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.

Oklahoma City to Conway

I awake and go for an early-morning run in Bricktown, discovering a beautiful system of canals downtown along which walkways wind, and more restaurants and shops, connecting with modern-looking office buildings.  Fountains spill into the canal, and a rosy light is shining on the City Plaza buildings.  I read earlier that the blast 20 years ago "destroyed or damaged 324 other buildings within a 16-block radius, shattered glass in 258 nearby buildings, and destroyed or burned 86 cars."  So this is a city that has indeed risen impressively from the ashes of that terrible incident.

We had intended to stay in Little Rock, Arkansas, near the River Market District, but discovered that there was a huge Harley convention there and all the rooms were booked.  So we opted for Conway instead, midway between Oklahoma City and Memphis.  We cross the Arkansas River, and on the way we pull off I-40 to check on a wildlife refuge and see a disturbing sight on the rural side road:  one of the most obese women we had ever seen being pulled in a trailer, backwards, by an equally obese man driving a farm tractor.  It occurs to me that the Summer Olympics in Rio had begun this very week.

Fort Smith has a nice downtown area, and we have lunch at the Bricktown Brewery (headquartered in Oklahoma City). 

There is a trolley museum here, and trolleys still operate in the downtown area.  And there are murals here, too.  I even find a local coffee roaster and have the best cup of coffee I have had on the road.

We drive on to Conway, about which there is not much to say, I suppose.  It has a downtown area that is still alive, sort of.   There is a mixture of thriving dress shops and things like that, but some abandoned buildings as well, as if it is teetering on the brink:  will it be able to restore this area as Oklahoma City has?  Or will it fall apart as so many downtowns do. 

Tucumcari to Oklahoma City

We spent some time in Tucumcari looking at some of the murals painted on the walls of local businesses (including the Blue Swallow).

The Tucumcari Murals are well-known, and a little research discovers that they were painted by local artist Doug Quarles (who has since moved away).

We are back on the road, and in no time we are in Texas, big flat Texas, and suddenly there are windmills again, and cattle grazing everywhere along the road - beef country.  We are looking for a rest stop and find "Parking Areas" and "Picnic Areas" but no facilities, and no Welcome Center, either. Welcome to the Land of Disenchantment?  We finally do discover facilities, but there are rocks and tall grass everywhere along the sidewalks, and a sign which warns about rattlesnakes in the rocks and tall grass. 

In order to try to understand Texas a little more, we stop at the Big Texan Steakhouse (ca. 1960) in Amarillo. There are big Cadillacs parked here with steer horns mounted on the hoods, and I briefly wonder what our Mini would look like decorated like this.

The Big Texan is known for its famous 72-ounce steak, which is free if you can eat the whole thing in 60 minutes. This is a massive piece of steak, and by comparison I find myself completely satisfied (on those occasions when I want a steak) with a 6-ounce steak.  Or maybe an 8-ounce steak after I have run a marathon.

Wait staff and customers alike appear to be well-fed!  Our pretty waitress, dressed like a cowgirl, gives me a funny look when I ask if they have veggie burgers.  I eventually order the buffalo quesadillas, the appetizer portion, but can only manage to eat half of them - what a loser I am!  Has anyone ever eaten the 72-ounce steak, I ask. "Somebody did just yesterday," we are told, "An Australian."  It turns out that the record holder, however, is one Molly Shuyler, a 120-pound housewife, who ate one in 4 minutes and 58 seconds.  Then she ate a second one in 9 minutes and 9 seconds.  (Urp.)

As we continue east toward Oklahoma, everything seems to be more verdant, and signs of the great droughts of the western states begin to disappear.  Hay is being baled in big rolls out in the fields.  Somewhere along the way we cross the historic Chisholm Trail.  We roll into Muskogee, which brings to mind the Merle Haggard song:

We don't smoke marijuana in Muskogee;
We don't take no trips on LSD
We don't burn no draft cards down on Main Street;
We like livin' right, and bein' free.

 

I'm proud to be an Okie from Muskogee,
A place where even squares can have a ball
We still wave Old Glory down at the courthouse,
And white lightnin's still the biggest thrill of all

Kind of the opposite of going to San Francisco and having flowers in your hair!  But I should report that I spotted some casinos and adult bookstores down near the courthouse.

The Sooners were historically a progressive people, and abolitionists, and Oklahoma City is a vibrant and beautiful place.  I cannot help remembering what else I know about this city, though - the killing of 168 people (including 19 children) by Timothy McVeigh and Terry Nichols in 1995.  So sad! - our first incident of domestic terrorism.  What a beautiful country this would be, from Sea to Shining Sea, were it not for the tragic violence that seems to be woven into our fabric.

Our hotel is in the Bricktown area, which has been restored very successfully - brick streets, safe to stroll in as evening approaches, and little sidewalk cafes.

We walk down to Crabtown, which Tripadvisor advises has the best seafood in the Midwest, and that proved to be an accurate description.

"What brings you to Oklahoma City?" the desk clerk asks us, and we say, "It's a long story."  When we see the invoice the next morning we see that someone has written:

Reason for Visit:  LEAISURE