Having spent several days bagging my last two states, Alabama and Pennsylvania, I felt the urge to just go and get me a quick state, kind of like I did with Vermont. Hit the road, work hard, go home. I feel guilty not devoting much time to certain states, but my time is not completely my own right now. My dad turned 85 on June 24, and I was there to give him a card and share ice cream cake with him. His big gift: a stuffed tiger from my brother Tony, who, like Dad and like me, is a Princetonian. Dad loved his college days and was the sports editor for The Daily Princetonian, covering the exploits of his Heisman-trophy winning classmate, Dick Kazmaier. I have also covered sports, though not formally, writing game summaries for my soccer team, Clinton United. And covering my own efforts in this blog.
Now that that Dad needs more help, my sister and I have a schedule that ensures that one of us is in NJ all the time, spending more time with him, and available in case of emergency. I had a window the day after Dad’s birthday, and I opened it, and drove to Connecticut to see if I could complete a triathlon.
I signed up for a triathlon in 2010, but I had plantar fasciitis on race day, and was unable to walk 5k, much less run it. I panicked in the water that day, and I couldn’t put my face in, so I turned over on my back and flutter kicked a quarter mile. That winter, I completed an indoor triathlon, swam well, but I still wanted to compete outdoors. June 26 arrived, and I was pretty close to injury free. Sore quad, that’s it. No excuses, no real training for this, but I wanted to do it. My goal- don’t walk.
I had recently come off a 241 mile bike ride, so I figured I could bike ten. I swam 40 or 50 laps in my backyard pool a few times, and I ran three miles, once. I haven’t been doing much running lately because it aggravates my foot injury. I would rather play soccer if I have to choose. And I do. I can’t do it all at this stage of my life. Bottom line, then, I was pretty confident I could do all three pieces of the triathlon. Whether I could do them all in a row remained to be seen…
I left NJ around 10 am for a 6 pm race. I wanted amble my way up the coast and see if I could find something interesting to do in Connecticut before competing. Exiting route 95 east of Madison, I saw signs for the Stewart B. McKinney National Wildlife Refuge. I remembered that I used to ride in horse shows against a girl named Lucy McKinney, and her mom was a noted rider as well. I could feel my past calling me to this park.
There was a lovely stone house and carriage house on the property, along with a log cabin, which was a bit mysterious, given the stone construction right next door. A good sized piece of coastal wetlands is forever protected here for the benefit of the birds. I stretched my legs by taking a short hike, then headed for the race starting point.
The Cedar Lake Triathlon series boasts seven Thursday night triathlons every summer, alternating weeks with another local organization. That is fourteen triathlons in Connecticut, all for fun, to promote an active lifestyle. Over one hundred people waded to the start line for my race, ranging in age from a young teenage boy to a woman well into her seventies.
Age is just a number
Cedar Lake has a little town beach perfect for the swim and the staging areas.
I got lunch at the snack shack and met Nancy, who lives just across the lake and was also going to do her first tri, as the swimmer in a relay. While carbo- loading for the race, we got to chatting, and she told me that the log cabin at the wildlife refuge was built for Eleanor Roosevelt by her good friend Esther Lape, who owned the stone house. Having read a fair amount about Eleanor and visited her cottage near Hyde Park, New York, I knew of Esther Lape and was thrilled to find my intellectual and athletic life converging in Connecticut. Eleanor Roosevelt is one of my heroes.
Wading into the waist deep water just prior to the start, I was relaxed and determined to stay that way. Once the gun went off, I swam smoothly and easily for a little bit, then raised my head to check my position relative to the big orange turnaround buoy. That broke my rhythm and brought on the breathlessness, so I swam the 500 yards alternating between freestyle and breaststroke. Back in the day, I swam all strokes, except breaststroke. Needless to say, I wasn’t competitive in the swim. But I did it. I jogged up out of the water, went through my polished and efficient transition routine, meaning I put my sneakers on, and I climbed aboard my bike for the ten mile ride.
The course was hilly but not terribly so. I passed a few people, and I don’t think I got passed at all. After about 36 minutes, I got back to transition, and the last thing in the world I wanted to do was go for a run. It’s tough to get off a bike and hit the pavement, especially if one is racing and has never done the two events back to back before, and hasn’t trained at all. Walking was a temptation, but I told myself that if I did walk, I would fail to meet my modest goal for the race and then I would have to try again. If, on the other hand, I didn’t walk, I never ever had to do a triathlon again. Somehow, this rather negative mantra got me through the first part of the run. An out and back course, slightly uphill on the way out, down on the way back. I stopped for water at the turnaround, and I let myself drink it. And it got easier, and I started to feel better, and was able to finish strongly, running well.
Overall, I was 14th in the women’s race, eight minutes behind the second place woman, and 18 minutes behind the winner, Megan Pennington, 35 years young. After swimming and biking, she ran a 5k race in 20 minutes flat. That is FAST. That is fast if you run without swimming and biking first. She also just finished 24th in her age group in the Chicago World Triathlon Series, just 10 minutes behind the winner, at the Olympic distance. Armed with that knowledge, I feel I did pretty darn ok for 50 in my fifties.
Megan Pennington sets up
I got a medal for being a first timer, and there was ice cream and chocolate milk at the finish. After a cooling dip back in the lake, I was ready to drive home.
I did it. I completed a sprint triathlon. I think it is kind of like childbirth. While you are doing it, you swear you will never go through it again. But afterward, when the endorphins flow and you have that baby in your arms or that ice cream in your belly, you forget how hard it was and how much it hurt and you consider another. If I do it again, my goal will be to swim freestyle the whole way. To that end, I spent the rest of the summer open water swimming Maine lakes and harbors. I almost got run over by a tour boat, but that is a story for another day.
Cedar Lake Triathlon Series is ideal for first timers. Friendly, small, very inexpensive, and multiple dates offered each season. Please check it out. Meanwhile, I am going to practice changing my clothes in a hurry. Transition training is the easiest to undertake!
DATELINE: Philadelphia, PA, June 4-7, 2015 Habitat for Humanity Ride for Homes
As the sun set on the 19th century and the new age dawned, bicycling was all the rage. Everyone was doing it. Doctors enthusiastically approved. One Philadelphia physician concluded from his observations that “for physical exercise for both men and women, the bicycle is one of the greatest inventions of the nineteenth century.” Prendergast, “The Bicycle for Women,” American Journal of Obstetrics and Diseases of Women and Children, August 1, 1896
Change inevitably meets resistance. “Voices were raised in protest. Bicycles were proclaimed morally hazardous. Until now children and youth were unable to stray very far from home on foot. Now, one magazine warned, fifteen minutes could put them miles away. Because of bicycles, it was said, young people were not spending the time they should with books, and more seriously that suburban and country tours on bicycles were ‘not infrequently accompanied by seductions.’” Cincinnati Lancet and Clinic, September 11, 1897 From David McCullough, The Wright Brothers
Oh. My. God.
I should have read McCollough’s latest page turner about the bachelor bicycle makers who devised the greatest invention of the twentieth century( in their spare time) BEFORE setting out across suburban and rural Pennsylvania by bike. I didn’t realize my virtue was at stake. And though I did arrive home sore in places that shouldn’t be, I attribute my condition to activities on the bike, not off.
This year marks the third that employees and supporters of Habitat for Humanity have gathered near Philly to begin a roundabout journey past Main Line mansions, fertile farmland, and free standing silos, all to raise money to build and improve housing for those in need in Pennsylvania’s largest city. The ride is capped at forty lucky participants; sum total raised in 3 years: $100,000.
Three Years, Three Cool Shirts
I’m not a serious cyclist. Until I had the (good?) fortune to tear my ACL and have to bike to rehab it, I kind of hated to ride bikes. Since then, I have ridden a couple of 50 mile charity rides, and once completed a metric century, 100 kilometers, in pancake-flat Delaware. Years ago. So when my friend Graham asked me to come out to play on this ride, I had serious doubts. I was away for ten days in April, and couldn’t start training in earnest until late in the month, leaving me about five weeks to get ready to do 100k EVERY DAY FOR 4 STRAIGHT DAYS. So of course, I said yes.
Then I got to work. Habitat provided me with a coach, who told me exactly how to build fitness without overdoing it, suffering setbacks and well, just, suffering. I rode 443 miles in May, leaving nothing to chance. I rode every road I could find between Oldwick and Madison, NJ, in a 4 county area. Both ways, uphill both ways. Twice. And they don’t call it Bernardsville mountain or the Somerset Hills or the Hunterdon Hills for nuthin.
After a dastardly winter, the narrow, twisting, country roads are chock full of potholes, gravel, washboard pavement, and all manner of hidden dangers for cyclists. But the area is also home to the North Branch of the Raritan River, birdsong, fragrant hayfields, Gilded Age summer palaces, and Revolutionary war history. I love biking around here, and some of the best connecting routes are freshly paved and rolled, but I must admit, by month’s end I was souring like a horse used only for beginner lessons.
To break up the routine, I left the house on Memorial Day with eight little American flags, and I rode 49.25 miles, cemetery to cemetery, decorating the graves of veterans. Then, five days before the start, Graham and I met in Stockton, NJ, along with our spouses, Betsey and Kip, for a final training ride. Graham and I chose 31 hilly miles, which broke my spirit and reduced me to walking my bike for the first and only time. Graham felt badly, but I said no, this will make everything on the Philly ride seem easy by comparison. I hoped… A lovely dinner in Lambertville, canal-side, iced my bruised ego.
The night before the ride, I stayed with Graham and Betsey in the Mt. Airy neighborhood of Philly, and at 5 am, was awakened by a loud, repetitive, flopping alarm clock out in the street. A pick- up truck wobbled past the house, tire utterly flat and protesting angrily every time it hit the pavement. I took it as an omen…
We gathered at Chestnut Hill College and broke up into three pace groups, the proverbial A, B, and C. As are As, they embrace it, why not? But the B and C contingents alliterate and anthropomorphize, Bunnies and Cheetahs, though C eventually skipped on down to Dragonslayers and Bs became Brains and Brawn in the home stretch. I chose Dragonslayers, lacking in experience, confidence, and clipless pedals. I don’t like to be tied down to anything. Also, M, Mo, CoCo, and Susan told me that this group was the fun group. And that is exactly what I was looking for.
All of Us
Blessed with a cloudy, cool start, we rode 58 miles that first day, but we ran into problems within a half mile. A woman was walking her bike up toward C Group looking pained and struggling. We assumed she was a B rider who had encountered some kind of mechanical problem, but she was not with our group. She had been STRUCK by a truck, hit in her tail by a trailer. She was ok and close to home, but it’s hard to imagine a more sobering reminder that many drivers do not even see bicyclists out there.
I buddied up with M and Corinne and we made our way out of the suburbs and into gentlemen’s farm country stretching out along Main Line. The vistas proved lovely, the horse and dairy farms flew by, and the hills were manageable, until the area marked on our cue sheet as Huff Church Road, a seven mile stretch, billed as a steady climb. We came up with some choice names for it on the way up.
Our daily pattern emerged- 20 miles to a well-stocked water and snack break hosted by our Habitat Restore truck, aka Mecca, lunch at a halfway point, Second Coming of Mecca 15 miles further on, and then Nirvana- which is like Mecca, only with beer. Beer is essential for hydration and carb loading. Nirvana is the end of the daily line, close to showers, dinners, and beds.
Habitat has wonderful relationships with churches throughout the state, and we were guests of three congregations for our evening meals. Cyclists eat. A LOT. Amounts that would be unconscionable for regular folk. It’s hard to stop eating when everything is homemade by people who really care, and appetites are fueled by hours of exertion. I had seconds at the first dinner and five desserts. Initially I took four, but I sneaked an extra slice of salt pie on the way out the door to make sure I didn’t succumb to starvation on the three minute walk to my dorm room at Kutztown University.
We felt like college kids, bunked up and living in coed suites. My roommate, Marty, was on the support team and enjoying time spent with her daughter, Emily. We discovered on day 2 that we went to the same college and graduated 2 years apart. In the olden days, this would be coincidence, but we were googled. Marty was chief cowbell ringer and very helpful and encouraging to all the riders. She was so inspired that she is going to be a rider next year, and I hope that we can get in some training rides together and, of course, bunk up again. Though she may get the top bunk next year.
Every rider gets a Linda hug, every day. Seconds available by request.
Day Two took us from Kutztown to Hershey, 62 miles. Lunch was at the Heidelberg Family Restaurant, a homey diner that truly rolled out the red carpet for us. They provided us with cheerleaders, made signs, and gave us a huge private room, which probably was a good idea because we are a rather ripe group when you get us indoors. One of our younger riders, Charlotte, treated us to a piano concert in the ladies’ room. The ladies’ room? Sure. Doesn’t every restaurant have a piano in the ladies’ room? And if not, why not? Sorry to say, I overindulged and regretted it for the first hour back on my aluminum steed. Maybe I didn’t need both the salad bar and the grilled cheese. But at least I skipped dessert, and I didn’t have a milkshake…
Bikes at rest
Approaching Hershey, we hit our first real traffic of the trip, and by the time we rolled into the parking lot of the Holiday Inn, I had little interest in amusement parks. Shower, church dinner, walk home, chit chat, bed. Yeah, that’s about right. But I was growing into the ride, getting stronger. And birthday cake for the pastor was the only dessert.
Day 3, hot tub, swimming pool, Fired Up, Ready to go! Uh oh, Graham had a flat before wheels down. I filled my tires to 100 pounds of pressure and watched him change the tire, glad it wasn’t me. As we left the driveway, Jeanne exclaimed, “Kerry, is your front tire flat?” I admitted it probably was, flashing back to the ominous crippled truck two days prior. The first few pedal strokes of the day are so wearying that even perfectly inflated tires feel flat as a Wisconsin accent. Luckily, Sally, Chief Dragonslayer, has changed oodles of tires and immediately called for a pump. The support on this ride was the BEST. We had two mechanics, tons of expertise among the leadership, and full sag support. That means vans, not bras and girdles. So when you sign up, it’s BYOBAB- bring your own bike and bra. Everything else is provided.
Somebody Else’s Flat
Day 3 was a short riding day for studs like us, only 47 miles, so we had plenty of time to explore Lititz, PA halfway through. The irresistible aroma of chocolate hangs over the entire town. Lititz boasts a real live chocolate factory, succulent ribs, and tomato pie, a local delicacy. Chastened by the previous day’s experience, I maintained some semblance of self -control amid these temptations.
Tomato Pie
Climbing back aboard, with only 20 miles to go until New Holland and no Mecca planned, we were feeling so fit and accustomed to the work that we described a 20 miler as a short Saturday morning ride. Our cockiness is evident in the photo:
Katherine Wright and friends in turn of the century A Group
My favorite memories of Day Three are of the Amish families. At one farm, I saw a furrowing machine, made of wood, pulled by a horse hitched to a mule. The farmer stood straddle- legged atop the machine, and beneath him, legs stretched out straight in front of them, black ankle boots poking out beneath gingham dresses, sat two little girls. Seedlings of squash between them, first one, then the other would place a plant in the furrow. Across the street, a young mother leaned up against a push mower, resting in the shade, her lovely pink apron sweeping the grass. A baby of 18 months sat in the clover nearby. She smiled and waved.
Oh beautiful for spacious skies
Day Four was our Longest Day, 68 miles of hills. Sally warned us that we should not plan to rest on the way down, but stay in a gear that offers some resistance and keep going, because these were rollers, a sine curve of continual effort. I decided at the start to ride with the Bs, to join Graham, who was their fearless leader, and, honestly, to see if I could do it.
Many in B, myself included, felt that the first 12 miles of the day were something more than rollers. To describe the ride, I’m going to defer to a letter written by Wilbur Wright to his sister Katherine, describing a 31-mile round trip ride to Miamisburg, Ohio that he took with his brother Orville:
We ran around the track a couple times, then started South and began to climb the “classic heights of Runnimede.” In the language of the lamented A. Ward “they are a success.” We climbed and then we “clumb” and then climbed again. To rest ourselves we called out one name awhile and then the other. The process was exactly alike in both cases and looked a good deal like this only I had to foreshorten the top of the hill when I came to the writing instead of continuing it up about four feet past the north east corner of the paper. Finally we got to the top and thought that our troubles were over but they were only begun for after riding about half a mile the road began to “wobble” up and down something after the following fashion.
Rollers
I thoroughly enjoyed the day, shaking out somewhere comfortably in the middle of Group B, working hard, keeping up momentum between the rollers. I rode with the breakaway group for a bit then settled in with Ed, who has been riding since his boyhood paper route, and has crossed this great land by bicycle. Three days before that trip began, he broke his wrist. He was told it was impossible for him to go. He looked at the doctor, and he said, “I have a recumbent bike…” and the doctor said, “That would work.” So he crossed the Rocky Mountains on a recumbent. This amazes me.
Ed and I shared a flat section before lunch, with intermittent hills. When the headwinds were strong, Graham sidled his bike in just in front of mine and let me draft. Jesse also helped with drafting. I took my turn and helped Elizabeth for a time, not that she needed it. I got to know more people, met Kate and chatted with Emily, marveled at Sarah’s work on the hills. And I started to dread the end of it all.
Random but Appropriate, Day 4
Brains and Brawn and Dragonslayers met up a couple miles from the finish and we pulled the last big hill together and arrived back at Chestnut Hill to the cheering of our fans and support staff and the peals of the cowbell. We saw hundreds of cows in our travels, but there was only one cowbell. Group A finished a few minutes later, and everyone was there to watch Tom and Sally stand on their pedals and complete our peleton one last time.
In all, we rode 241 miles, ate 241 pounds of pasta, 241 desserts, and raised $40,000 for Habitat for Humanity Philadelphia. A huge THANK YOU to Sally, who came up with this idea, to Henry, who took charge of it at Habitat, to Linda, hug dispenser, to all of the support crew, to each and every rider who offered encouragement, expertise, and companionship, to all the Dragonslayers who had to put up with my singing and my inability to read a cue sheet or turn my head to the side, to Emily and Kristin who willingly?? took over responsibility for this first time group rider on Day Four, and to everyone who ever yelled HOLE! or GRATE! or GRAVEL! to keep me out of trouble. It was a privilege to share the highways and byways of Pennsylvania with you all.
I am proud to have ridden farther than I ever thought I could, and prouder still to have raised over $1,000 for Habitat. I am hoping to go out on a Habitat build soon, perhaps on a reservation in South Dakota, and further the work by pushing a wheelbarrow. As a former horsewoman, I have plenty of experience.
Even after solving the mystery of powered flight, Wilbur Wright never lost his love of the bicycle. When he was in France, conducting demonstration flights for 200,000 people over 6 months, he had a bike with him. “Only by escaping out into the countryside on his bicycle could he have time for himself”( McCullough, p. 206 ).
True, the possibility of seduction does lurk out there. Try a multi-day ride, and you very well might find yourself seduced: by the lure of the open road.
March 21-25, 2015 National Park Service Walking Classroom-The Selma to Montgomery March
Kip and I trekked 54 miles from Selma to Montgomery on the 50th anniversary of the original March for voting rights. But it is not about us.
The third and finally successful 1965 March was conducted under court-ordered protection of the Alabama State Police and the National Guard after the first group of marchers had been beaten with billy clubs, teargassed, and chased back into Selma by mounted police on the infamous Bloody Sunday. The second group crossed the bridge, dropped to their knees in prayer, and turned around. That was Turnaround Tuesday. Two weeks later, armed with a Supreme Court ruling, on March 21, 1965, 600 marchers crossed the Edmund Pettus Bridge, led by a cadre of brave men and women, among them John Lewis, Martin Luther King, Jr., and Amelia Boynton.
On March 21, 2015, 225 incredibly fortunate people crossed the Edmund Pettus Bridge under the guidance and tutelage of the National Park Service. The US Government devoted over a million dollars to creating an opportunity for (extra)ordinary Americans to retrace the footsteps of martyrs and heroes, contemplate our own challenges and those of our times, and formulate ways to move confidently into the future. It’s called The Walking Classroom, and it is a physical, spiritual, emotional, and intellectual challenge and gift of the highest order.
We made this pilgrimage hand in hand with marvelous people. Rachel marched the entire way carrying her 5 month old daughter, Edith, in a front pack. Shannon, a recent victim of a hit and run accident, completed the March despite her pain and struggles, all the while encouraging others and blogging for her students at home. Maze, paralyzed in 1987 falling from a helicopter over the North Korean DMZ, led us in his power chair and told me that if he hadn’t been paralyzed he would never have become an Olympian. He competed at the Paralympics in shot put, discus, and javelin. He also was our group comedian, reducing us all to tears of laughter at every morning meeting. Nathaniel, 12 years old, held a large American flag on a heavy staff raised at the proper angle the entire route.
Seven Bahamian citizens journeyed all the way to Alabama to immerse themselves in a piece of American history and vowed to return home and use what they have learned to help their own country progress. TK marched for her uncle, who was shot and killed in Montgomery in 1965. She is making a film, interviewing white citizens of Birmingham who remember the 1963 bombing that killed 4 little girls in a church in that city. Ivy and Misha work with transgender and queer young people in South Carolina, and have been turned down for a marriage license 6 times. They look forward with joy to getting hitched this fall. Grant is a 20 year veteran of the US Army, did tours in both Iraq and Afghanistan, and is now a lawyer for the ACLU in St. Louis. He has 7 active cases in Ferguson, Missouri. He has also defended people who have burned the flag. He loves the First Amendment.
Harrison is in seventh grade and dedicated his March to Jimmy Lee Jackson, a son who threw himself into the path of a bullet in 1965 to save his parents. And then there’s Rob. Rob was soloing, making his March without the support of the National Park Service. He loaded his car with crab cakes and beer, left his Baltimore home, and drove to Selma. He intended to give landowners crab cakes in exchange for permission to camp on their land. They turned down the crab cakes, which are not a delicacy in these parts. They gladly accepted the beer, though. He marched in a kilt. Yup, a kilt. He joined up now and then with our gang and we welcomed him to our family.
With Rob, preparing to leave St. Jude for the final push to the Capital
We were family. State Route 80 stretches long and rural from Selma nearly all the way to the Capital steps. We walked, we talked, we chanted, we sang, we cried, we laughed. We fell in love. We shared hopes, fears, dreams, and we promised to go back to our homes and get involved in our communities, to keep moving America forward. As Maze reminded us, “David didn’t know what was gonna happen when he threw that rock. But he threw it, and he brought down Goliath. So I implore you, go home, and throw your rock.” Given his prowess in the throwing events, I’m sure his rock will fly far.
Woke up this morning with my mind Stayed on Freedom
We learned the stories of the four martyrs of the Alabama voting rights struggle, and whenever we were struggling on the road, slowing on a hill, we raised four fingers high over our heads, and the sign spread through our group, reminding us of our mission, and offering symbolic support to our friends as we carried on together. All our spirits lifted when we spied a tiny old lady in a car driving by extra slow with much waving and a polite toot of the horn. To our great joy, it was Amelia Boynton Robinson, 103 years young, beaten unconscious on Bloody Sunday, survived to lead in the fight for civil rights for decades to come. Lately, when young people idolize her and tell her that they are standing on the shoulders of her great generation of martyrs, she tells them, “Get off of my shoulders and GET TO WORK.”
We rested on Tuesday afternoon in the town of St. Jude, a Catholic enclave where the marchers were allowed to camp when no one else would offer them refuge. There was a concert and dancing and we were feted like heroes, though we felt we were the ones who were honored to be in the presence of people that participated in 1965.
On the final day, Wednesday, March 25, we marched the final 3 miles from St. Jude to the Capital. But just before we left, our bus driver, Carolyn, who had stuck to her task while we all shared our stories, piped up from the front of the bus. She said, “I wanted to march in 1965, but my mother wouldn’t let me go. She was afraid. I called her up and told her I was driving you all, and I was participating in the march, and I told her, ‘I hope you are not afraid now.’ She said, ‘Nope.’ So I want to let you know I love you all and I’m proud of you and I feel like I am marching, back and forth, many times with you.” There wasn’t a dry eye on Bus 2.
Accustomed to rural marching, it was very moving to have an audience, to march past little houses, elderly folk on the porches, singing along with us- We Shall Overcome. I could see them mouthing the words and the tears marched down my face. All along the route, people were joining up, thousands of people, thousands, chanting, reminiscing, sharing their stories. Every age and color. Throngs together. At some point, I noticed that there no longer were any spectators, everyone was WITH us. Together, we marched straight up to the base of those Capital steps.
Pick em up! Lay em down! All the way! From Selma Town!
There were speeches. They were rousing. I’m sure if you’re interested you can find them on YouTube. But our time together was drawing to a close. The ceremonies ended with the playing of the Lion King theme song, and my friend Jeimy from Puerto Rico hoisted our littlest marcher, the darling of Bus 2, Edith, high in the air like a human Simba as the immortal music of Elton John reached its climax- “In the circle…., Circle of Life!!!” da da da!
The streets of Montgomery empty out for us when our buses are on the move. It’s like being the President of the United States. All interstate ramps are blocked by state troopers, and we have a full motorcycle and squad car escort. A body could get used to this… That’s how much Alabama cares about our safety and how much the Federal government believes in the importance of this event. We had everything we needed and more. The youth ages 18 to 25 who camped out in tents at the NPS Lowndes Interpretive Center were kept well fed and comfortable so they could use their social media skills to spread the word among the young, who are our future. This march and the learning and commitments we undertake are for Nathaniel and Alexander and Harrison and Edith and the boy from California who helped carry the flags and the boy on another bus whose name I didn’t learn. Based on the kids and young adults I met on this trip, we will leave the world in most capable hands. But until then, we must keep working toward a brighter future.
We had a wrap up session after our Bus 2 group hug. We held hands in a huge circle. Many folks spoke eloquently about what this experience has and will continue to mean for them. I was too choked up to say a single word. But this is what I wanted to say.
What does this experience mean to me? EVERYTHING.
Right now, these people, this gift of time and walk and especially talk, it is my EVERYTHING. To my new huge extended family, thank you for giving me the vision of what America can be, should be, and with work, will be. Now go out there and throw your rock. I’m right beside you.
Dateline: March 8, Prospect Mountain Ski Center, Woodford, Vermont
The WMAC Dion Racing Snowshoe Series, 4k Mountain Run
New Jersey winters are variable. This year’s variety was bitterly cold and snowy. I have a pair of recreational snowshoes, and was happy to get a chance to put them to use both in NJ and in Maine. I knew that I would have Laura with me for the month of February, so I trolled the internet, looking for events that might bag us a state or two. I discovered the Western Massachusetts Athletic Club’s Dion Snowshoe series, and was intrigued by a 10k race not far from Burlington, Vermont. One day, training on the trails at Jockey Hollow National Park, I knew I was blistering my right heel, couldn’t think why, so I pressed on. Upon reaching the car, I pulled off my sneaker and found 12 cents stacked up right at the back of my heel, outside the sock, which ripped a slot in my heel that looked like an old fashioned gumball dispenser or a Las Vegas penny slots machine.
For two weeks, I could barely wear shoes. Laura returned to Chile; our window of opportunity closed.
February soldiered on, March blew in, the snow and cold persisted, and I got antsy. I kept checking the website for the Dion series :
and waited for the mystery race to declare a distance. I was praying for 5k instead of 10k, because my fitness was questionable, especially with the 12 cent blister layoff, and a bit of altitude above my home turf. Four days before the March 8 finale, the distance was posted- only 4k! Perfect, no problem. A plan emerged- Dawn assault, 3.25 hour drive to Woodford (weather looked fine), 4k snowshoe race, 3.25 hour drive home. I was registered for an Owl Prowl with friends that Sunday evening, and I wanted to be back for it.
6 am March 8, I’m in the car, and with the Spring Forward time change, it felt like 5 am. Spring Forward, I’m ready. I drove north on the NYS Thruway, to Albany and then east, and at the exact moment I hit the Vermont State Line, the snow started to stick to the roads. Up and over a pass, into and through Bennington, and I was glad for the brand new set of Michelins on the CRV.
Prospect Mountain is a ski touring center now, but it used to be a downhill ski center. The remains of two T-bar lifts sit silent, the T-bars stacked and waiting, but there is no cable, and the towers proceed, lonely and separate, up the hill. Soon, myself and the other racers would mimic them. The aroma of wood smoke greeted me outside the lodge, and inside, athletes were registering and chatting. I had brought my own snowshoes, but Dion offers loaner pairs of racing shoes for only $5. They are much smaller and sleeker, and with them, I would look like I knew what I was doing, at least until the start. I rented pair number 7 and strapped them on to warm up.
The base of the hill was groomed for cross country skis, and the willowy members of the Williams College Nordic Ski team were setting out to train. I liked the feel of my racing shoes and I confidently jogged around at the lower end of the course, as a couple of inches of fresh powder continued to fall. Twenty or so participants lined up to start the race, talking about the recent national championship, run over a 10k course in Eau Claire, Wisconsin. Next year, Utah. I was relaxed and thinking about going to Nationals myself, at least for the first 200 meters…
We all ran across the base of the hill and then turned upslope. As soon as we did, my heart rate hit the max and stayed there. My legs, lead. The best runners jogged up that 1000 meter ski slope ahead of us, and we mere mortals hiked as fast as our bodies would let us. There was one set of tracks. Step off, and you sank in 2 feet of powder and tripped. If you felt the hot breath of someone behind you, etiquette dictated you step off and let her pass. I did so, and the woman behind me said, “Oh, no, I was counting on you…” I shoved my heart back down my throat and stepped back onto the trail. Up and up and up, some portions at a 45 percent grade, steeper than Mt. Washington. At least we knew there was only one hill.
Reaching the summit with relief, I jogged around some little turns provided at the top so we could enjoy the view. Due to the continual snowfall, there was nothing to see. So I didn’t regret not bringing a cell phone to the top to take pictures. I was soon extremely thankful for that decision, because my glasses fogged up and never cleared, and I was running, slipping, sliding, falling through the woods on single track downhill for the next 2000 meters. I was completely blinded, chuckling to myself, wondering how I had ever thought this would be easy. The racing snowshoes have a glide that I had never experienced, and they threw me off the track and into the 6 foot drifts a few times. Eventually I stopped, ditched the specs, and tucked them away in a pocket. Then, wonder of wonders, I broke out onto the ski slope and ran down, making better time, but alone on the course and unsure of the route. Oh yeah, look for the tracks!
Literally out of the woods, I was not yet in the clear, since there were about 800 meters to go. I remember eyeing up the younger woman in orange who had passed me in the woods while I was falling or stowing my glasses, probably both. She had a significant lead, 50 yards or so. My tank was empty, though, and when the flats turned into an insignificant rise, I walked for a few meters, saying to myself, “No. More. Up.”
After the crest, I turned on the jets, determined to finish strong. I was gaining on the girl in orange, eating up the distance. I could hear 50k National Trail Running champion and raw vegan sensation Tim Van Orden yelling, “What a kick! She’s gonna catch you…!” I was close, but I didn’t quite get there.
I knew that I had done all I could on the day when I crossed the finish line, made my way to the end of the chute, and flopped down in the snow, oblivious to everything but my pounding heart. Short races are hell, they really are. There is no pacing, no reason to hold back. Every 5k, I lose my breakfast at the finish. For this 4k, breakfast was hours in the past, and I no longer had legs to stand on. That’s what makes a challenge, and that’s how I got Vermont.
Snowshoeing is a wonderful workout, and a life sport. There are racers in their 80s. I will be back to give it another try. Thanks, Dion Snowshoes, and Tim www.runningraw.com and Prospect Mountain www.prospectmountain.com
I made it home for the owl prowl, and while we didn’t see any owls, we had great star gazing and an opportunity to trudge through crusted, deep snow, without snowshoes. Dinner out with my girlfriends was fantastic. Food tastes so very good when you’re really hungry.
The next day, New Jersey started to thaw. I’m just about ready for spring, but I made the most of a wonderland of a winter.
Dateline: October 19-20, 2013, Manhattan and Brooklyn, New York
2 days, 3 friends, 39 Miles, and a sleepover. What could be better?
The whole thing was Kelly’s idea (fault). One day at work, Kelly mentioned that she had completed a 60- mile 3- day Avon Walk for Breast Cancer several years before. She said it was easy, fun, rewarding, and that the fundraising wasn’t hard. This one wasn’t even going to be 40 miles, so it should be super easy.
So we formed our team- Kelly, me, Jen, Ursula, Jan, and Arielle. And we had months to fundraise. Kelly was good at it, I hit up large donors multiple times, taking advantage of the recent Supreme Court ruling allowing for unlimited funds to flow to Avon from wealthy donors, Jen got the job done. Ari, Urs, and Jan did nothing and raised exactly that amount. Kelly and I trained a bit over the summer. I remember walking around Southport in Maine, ONCE. Kelly did 4 miles a week with the husband and the dog, and the two of us trained together, ONCE, by walking 8 miles after work. Jen doesn’t need no stinking training, apparently. She has no time for it.
So at 5 am on October 19, the 3 of us were at the start at the piers off the West Side Highway. We took off in a flood of pink as the eastern sky put on its matching pink glow.
Early on, and we are prancing like this…
Up the length of Manhattan, and back down, and ten miles in, we are goofing around. There are plenty of rest stops, water bottles, granola bars, and, most importantly, porta-potties. On every corner, there are volunteers to cheer walkers on, make them laugh. Miles flow, at first.
Crossing the Brooklyn Bridge on foot was a highlight on day one. Crossing back over the noisy Manhattan Bridge, less so. But hey, it’s easier than swimming across.
Day one is the tougher day, and the goal is to walk a full Marathon distance, 26 miles, 385 tough taxi yards. We learned that day that 20 miles is easy, 26 is hard, and that last 385 yards is nearly impossible. Jen’s hip flexor refused to function, and she was swinging her left leg forward. Kelly’s knee was flaring and she has no skin on her feet. And I really really had to go to the bathroom and was searching for bushes on Randall’s Island, but there weren’t any. I ran, ran, RAN into the first one I saw, just before our tent city. I felt like I had reached Mecca.
Day One Dun! Wellness Village, aka Blister Busters
Thankfully, Boy Scouts were on hard to help us set up our tents, because we were suddenly unable to stand on the lush cool green grass, and we rested in the fetal position. Jen and I shared one pup tent, and Kelly spent a restless night, expecting a strange roommate to arrive at any second and unzip her tent. Jen swore she heard that happening, and we laughed hysterically over it as we groaned and stretched, trying to find a comfortable position. We didn’t plan ahead, and later, it proved difficult to find the correct tent after a pre dawn porta potty run. I was laughing and freezing in bare feet, but luckily, an errant sock marked my home turf.
See our tent? It’s the pink one.
Avon fed us a delicious dinner and offered podiatrists, doctors, and massage therapists for all. The blister busters were busy all evening. The following day, sans Boy Scouts, we barely got our tents folded and stacked before limping off to the start line for the final 13 miles. Day two was painful. But as we kept reminding ourselves, better than, easier than, take it any day over a cancer diagnosis, chemo, radiation, mastectomy. We walked and walked and walked- some people were running. We kept ourselves going with punchy private jokes and a promise that we would get ourselves NYC pizza and ice cream.
At last
We succeeded with ice cream, but alas, we were done too early for pizza, which didn’t open until 11:30. We prevailed upon a couple of shops to open early for us, but the owners were unmoved by our pleas. As we hit the wall of pain, Kelly announced that the walk needed to end. It took its sweet time doing it, so I suggested that we incorporate some Chi Walking into our efforts, and demonstrated the technique, which made me look like I shouldn’t be allowed out without an aide in NYC. Soon after, we made it to the piers and the finish line. I don’t seem to have a photo documenting that historic moment. I think we were all more interested in finding the minivan driven by Jeff that would ferry us back to NJ.
Our favorite volunteer- somehow, dancing on every corner
Avon walk was exhausting, but also inspirational. We were cheered by thousands of volunteers, accompanied by hundreds of breast cancer survivors helping to ensure that someday others don’t have to face this disease. Millions upon millions of dollars raised for research, treatment, and support.
I encourage everyone to do the Avon Walk, at least once. Friends, fun, laughs, camping, pain, all for a good cause. And you never know when you or someone you love might need help in facing the emotional, physical, and financial challenges of a cancer diagnosis. Soon after we completed the walk, one of our moms was diagnosed… Having shared the Avon walk, we know that she doesn’t, won’t ever, walk alone.
I wore my special Julie Culley shirt the whole way
Dateline: May 31, 2013, Cumberland, Maryland the night before Tom’s Run
Tom’s Run, a running relay, is held annually to promote fitness, team building, and community. The event is named in honor of CWO4 Tom Brooks, USCG, who contracted Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis (ALS) (also known as Lou Gehrig’s disease) in early 1999. Tom was an avid fitness promoter. He had a reputation for persuading couch potatoes to get up and get moving. When Tom was diagnosed with ALS, his friends decided to show their appreciation for the inspiration Tom had given them by organizing this event in his honor. So, Tom’s Run is about people. Tom’s Run is about who we are as runners and teammates and friends.
Jen and her Air Force Medical Service buddies formed a team called the Data Driven Nerds, and they were nice enough to let me be a part of this incredible physical and logistical challenge. Starting at 12:30 am on June 1, we had a biker and a runner on the C&O Canal Towpath, wending east and south toward Washington, DC, supported by the rest of us, in minivans, moving along with them and meeting them at 4-11 mile intervals to switch runners and bikers. Even Baby was assigned a running leg. This went on all day, all night, until we finished, around noon on – oh who knows what day it was- we ran and biked from night into day into and through another night and on into lunchtime the following day.
We shared a room the night before for a couple of hours with Raj, our lead off runner, and Baby, and Morgan. Here is what the dogs thought about our 12 am alarm and wake up call…
Morgan doing his best impression of a rumpled sheet
It was the last we would see of a bed for days. Our whole team showed up to see Raj off with his cycle companion, Rhonda, for an 11 mile leg at the start of the C&O Canal Trail, only 200 more miles to go:
Sorry it’s dark, but it’s the middle of the night!
Jen and I were slated to share a leg, with Jen biking and me running, around 6 am. It was a 4-5 mile leg. Canal towpaths have only a 1 percent grade, and we were going the downhill direction, and I had an easy go of it- finished way before I was expected. I must have been adrenaline fueled. The minivan was home base for the dogs, and they were snoozing while Jen and I were cruising. So fun, our team performing like clockwork- well, kinda, we did have one family with us with a very cute young son, but we learned early that morning, say 2 am, not to follow a minivan with a young child aboard to the next changeover spot- sometimes, parents of young kids deviate from the plans…
The logistics were daunting, even for the Data-Driven Nerds, and our leader, Julie, spent most of the last 3 months doing spreadsheets to assign runners and bikers to the various legs. Of course, 2 people had to back out at the last second, and all her work had to be re-done. She was incredible, and even arranged for us to have a barbecues lunch at a park along the route. Most of us got to spend hours recharging there along the 15 Mile Creek- but not Jen.
Jen was driving the minivan from placed to place all through the afternoon, except for when she was running. And it was HOT. Really hot. Too hot for Baby to run her own leg- Jen had to step in for her. I was resting all that time and didn’t even have to do any driving. By the time Jen got to the barbecue, we were packing it up… Poor Jen. Round 6 pm that evening, she had to do her own scheduled 4 mile leg, and I was her biker. It was a gorgeous and shady leg with caves and cliffs on one side, the canal on the other. Jen was exhausted- and I had to talk her through every step of the way, but that is what Tom’s Run is about- team-building. I would have my own meltdown later.
Julie and Jen synchronize watches
Leg after leg, we edged our way closer to Washington. Late evening, sitting in the minivan, waiting to change some runners and bikers, in a parking lot. Next part of the plan was to take advantage of a canal lock-tenders cottage, circa 1830, and rest there. We had to hike, with the dogs, about 2 miles up the towpath to get to it- pitch dark, humid, sweaty. When we arrived, there were coolers of food- but they weren’t ours; somehow we were sharing the cottage with people who weren’t even on Tom’s Run. And though it was midnight, they were noisy, had a bonfire… There were beds upstairs but they were occupied, so we lay down on the wood floor with the dogs… but only for 40 minutes. Because it was my turn to run, I had to get up and hike the two miles back down and go to the next changeover place. It was 2 am, and I am not a night person. I was cranky and complaining that the Lock Tender’s Cottage was not a super idea- I could have stayed in the van.
I couldn’t find my cyclist at the start point; she was sleeping in a van, had skipped the cottage… so as Julie finished her night run, Rhonda went with me and talked me through my run in the middle of the night, 7 miles on an overgrown section of trail with sawgrass cutting up my legs a bit. We got to know each other through good conversation about horses and dogs. As we finished, no one was waiting for us on the trail, so we walked up to the doors of my red minivan, which had been moved into position- I knocked on the window, and the next runner looked at me and said, “Who are you?” I reminded her that I was Kerry and we were on Tom’s Run and it was her turn.
The next phase was very blurry for me because I was hitting my personal wall. I think there was a lot of punchiness and I think someone needing to go to the bathroom behind the car and walking the dogs? and someone needing to wrest the driving from me- a guy, quietly offering to drive. I became unconscious. When I awoke, we were somewhere in DC, and there was a place to wash up and await the changeover to the final leg- Jen running.
Jen, Morgan, Baby, and really cute young boy
Long story short, Jen and her cyclist went right by the entrance to the park which marks the finish line- and ran an extra 3 miles at least! We were all out looking for them, I was running around, adding miles to my total. Eventually they showed up and we got our medals and congratulated ourselves on a great performance. Maryland bagged, Tom’s Run completed, and if I can find a team willing to take me on again, I would do it. Everything about an endurance relay is challenging- running, biking, driving, staying awake, falling asleep when you should. Exhausting, exhilarating, extreme, excellent. I hear the C&O Canal Trail has been extended all the way to Harrisburg. I’d like to do that section.
Dateline: Middletown, Delaware, August of some forgotten recent year
The White Clay Bicycle Club Shore Fire Century Ride, Metric
Jen Wolf and I tackled this ride together, goodness knows when. I wasn’t yet 50, but I was plenty old, so we figure it counts! I am starting to worry about the number of states I have left to conquer. I think I was 48 for this one, 2010. I see there are many rides each year from this club, so perhaps, I will return, but I am going to give myself credit for this state for now. I writ-a the blog, I make-a the rules!
This ride was flat, flat, flat, which makes it a good choice for a first long ride. We had tackled 50 miles in the hills of Morris and Somerset New Jersey, but 65 was going to be a stretch for us. We rode steady, high gear, hard as we could. It was a beautiful sunny day, low humidity, not terribly hot until the finish. Much of the route had been recently “chipped,” which occluded the road arrows and would have made it very difficult to find our way had we not secured the LAST route map at check in. This at 8 am… I guess a lot of people must have awoken to a gorgeous morning and decided to ride. It seemed that millions of wooly bear caterpillars didn’t get the memo about the ride, since for 65 miles, they were crossing the road in vast numbers and often not making it to the other side. We stopped to help a few. There were good rest stops and lunch was provided by a pizza place along the route. Pizza may not be the best food to eat mid ride, but how could we resist a slice. When cramp set in, we tried pickle juice as a cure, and it worked!
The terrain alternated between farm and subdivision, and many people were out on their porches to wave and cheer riders on. Small towns, quiet streets, local beers, a big ride. What’s not to like? And with a metric century under my belt, I have the confidence to do a 100 mile ride this year, definitely on to do list for 2015 as I explore America.
Green Sands Beach, South Kona, Hawaii- and yes, it’s Emerald City Green
Dateline: October 10-24, Big Island, Hawaii
Hawaii is what’s next. Kip and I spent our honeymoon on Kauai in October 1987, and we haven’t traveled alone together since. Maybe we were spooked because the last time, we flew home on Black Monday, October 19, 1987, into a stock market crash and recession. The whole thing might have been our fault. This time, we decided to give ourselves 2 weeks and spend it exploring every nook and cranny of the Big Island. And with all that a’a lava, there are more nooks and crannies then an English muffin.
Sturdy shoes required- a’a lava hurts! Broad- shouldered Mauna Loa in the background
As luck would have it, Kip had us flying in the night before Ironman, so we got up on East Coast time and watched the swim start and saw some of the early going on the bike. We stayed in Kailua- Kona that first night with Barbara, whom we found through Air BnB. Another guest in the home was a 4- time veteran of this World Championships, and she told us how best to view the swim and the first hot corner of the Bike.
And…. They’re off!
A sprint triathlon here would be a wonderful Challenge, but the limitations I knew might crop up as I rack up the states started to wield their influence early. Five days before departure, I was clattered in a soccer game, plowing my right shoulder into the ground, injuring my collar bone. Like, badly. I wasn’t about to waste my time at the ER, so I ordered a brace online for $25 and did 2 sessions of physical therapy at my old office. Jeff seemed pretty darn sure I had fractured it. I wore the brace 24/7 for the first week in Hawaii and there was no way in hell I could ride a bike or swim distance. I tried to follow a fish snorkeling on day 2 or 3 and was brought up short in considerable pain. Ok, I thought, wear the brace, the sling, take advil round the clock, protect your ability to hike. Don’t blow that.
Hiking went well- So well that my dream of summiting Mauna Kea seemed a real probability…
Kilauea Iki- In 1959, 500 feet of lava filled this caldera
Until we got to 9200 feet, after a warm up hike at 7000 ft. along the Saddle Road.
Warming up, 7,000 ft., 14,000 ft Mauna Loa in the background
Kip has been having altitude sickness for some years now, and it was pretty scary on Mt Washington. The Ellison Onizuka Visitor’s Center, at 9,200 ft, is the acclimitization point for any Mauna Kea summit hike, and we were there at 12:30 pm, a perfect weather day. Deteriorating weather was expected the next couple days- we said- ok, go for it. I changed my clothes, I was going to go, Kip was going to drive me down- but… I got to thinking. I was alone… He wasn’t sure he could get the front wheel drive car to the summit or be in any condition to drive down, and I couldn’t hike it in both directions before dark. I said NO GO.
Thank God. We drove down- he was not acting right, then felt ill, then passed out as we went rapidly to sea level in Hilo. After that day, every time we dropped altitude, he was sick. My summit dreams were not going to be reality, especially once Hurricane Ana hit, bringing snow to the summits of Maunas Kea and Loa. I was determined to regroup and find something else. Meanwhile, we weren’t exactly suffering or sitting around. Hawaii wow’d us at every turn.
Mo’okena Heiau- sacred site of human sacrificeDawn Assault- Pololu Valley
More roadblocks in my search for the Big Island Challenge- the Kilauea Rim Trail was closed due to volcanic fumes- that would have been a 10 miler, but fatal, which kills the buzz. The Red Hill Trail is too high for Kip. On the Saturday, with the Park closed and the 5k up in HonoKa’a canceled, I found a rain forest trail that required almost no driving. We did it in water and mud up nearly to our knees, during a hurricane, while most everyone sat indoors.
Hurricane Ana cannot stop us
That’s something. It was listed as almost 5 miles- but it was short of that I’m sure. Is it enough? I may need an impartial judge. Tomorrow we could go back to Saddle Road and do a hike at 5,000 feet- but I don’t know if Kip will want to drive there. We should head south. We could go south and tour a coffee farm and perhaps I could run or hike the Cane Haul Road, but its right on the southeast coast where the hurricane hit. And my sneakers are filled with rainforest mud.
I was pining after that mountain, but not anymore. It’s ok, really, I am so much more flexible than I was last time I came to this state. On my honeymoon, I actually threw a golf club in the general and nearly specific direction of my new husband’s head- because I was mad at myself for sucking at golf. It was, of course, my first time on a golf course. I had zero sense of humor at 25 apparently. I may be older now, but maybe I’m somewhat less of an idiot. Let me ask around!
10/19 I have seen the Cane Haul Road- I think this is IT but its 17 miles long so we decided on 10 k for me tomorrow. I love these highways that time forgot, like the National Road, on my trip to St. Louis.
The Old Cane Haul Road
…Unfortunately we couldn’t find the Cane Haul Road from the other direction. Kip let me out on a road of the same name but after a mile it dumped me back on the highway. After 1.5 more miles of running, Kip had me turn onto a dead -ended road and all flow was lost. I did 5 k. As much as I could with a bum stomach in 91 degree heat and a collar bone brace. I stopped at one point to rescue a monarch butterfly that was exhausted on the shoulder of the road. That made two of us.
I did the minimum, 5k, but… I didn’t feel I had really bagged the state. It was bugging me.
We arrived in Captain Cook and started snorkeling, living in a lovely cottage on a macadamia nut farm. The couple that owned it were both psychologists, Heide an artist, and Jeffery an excellent ping pong player. He gave us both a lesson.
I looked at loop hikes and run walks. I was running out of time, obsessed with the Challenge. Wednesday morning, the 22nd, we got up and did a 2 mile hike to the Captain Cook Memorial snorkeling grounds, then after over an hour of reefs and fishes, including a radically cool peacock flounder, we hiked back up the cliff.
Morning Hike StartAnd turnaround point- ahh!
It was pretty tough as morning hikes go. But everything is so beautiful here, it’s inspirational.
We had thai food and did our shopping
This is all we bought!
came back to the cabin and had rum and oj in the gazebo. I found a run- thought it would do, felt good, went down alone to clock it. It was a rolling sine curve right along the water, route 160, single lane, linking Napo’opo’o Park and the Place of Refuge. Two important points in Hawaiian history and 2 places we have snorkeled. Perfect- and over 7 miles. Temp low to mid 80s, no sun.
I started out, water bottle in hand, slippery with sunscreen. It was driving me nuts. Somewhere along the way I opened my fanny pack and threw all my change out on the road. Little things getting to me, (probably because I had already started drinking!) but the first half went well enough. Stopped at a small beach for a couple minutes and drank from infernal water bottle. Dumped it on the way back and carried home the empty.
It was hard after 5-6 miles. I had not trained much in a while, what with the collar bone and all. The climbs just kept coming and the ribbon of highway straight ahead undulating like a snake over the mounds of old lava. When I finally crested the final hill I saw a USGS marker on the rock and it said 816 feet. The run had listed 250 feet of climb. I say it’s 1600! Finished up tired, dragging, but satisfied. I visited the Place of Refuge at sunset and snorkeled at neighboring 2 steps- saw a green turtle- she slipped under the coral and hid away like a garaged car. I felt privileged- no, blessed.
The Place of Refuge- which I needed after that run!
I saw a woman ladling stew and rice out of two huge aluminum pots balanced on the tailgate of a pick up truck. I told her about the turtle who shared my sunset swim and then tucked itself away safely at home. She smiled broadly and said, “Thank you for telling that story.” Hawaiians call it Talking Story. I hiked 4 miles, snorkeled over an hour, ran 7 miles, and had an authentic Hawaiian experience with a native family, living life the Hawaiian way. Today I found my challenge and I have bagged this state-and learned a lot and seen this island from all vantage points.
I cannot describe and these photos can’t capture the beauty that is The Big Island. I focused mostly on my quest to bag the state, but we were on- island 2 weeks and we did SO much more. Put this island at the top of your bucket list and email me before you go and I can help you find the best places to stay and the most awesome things to do. I really want to return. Take me with you!
9/14 I’m homeward bound, gorgeous day, a bit nervous. I don’t know why I’m nervous, but I feel the gravitational pull of New Jersey, where Laura is about to fly out to Chile to teach English. I need to see her. But I am thrilled to have had this chance to spend time with Emily at school. And of course, there’s all that other stuff. It’s been a wonderful trip, in so many ways.
The Arch looms close to the highway and bids me farewell with ever changing shape and the sunlight gleaming on its lower edge. I tootle along, listening to the Burgess Boys, a family more dysfunctional than most. This is one long book for one long road trip. I have a thought- and plug Dayton into the gps and decide to meet Jen for lunch- 387 miles in. It’s a chance to stretch my legs and spend a bit more time with her. Long gone are the days in 2010 when she lived with us for a summer working at the NJ Department of Health while gaining her certification in Preventive Medicine.
We get black bean wraps and ice cream and the food makes me sleepy. My second book on tape proves dull, so I crank up the a/c and the radio, wake up, and log 300 more miles.
The Clouds in Indiana
Coffee and gas in Somerset, hard by Shankesville Rd., then I go through the toughest sections, curves, tunnels, a little hairy in the dark but I’m alert. The Pennsylvania portion of this trip is really not a highway. I make Harrisburg, then Hershey, and I know I’m going straight through. If I stop to sleep I’m just going to stare at the alarm clock, and what’s the point in that?
Sudden red ! on the dashboard and I’m thinking back to the spectral guy with the dustpan and broom at the Somerset Rest Stop, in the parking space RIGHT NEXT to MINE, sweeping up glass. The dash is yelling MAINTENANCE REQUIRED ! and I’m thinking, “What do you want from me? I gave you two new tires, I gave you a new battery in your key fob, I gave you nice gas to drink, I’m driving you smoothly, please don’t have a flat or stop running out here it’s very late and I just need a little consideration from you…”
Ok so I’m rattled, but the car is humming along getting 42 mpg. I push for home, singing lustily with the radio, willing the car along, threatening to keep singing if it stops. I ditch the highway at Lamington Rd., take my first trip over the new 202 bridge, and amble in the drive at 12:30 am.
954.6 miles. No pain, no where. Incredible that. The dog won’t look at me and I’m wired, don’t get much sleep, but I set out across this great land and reached and crossed the wide Missouri and the Big Muddy, and the wild west awaits. The open road calls. The sun is up and so am I. What’s next?
