-stop without ill effect, so I was optimistic and ready to test myself.  I was encouraged to finish the time trial, albeit on familiar roads, in 42:41, a little faster than my time way back in June at the Braveheart in Franklin.  So now there would be no turning back!  As Hamlet says:

If it be now, 'tis not to come;
if it be not to come, it will be now;
if it be not now, yet it will come.
The readiness is all.

It was a perfect morning for a race, cool and crisp in Highlands, warming up to the low 60s in Brevard.  I could not have asked for better conditions for my first Post Covid Race.  The course was mostly on the Greenway that begins and ends at Oskar Blues Brewery, but the middle mile was on roads in a quiet subdivision that we had driven a couple of weeks ago and knew it contained some steep hills.  Martha and I both walked a few steps on the steepest of these, in fact, but we both picked up the pace in the last mile and it was our fastest mile.  And it was good to be racing again, joking with fellow runners and spectators.  No matter how slow my finish times become, competing in races is an experience I hope I can continue to enjoy as long as possible!

Martha ran a great race in 30:26, finishing second out of five runners over 65.  I finished in 41:22, faster than my time trial on Monday, and therefore better than I had anticipated despite those formidable hills. 

After the race, we drove to Asheville and had dinner at Nine Mile, a Caribbean-inspired restaurant which we had visited only once before (Nine Mile is the town in Jamaica where Bob Marley was born), and it was absolutely delicious.  After dinner, we drove the half-mile to the Montford Park Players outdoor amphitheater and watched a performance of Hamlet, a play which I have seen and read countless times but which is always different with each showing because of Shakespeare’s unparalleled genius and because it is a play, a living, breathing work of art that relies on players and directors and audience to come to life.  It was an ambitious performance for this small company of players, now in their 50th season, but they played it well, with especially strong performances of Hamlet, the Ghost, Polonius, and Laertes. 

Our next race is scheduled for two weeks from now, and I hope I can continue to improve with every race this fall.  Martha, meanwhile, has gotten herself to a place where she is in top condition.  I well remember what it is like to be improving with every race!  Still, we do what we can, no matter how slow or how fast.  And we give thanks after every race for health and fitness and the joyful challenges of competition - of proving once again that we can be ready!

Post Covid Fatigue

Since returning from France, my running has not gone as well as expected.  I knew that the combination of jet lag (which only lasted a day or two), Covid, and a three-week hiatus were setbacks that I needed to overcome gradually, and so on my first run back in Highlands my only goal was to complete a single mile (see post of August 3).  The following week, I increased that distance to two- and three-mile runs on alternate days at a very easy pace with plenty of walking breaks, and I felt pretty good in other respects – I mowed the yard, I resumed lifting weights.  The following week I increased the distance to four and then five miles.  Early in the next week, I even tried two 400-meter interval.  I was feeling pretty good!

And then it all went south.  After completing those two intervals, I found myself walking most of the final mile.  TIRED I wrote in my running log.  I fell into a habit of taking naps every afternoon, something I rarely do.  On Saturday, I could barely keep up with my friends Karen and Vicki, and after two miles I urged them to go on without me.  I don’t think I have experienced fatigue like this since those days long ago when I resumed running after completing a marathon.  I finally came to the realization that Martha was right.  I needed more of that bitter medicine that most runners are forced to take as a last resort:  Rest.

I have been doing a lot of research, and what I have been experiencing seems to fit something called Post Covid Fatigue Syndrome.  “Some experts believe it might be a natural course of the infection to see symptoms ebb, then return,” one Harvard Medical School researcher said.  “Covid’s course it not a purely linear process; it waxes and wanes a little bit.”  That would explain why I felt good enough to run five miles one day, and yet was dragging around slowly the next day.

I finally took the recommended medicine this week – five days without running a step, although I did walk between one and three miles most of those days.  Finally, on Thursday, I tried to run a single mile without stopping . . . and it went just great!  Not only that, I felt good enough to mow the yard again and do some other work around the house, and still felt good the next day.  And I have not needed naps in the afternoon. 

 So it seems as if Covid is beginning to wane.  And I hope it will continue to do so.

Uncorked

Only one week after returning to Highlands, we drove to Bryson City for an event on the Great Smoky Mountains Railroad called “Uncorked.”  When Martha signed up (it sells out very quickly) before we left for France, we knew that we might still be suffering from jet lag, but not that I would be dealing with the lingering effects of Covid as well.  It was not a strenuous excursion – basically, it involved sitting and eating and drinking and watching the scenery go by – but I was glad that we had arranged to drive over the night before for an early-morning departure on the historic #1702 locomotive, which dates back to 1942, one of only two remaining in the United States.

 
The description on the website sounded like just the thing for two possibly jet-lagged passengers who enjoy both good food and good wine:

Passengers will enjoy a full service All-Adult First Class ride in our First Class cars with a private attendant and plush, well-appointed dining seating.  A narrator will accompany the ride to present each pour to guests and share knowledge and history of the wines selected.  Passengers on this specialty car will enjoy an exclusive sampling of cheeses and a surf and turf meal prepared fresh.  We have carefully selected our wine samples to accompany the meal. All passengers will receive a GSMR souvenir stemless wine glass, four samples of selected wine, and a dessert that’s perfect for the season!

It certainly sounded First Class, and when we climbed aboard our dining car we were pleasantly surprised.  The facilities were very nice, as we imagine dining had been at the height of rail travel in this country.  We pulled out of the Bryson City station right on time and headed into the Nantahala Gorge, which we had driven through many times by auto but had never seen from this perspective on the north side of the Nantahala River.

As we went around some of the sharper bends, we could look out the window and see the engine ahead, a cloud of smoke billowing from its stack.  I was enjoying the scenery a great deal:  deep woods, huge tangles of kudzu in open fields, junked cars, quarrying facilities, and Fontana Lake.  We went past Fontana Lake and saw some kayakers paddling out in the water, and they waved at us as we chugged past on the old trestle.  So did folks standing out in their yards, and groups of rafters out in the Nantahala River busy negotiating the currents.

 

 

We were immediately presented with a nice cheese plate accompanied by mimosas, and much earlier than we had expected the main course came along, followed eventually by dessert, each accompanied as the description had said by an appropriate wine.  Both the food and the wines were very good, and even included a pricey Biltmore Reserve Cabernet Franc that was just excellent.  I was so busy taking photos of the scenery and enjoying the food and wine, that I neglected to take photos of the food.  But Martha remembered to do that, and these photos are courtesy of her.

The train turned and came back past Nantahala Outdoor Center, a frequent stop for us over the years where we have enjoyed watching rafters and kayakers paddling by.  We stopped long enough for the curious to step outside and see the NOC and the famous bridge where the Appalachian Trail crosses the river.  By that time the usual summertime afternoon shower had materialized, so we were content to stay inside, sip wine, and watch the rafters.

We told the young man pouring our wine that we were amazed that such delicious food could be prepared on a train, and a lot of it – there were 150 or so diners, we learned, in addition to other passengers who were in non-dining cars enjoying box lunches. 

At the end of the day, we met some nice folks who were sharing the journey with us.  And the food and wine was even better than we had expected. 

First Run in Highlands

The combination of Covid and jet lag has left me with little energy, but since we arrived on Saturday afternoon I have improved day by day.  It has been a good opportunity to sort through photographs and bring this blog up to date.  For the first time today, exactly three weeks after our last run with Jean-Charles in Paris – it seems so long ago! – I felt good enough to try running.

I parked at the usual place near Kelsey-Hutchinson Park, and I saw some early-morning dog-walkers enjoying the relatively cool temperatures.  I started out at a walk, but quickly felt good enough to run, although with some walking breaks.  My goal was to complete a full mile, and I was halfway through when, at the top of Chestnut Street, I paused to stretch and walk a few steps.  I continued down Sixth Street, when I was surprised to see a very large black bear, slouching majestically across the road perhaps 15 feet in front of me.  A bear on my first run in Highlands!  I stopped immediately and let him make his way out Meadow House Lane and across the road, where I could see him walking down the middle of the driveway to the Highlands Biological Station, the uncontested proprietor and ancient master of all that he surveyed.

I have been communicating with Jean-Charles, who took us on a running tour in Paris (see post of July 13) and is the latest follower of my blog.

I wrote:  “It was so good to meet you and run with you.  What an introduction to Paris!  If you are ever anywhere near Highlands, North Carolina, I would be privileged to show you our little Town, so much different from Paris!  Today I went running for the first time, three weeks exactly since our run in Paris, and encountered a large black bear!  They are not uncommon here (they love looking through garbage cans when they can find one open), but still a little scary to see crossing the road only 15 feet in front of a defenseless runner!  Something you probably have not seen crossing the Rue de Tocqueville.”

He wrote back:  “Yes, since you gave me the link to your blog, je suis un de vos fidèles lecteurs. I really like the way you describe your adventures in Paris.  I am honored by the article you wrote about our tour (I wrote a comment on the post just after the publication).  A bear! Yes, I guess your landscape is very different than the large “Haussmannian” Parisian boulevards…”

C’est vrai!  But no less interesting. . .