Indoor Plumbing

We have been having some intermittent problems with our water system in our small subdivision of nine or ten homes which share a community well.  For 30 years or so, I was the President of our P.O.A. (an office in which I have often found myself over the years), but one of our neighbors, Bill, a retiree with a mechanical engineering background, seemed eager to take on some responsibilities, so I was able to shift this burden to him a few years ago.  Bill pays the electrical bill for the well and holding tank and also arranges to have the one unpaved subdivision road scraped from time to time.  He also pulls in the driveway and taps on the back door when there is a problem.

That's what he did Tuesday night.  "I'm out of water," he announced; "how about you?"  We are always the last home to lose water supply when there is an outage because our house is closest to the well and lowest in elevation in the subdivision.  I had not noticed any reduction in pressure, but last night we did.  A local plumber diagnosed a faulty pressure switch, and as our water pressure declined steadily throughout the day, we awaited delivery and installation of the switch.  Finally, the welcome sight of Gibson Plumbing's white van came down the road - two of them, in fact - and while we were eating dinner outside on the deck, we could hear them talking and sliding the cover off the well.  In a little while, the vans left, one after the other, but our water pressure remained low.  Finally Bill called:  "Bad news.  Tim said it's the pump.  I'll have to call Hedden Brothers Well Drilling in the morning."

We are accustomed to power outages, and when the power goes out the water goes out.  So we set to work filling buckets to flush toilets, filling pitchers with drinking water, quickly washing dishes, and preparing for the worst.  By bedtime there was barely enough of a trickle to take a sponge bath.  And this morning, nothing. 

It did not take long for Hedden Brothers to arrive this morning from Franklin, with an easy-going but skilled crew of three and their well-drilling rig.  To make a long story short, the electrical wire to the pump was hanging by a thread, so we decided to replace wire and pump both.  In no time they had the old pump out and the new one in, and we returned from out-of-town shopping this afternoon to the wonderful sight and sound of water gushing freely from all the faucets.

What a wonderful thing it is to have indoor plumbing!  I do not enjoy skipping showers, pouring buckets into toilets to flush them, or leaving dishes unwashed in the sink.  And yet I realize that most of the people in the world do not have this convenience that we take for granted. A new study in Environmental Science & Technology estimates that six our of ten people on Planet Earth - 4.2 billion human beings - do not have access to flush toilets or adequate water-related sanitation.  My own mother, who grew up poor in rural Eastern North Carolina, often spoke of not having indoor plumbing well into her late teens.

And, for the briefest of time, we shared the experience of these 4.2 billion human beings, reminding us once more in a very real way how much we take for granted every day.

One Step Forward, Two Steps Back

Recovering from an injury, or from surgery in my case, can be a discouraging process:  one step forward, two steps back.  Monday, only two days after my 47:24 "5-K" time trial ("Wheeee! - see previous post), I decided to run exactly the same route, and I turned in a time of 43:37.  Keeping in mind that these are slower by far than my slowest 5-K finish times ever, it was still encouraging to be able to shave off nearly four minutes.  It is not often that a runner can do that.  One step forward!

But yesterday, I went to the gym for my usual free-weight routine, and even though I cut in half the amount of weight I used to lift, it was not a pretty picture.  I found myself walking from station to station like someone who has never lifted weights before.  And the rest of the day I was absolutely knackered, as they say in Britain.  Two steps back.

But running has taught me to be a stubborn person, sometimes to my own detriment, and this morning I decided to try two 400-meter intervals.  Exactly a week ago, on my first day of running after the surgery, I had clocked a 3:13 and a 3:03.  Today, I surprised myself by clocking a 2:44 and a 2:38, still a long way from what I used to run, but 11-minute-mile and 10-1/2-minute-mile pace, after all.  And not only that, I seemed to be filled with energy all day, working out in the garden and making small improvements around the yard.

That's why we measure and time our runs, after all:  so that we can see the progress we have made.  Forward, backward - at least we are moving.  And one of these days I am confident that I will be taking two steps forward and only one step back.

Wheeee!

I wasn't sure how I would fare on my Saturday morning "long" run (three miles) today.  Yesterday I worked in the yard, weeding all of the garden beds, installing a DeerBlock fence around  the green beans (see post of June 14), and mowing the grass.  It felt good to be doing relatively hard work again in the yard and I realized how much I have missed it.  But I was seriously exhausted by the end of the day, an ordinary day which I would have considered easy two months ago.  I'm not sure I am ready for hammering rebar in the ground and mixing up concrete by hand for a new walkway to the basement door, which is the next project I want to tackle.

It was nice to see everyone at the Park.  Morris was there, and I told him I had run two miles on Wednesday for the first time,  "I even included two quarter-mile intervals!" I told him. "3:13 and 3:03!"  He laughed.  "I can relate," he said.  "After my knee surgery I was overjoyed when I finally got my quarter-mile time down to three minutes."  Then he told me, "You know, everything is relative in running.  Do you know what the snail said when he took a ride on the turtle's back?"  (Morris has a bottomless cache of corny jokes.)  "Wheeee!" 
 

Very true.  Sometimes it takes a little perspective to feel positive about your accomplishments.  I tried to remember that snail as we started up the Fifth Street hill and everyone quickly pulled away, Martha in the lead completing a six-mile run (in fact, she told me the group never did catch her).  But then I remembered that Vicki, recovering from cataract surgery, was walking somewhere behind me.  I am making progress, I thought.  I could actually keep everyone in sight today for a half mile.

My plan was to run three miles, taking a one-minute walking break every half mile.  And, other than pausing to tell a nice old lady in an SUV near Satulah Ridge Road where Main Street was located, I stuck to that plan, meaning that I ended up running up all of the hills, which I realized occurred just before my planned walking break.  Larry was out walking his dog while I was taking one of those walking breaks when I passed him.  He said Martha had told him a few days ago about my surgery.  "Do you plan to get back in as good shape as you were before?"  he asked.  I said, "I'm planning on getting back in better shape!" and he laughed.

So it was a good day, a hopeful day.  I ended up completing 3.1 miles, and as I sometimes do I timed myself:  a 47:24 5-K.  Wheeee! 

First Run

I did not let a little light rain keep me from taking advantage of the green light Dr. Robles gave me yesterday afternoon!  By the time I had driven to Town and parked the car, the rain had diminished to a refreshing fine mist.  I started my watch and walked briskly up the Fifth Street hill, and then lurched into what I can only loosely describe as running, a decidedly unaccustomed activity after two months, but running nonetheless.  The area where the surgical mesh had been implanted felt fine, and my right knee felt fine.  So far so good.  I stopped and walked after one block. 

There was no mistaking how much fitness I have lost.  The only comparable experience is beginning to run a few days after a marathon, legs so heavy they might as well have weights wrapped around the ankles.  And after a mile or so, I realized that everything felt oddly stiff, as if I needed to apply some grease or WD-40 to all of my joints.  A similar phenomenon occurs when we park our Mini over the winter and start it up again (assuming the battery is not dead as it was this year); everything creaks and groans, and the brakes make an odd noise, caused by a light coating of rust building up on the rotors.  I was the Tin Man from the Wizard of Oz.  "Where's my oil can?"

I was surprised to find when I had completed two miles that my average pace (including the walking breaks) was a little over 14 minutes.  And I even completed two 400-meter "intervals" - i.e., 400 meters of not walking - in 3:13 and 3:03 (a minutes slower than my goal pace a few months ago). 

If it sounds as if I am complaining, I am not.  I ran today!  A slow, patient, first run in the long road to recovery. And it was an absolute joy to enter these modest numbers in my running log for the first time since April 20.

Green Light

It has been five weeks since my surgery, and I returned to Dr. Robles today for my scheduled follow-up appointment.  As expected, he gave me the green light to "return to normal activities," including running.

I have been released from my long exile in the land of limited activity!

"Don't go from Zero to sixty right away," he admonished me.  No need to worry about that; I will likely be taking frequent walking breaks. And remembering the value of patience.

"How poor are they that have not parience!

What wound did ever heal but by degrees?" - Shakespeare 

Thursday will mark exactly two months since my last run (April 20), the longest I have ever been sidelined.  I could choose to be upset by this - "Fear Of Losing Fitness" is a significant worry for most active people at my age.  But I think I will choose to look on the bright side.  Perhaps my body really needed a rest, a long rest like these two months, rather than a day or two (or the mere week I used to allow myself after a marathon).

I've hit the reset button.  Let's see what happens next.

Braveheart 5-K

Martha and I both ran this race last year, billed as "Franklin's most challenging 5K course." The hills are indeed challenging, especially in the final mile.  But it was a clear morning and the temperature stood at 63 degrees, unusually cool for mid-June in Franklin.  As its name indicates, the race is part of the annual Scottish Festival and includes a parade, crafts, Scottish fare, border collie herding contest, and other fun activities.  Some of the officials were dressed in authentic garb, and a bagpiper stood on Main Street and played just before the start.

We had arrived in plenty of time for Martha to warm up, and I enjoyed catching up with several runners who were there - Russell, Brad, and Gustavo - before the race started.
 

The bagpiper droned on, and then the Race Director gave the command to start; in true Braveheart fashion, someone shouted "Freedom!" at the top of his lungs, and then the runners were off.

As I have noted before in these posts, it is an odd feeling being on the support team, standing and waiting with other friends and family members after all the runners have turned the first corner, imagining the difficult struggle they are undergoing, the steep hills and the fatigue building up in tired legs, while at the empty finish line all is quiet and calm.  It is a role that Martha gladly filled for me before she began running and racing and which I am happy to fill for her these days.  It brings to mind John Milton's Sonnet 19:

Thousands at his bidding speed
And post o'er the Land and Ocean without rest:

They also serve who only stand and wait.

So I stood, and waited, until after 17 minutes or so the first runner appeared on Main Street, far ahead of all the rest, a lean young man loping along as if he were out for an easy jog.  Then came the second, and the third.  Our friend Brad was seventh overall, a good time for a 51-year-old.  And in ninth place was Gustavo.  Martha arrived a little ahead of when I had expected, finishing in a time of 29:57, good enough for second place and, even more satisfying, a little faster than her time last year.

The awards ceremony was held promptly after the last runner came in, an elderly woman pushing a walker and receiving more applause than the first place finisher.  All of the Highlands runners placed, Brad and Gustavo taking first place in their age groups.

I remembered the very impressive and moving ceremony for the first place male and female runners from last year.  The winner is asked to kneel on a stool, and he repeats the oath of a knight, and this time I was able to record it verbatim:

A knight is sworn to valor.
 

His heart knows only virtue.

His blade defends the helpless.

His might upholds the weak.

His words speak only truth.

His wrath undoes the wicked.

His knowledge will defeat ignorance.

His skills will be taught to the willing.

His temper shall be held by patience.

He will give aid to those who seek it.

He will ask aid when needed.

In the name of St. Ninian, St. Columba, and St. Andrew,

I knight you Sir Nathan Richards.

I try to avoid the subject of politics in this blog, but I could not help but reflect how much better we would be if our political leaders swore this stirring oath on bent knee when taking office, and actually lived these words.  These are indeed words that all of us should live by.  Nathan, along with the first place female, was then presented with an impressive sword.  What a trophy! - far more impressive than any I have ever won. 

I was asked by some of my friends at the race why I was not running today.  I have to admit being envious, especially because it was such a beautiful morning and such perfect conditions for running.  But it was a joy, as always, to watch Martha cross the finish line.  I ran this race last year and God willing will run it next year.

Around and About

I hope that Dr. Robles will give me the green light to begin running next week.  But in the meantime, I have been able to continue to do some light work around the house and yard, such as painting and gardening.  Yesterday I filled the last vacant space in our garden beds with some green bell pepper plants, and at the same time I covered the just-sprouting green beans and the thriving sweet potatoes with a product called DeerBlock, an almost-invisible mesh made by the optimistically-named company Easy Gardener.

It was easy to install, in fact.  This product worked on the hostas we had planted along our road two years ago until something - perhaps a State-road mower - caught the entire 50-foot roll and dragged it completely off them.  So we have pretty much given up on hostas below our driveway since then.  I enjoyed seeing this puzzled-looking specimen depicted cartoonishly on the back of the  package, staring forlornly through the impregnable DeerBlock erected in a fence-like manner.  "Foiled again!"

I have also been walking nearly every day.  Since Sunday, I have walked fourteen miles, which is probably more than I would have run.  Every day, I change the route just a little, exploring streets on which I rarely run (an oversight that I have vowed to remedy when I begin running again).  There are always interesting people out in the mornings, most of them familiar faces.  Jack K. was walking up the Fifth Street hill.  "Isn't that Richard?" he asked, shading a hand over his eyes.  "I almost didn't recognize you, wearing pants and walking."  I told him that I was enjoying the slower pace; it permitted me to stop and talk, as I was doing at the moment.

Near the public restrooms, a woman whose name I do not know but who is a regular morning walker said something similar:  "I didn't recognize you with your clothes on!"  But my most interesting encounter today was with a slim young woman walking north on Fifth Street, to whom I said good morning.  She hesitated a moment, as young women should do when speaking to strangers, and asked me if I knew where Old Edwards Inn and Spa was located.  "You're going the opposite way," I said.  "It's this way, downtown on Main Street."  She turned and we walked together for a few blocks.  "Where are you from?" I asked, detecting a British accent.

"England," she replied.

"Ah, England!"  And I told her about our upcoming trip.  "Where in England?"  It turned out that she was from Birmingham.  "What one thing should we not miss seeing when we are there?" I asked.  She told me Stratford-Upon-Avon, where we are going.  But the closest we will be going to Birmingham will be Liverpool, 100 miles to the northwest, a fact that I confess I discovered on Google Maps when I returned home, so lacking is my knowledge of British geography.  I also learned that people from Birmingham are called "Brummies," a term derived from the city's nickname of "Brum."  How I wish I could have surprised that young woman by saying that I thought she sounded like a Brummie!

I finished my walk and drove to Bryson's Food Store for a few groceries, and found the parking lot filled with 25 or 30 motorcycles, some of them appearing to be vintage, their riders standing around visiting with each other; they looked like they were having a wonderful time!  One or two waved at me as I drove by in the Mini with the top down.  The day could not have been more beautiful, cloudless blue skies and unseasonably cool temperatures, into the 40s earlier but now in the mid-50s.  As I was getting in the Mini a few minutes later to leave, I heard one of them shout in a loud voice, "LET'S ROLL!" and engines began to start up.

A good day for rolling!  And for wandering around and about.