So I decided to do a little spring cleaning here in the office the last couple days. Ran into trouble when I couldn't fuel the flamethrower (ran out of napalm, unfortunately). Had an old buddy/roommate from college mention that he cleans out his car with a leaf blower.
Now, that would beat the heck out of my Plan B... and I couldn't figure out how to get a backhoe through the door anyway.
If I could just pull one of those trucks with the leaf-blowers mounted on the back right up next to the office, then reach in through the window with a hose... Hmmm...
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Kate & Jay's Birthday 4-11-09
Copyright 2009 by Ed Kmetz
Yo:
Kate & Jay are now into their second decade as of 07:50 and 07:52 this morning. Double digits for the dynamic duo.
Happy birthday wishes to them. I have to tell you about their party. First, a little back story.
So we (mostly Karen) decided that their party would consist of 10 (ten) kids. Each of them gets to invite 4 friends. They'll arrive for dinner Friday night for "make your own pizza," stay overnight, we hammer some breakfast into them, they play games outside Saturday , then parent pickup is around 3.
That's the plan. So far, so good.
Karen has numerous outdoor games planned, plus guess the gummy bears, draw strange pictures of people (as only 10 year olds can do), watch a movie in the (almost completed) theater downstairs. The kiddies will jump on the trampoline, have races, play with Halley, ride razor scooters down the driveway, play volleyball, and on and on.
That was the plan.
Of course the weather forecast does not cooperate, and all week they're calling for floods, tornadoes, locusts. Ark-building is recommended. So we have to plan on a plan B.
Keep in mind, too, that there are differences, stark and many, between 10 year old girls and 10 year old boys. These differences cannot and must not be ignored.
Let's start with last night....
After dinner we tell 'em all get your PJ's on, then we'll put on a movie in the theater for you. Now, I have a Vudu movie server with 12,000 titles available, so selection is not expected to be a problem. I put on the filter for "family" movies in high def, and the list is narrowed to 292. So I figure it's time to have some fun. I hand Jay the Vudu remote and say "here, all of you decide on a movie."
Try getting ten 10-year-olds to agree on anything, but especially the single most watchable movie of nearly 300. I basically poured gas on the floor and tossed a match into it. It was awesome. I couldn't resist.
I headed upstairs.
The discussion continued downstairs for maybe 8 - 10 minutes. Call it discussion if you like, but know that the negotiating tactics of 10 year old boys are based strictly on volume, and not at all on logic, compromise, or tact.
Girl: "I LOVE that movie"
Boy: "That's a STUPID movie, I wanted to barf."
And so it went.
Finally, I decided that rather than having them declaring all out war, or reaching a bitter, movieless stalemate... and having started the conflict I figured I'd better mediate the conflict. Found something (one of the "most watched" features) that about 7 of 10 agreed on, and only 2 or 3 thought was stupid.
An hour and a half or so, and a couple gallons of popcorn later, they head back upstairs. Movie pronounced satisfactory by all as it turns out.
Time for bed.
We corral the 5 boys into the living room, the 5 girls up in Kate's room. There's the constant underhum of girl giggling and chatter until who knows what time. The boys talk and scream, then a couple drop off line, then pretty quickly all of them are circuit breakers tripped. Like puppies, when the boys go down, they go down hard and they're out like they're under anesthesia. The girls giggle and chat quietly until who knows what time (word this morning was that they stayed up until 01:30, but who really knows...). The girl sound level is low enough that it doesn't matter much if they're awake and quiet or asleep and quiet. Quiet is quiet enough.
Now it's this morning. 07:30. The first girls awake, they decide to play the game hangman. No doubt it's words like "turquoise" and "gentle" and "breezes."
The first boys wake up about the same time and within seconds, all boys are awake.
The girls chatter quietly amongst each other, and giggle. Another game of hangman... "pastel" or "zephyr" this time. All girls gently awake and wish each other a good and delightful morning.
The boys start by drilling holes in each other's heads. They swing at each other with machetes. Contact is frequent.
A butterfly lands on Katie's bed upstairs, and the girls watch, breathless, at the gentle flapping of its wings.
The boys chainsaw through the sofa. They jackhammer the floor.
The girls cure the common cold, then ask to be excused.
The boys start the Chicago Fire.
We finally get them all dressed and rounded up and at the breakfast table for chow. Pancakes fly, syrup is dispensed, bacon is nuked, orange juice poured. Kid bellies fill. Before we know it, they're all outside. 5 girls head for the trampoline. The rain has somehow held off.
5 boys grab a new birthday "flying ring," a gizmo like a Frisbee but without a middle. It can fly 25,000 feet when propelled by appropriate boy power.
It can, however, only fly 50 ft. horizontally and 20 ft. vertically when tossed up straight into a tree, which happened maybe 2 minutes into play.
I couldn't find the camera, but it would've been an award-winning shot for sure. One fluorescent yellow flying ring hooked around the end of a skinny tree branch, 20 ft. up. 5 boys staring up at the ring, mouths open, like turkeys in the rain. They head for the garage to find tools. Out come rakes, hoes, a broom. After some minutes they conclude that even a 5 ft. long broom handle held by a 4 ft. boy is no match for a 20 ft. tree. One boy decides to lift another boy into "piggy back" position. They both fall down. They try the tools again, with no success. They then decide to build a human pyramid, so Victor gets on the ground on all fours. Jay climbs up on Victor's back. They enlist Trevor, the smallest kid, to climb on Jay's back. Trevor gets as far as Victor's back and the whole works collapses in a heap of random boy parts. Minutes pass. Plans are argued, debated, considered, rejected. Tools are tried again. Clark climbs the tree, reaches fruitlessly, and beats a retreat. Hunter climbs the tree and as he's a bit taller, he can actually reach the offending branch. Shake shake. Shake shake shake. SHAKE SH
The ring falls from the tree!
The boys storm the house in glorious celebration, like ancient hunters returning with a wildebeest tied around a sagging carry pole. They did it! It was all about the TEAMWORK! There was NEVER any doubt! They had it ALL the way!
By that time, 09:30, it was time to head for the climbing gym... the "Plan B" mentioned above. http://www.northsummitclimbing.com/
10 kids, plus Donna, wanted to climb the walls. We get 'em all saddled up.
2 hrs. of climbing ensued. Super-nice and careful people there at the climbing gym. Almost all the kids had a ball, except for one who claimed fear of heights after he made it up about 3/4 of the way, and another who had suffered a *severe* ankle injury earlier in the day. (He required much ice, and rest. Fortunately, no Medevac. Somehow he managed to recover in time for baseball practice this afternoon.)
If I were judging, and this was a competition, the girls would've won it going away. The girls left scorch marks as they scampered up the walls. I'm thinking a couple of them could've done it upside down. Most of the boys held their own, though. The look of pride on all their faces as they'd come down off a difficult technical climb all the way to the top was way worth the trip.
Brought them all back to the house. Lunched 'em and ice cream caked 'em.
Back out into the yard for an (uneventful!) session of ring toss and trampoline.
Parents came. Kids packed up and left. A couple of our good friends hung around and helped us polish off some chow that was jamming our fridge.
The rain held off.
Tired, but quite satisfied. A good day. A great birthday for K & J.
Happy Easter!
ESK
Copyright 2009 Ed Kmetz. All Rights Reserved. ALL broadcast, publication, retransmission to e-mail lists, WWW or any other copying or storage, in any medium, online or not, is
STRICTLY PROHIBITED without PRIOR written permission from the author. MANUAL FORWARDING by e-mail to friends is allowed IF 1) the text is forwarded IN ITS ENTIRETY, from the Copyright line on top through the end of this paragraph and 2) NO FEE is charged.
Yo:
Kate & Jay are now into their second decade as of 07:50 and 07:52 this morning. Double digits for the dynamic duo.
Happy birthday wishes to them. I have to tell you about their party. First, a little back story.
So we (mostly Karen) decided that their party would consist of 10 (ten) kids. Each of them gets to invite 4 friends. They'll arrive for dinner Friday night for "make your own pizza," stay overnight, we hammer some breakfast into them, they play games outside Saturday , then parent pickup is around 3.
That's the plan. So far, so good.
Karen has numerous outdoor games planned, plus guess the gummy bears, draw strange pictures of people (as only 10 year olds can do), watch a movie in the (almost completed) theater downstairs. The kiddies will jump on the trampoline, have races, play with Halley, ride razor scooters down the driveway, play volleyball, and on and on.
That was the plan.
Of course the weather forecast does not cooperate, and all week they're calling for floods, tornadoes, locusts. Ark-building is recommended. So we have to plan on a plan B.
Keep in mind, too, that there are differences, stark and many, between 10 year old girls and 10 year old boys. These differences cannot and must not be ignored.
Let's start with last night....
After dinner we tell 'em all get your PJ's on, then we'll put on a movie in the theater for you. Now, I have a Vudu movie server with 12,000 titles available, so selection is not expected to be a problem. I put on the filter for "family" movies in high def, and the list is narrowed to 292. So I figure it's time to have some fun. I hand Jay the Vudu remote and say "here, all of you decide on a movie."
Try getting ten 10-year-olds to agree on anything, but especially the single most watchable movie of nearly 300. I basically poured gas on the floor and tossed a match into it. It was awesome. I couldn't resist.
I headed upstairs.
The discussion continued downstairs for maybe 8 - 10 minutes. Call it discussion if you like, but know that the negotiating tactics of 10 year old boys are based strictly on volume, and not at all on logic, compromise, or tact.
Girl: "I LOVE that movie"
Boy: "That's a STUPID movie, I wanted to barf."
And so it went.
Finally, I decided that rather than having them declaring all out war, or reaching a bitter, movieless stalemate... and having started the conflict I figured I'd better mediate the conflict. Found something (one of the "most watched" features) that about 7 of 10 agreed on, and only 2 or 3 thought was stupid.
An hour and a half or so, and a couple gallons of popcorn later, they head back upstairs. Movie pronounced satisfactory by all as it turns out.
Time for bed.
We corral the 5 boys into the living room, the 5 girls up in Kate's room. There's the constant underhum of girl giggling and chatter until who knows what time. The boys talk and scream, then a couple drop off line, then pretty quickly all of them are circuit breakers tripped. Like puppies, when the boys go down, they go down hard and they're out like they're under anesthesia. The girls giggle and chat quietly until who knows what time (word this morning was that they stayed up until 01:30, but who really knows...). The girl sound level is low enough that it doesn't matter much if they're awake and quiet or asleep and quiet. Quiet is quiet enough.
Now it's this morning. 07:30. The first girls awake, they decide to play the game hangman. No doubt it's words like "turquoise" and "gentle" and "breezes."
The first boys wake up about the same time and within seconds, all boys are awake.
The girls chatter quietly amongst each other, and giggle. Another game of hangman... "pastel" or "zephyr" this time. All girls gently awake and wish each other a good and delightful morning.
The boys start by drilling holes in each other's heads. They swing at each other with machetes. Contact is frequent.
A butterfly lands on Katie's bed upstairs, and the girls watch, breathless, at the gentle flapping of its wings.
The boys chainsaw through the sofa. They jackhammer the floor.
The girls cure the common cold, then ask to be excused.
The boys start the Chicago Fire.
We finally get them all dressed and rounded up and at the breakfast table for chow. Pancakes fly, syrup is dispensed, bacon is nuked, orange juice poured. Kid bellies fill. Before we know it, they're all outside. 5 girls head for the trampoline. The rain has somehow held off.
5 boys grab a new birthday "flying ring," a gizmo like a Frisbee but without a middle. It can fly 25,000 feet when propelled by appropriate boy power.
It can, however, only fly 50 ft. horizontally and 20 ft. vertically when tossed up straight into a tree, which happened maybe 2 minutes into play.
I couldn't find the camera, but it would've been an award-winning shot for sure. One fluorescent yellow flying ring hooked around the end of a skinny tree branch, 20 ft. up. 5 boys staring up at the ring, mouths open, like turkeys in the rain. They head for the garage to find tools. Out come rakes, hoes, a broom. After some minutes they conclude that even a 5 ft. long broom handle held by a 4 ft. boy is no match for a 20 ft. tree. One boy decides to lift another boy into "piggy back" position. They both fall down. They try the tools again, with no success. They then decide to build a human pyramid, so Victor gets on the ground on all fours. Jay climbs up on Victor's back. They enlist Trevor, the smallest kid, to climb on Jay's back. Trevor gets as far as Victor's back and the whole works collapses in a heap of random boy parts. Minutes pass. Plans are argued, debated, considered, rejected. Tools are tried again. Clark climbs the tree, reaches fruitlessly, and beats a retreat. Hunter climbs the tree and as he's a bit taller, he can actually reach the offending branch. Shake shake. Shake shake shake. SHAKE SH
The ring falls from the tree!
The boys storm the house in glorious celebration, like ancient hunters returning with a wildebeest tied around a sagging carry pole. They did it! It was all about the TEAMWORK! There was NEVER any doubt! They had it ALL the way!
By that time, 09:30, it was time to head for the climbing gym... the "Plan B" mentioned above. http://www.northsummitclimbing.com/
10 kids, plus Donna, wanted to climb the walls. We get 'em all saddled up.
2 hrs. of climbing ensued. Super-nice and careful people there at the climbing gym. Almost all the kids had a ball, except for one who claimed fear of heights after he made it up about 3/4 of the way, and another who had suffered a *severe* ankle injury earlier in the day. (He required much ice, and rest. Fortunately, no Medevac. Somehow he managed to recover in time for baseball practice this afternoon.)
If I were judging, and this was a competition, the girls would've won it going away. The girls left scorch marks as they scampered up the walls. I'm thinking a couple of them could've done it upside down. Most of the boys held their own, though. The look of pride on all their faces as they'd come down off a difficult technical climb all the way to the top was way worth the trip.
Brought them all back to the house. Lunched 'em and ice cream caked 'em.
Back out into the yard for an (uneventful!) session of ring toss and trampoline.
Parents came. Kids packed up and left. A couple of our good friends hung around and helped us polish off some chow that was jamming our fridge.
The rain held off.
Tired, but quite satisfied. A good day. A great birthday for K & J.
Happy Easter!
ESK
Copyright 2009 Ed Kmetz. All Rights Reserved. ALL broadcast, publication, retransmission to e-mail lists, WWW or any other copying or storage, in any medium, online or not, is
STRICTLY PROHIBITED without PRIOR written permission from the author. MANUAL FORWARDING by e-mail to friends is allowed IF 1) the text is forwarded IN ITS ENTIRETY, from the Copyright line on top through the end of this paragraph and 2) NO FEE is charged.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
A day of skiing on glass
Yo:
Checking in with a late-nite note after falling asleep in The Chair for a while. Had to record this awesome day for posterity.
Had a bright/early departure for a noteworthy day of water skiing with Fred/Donna. Took the kiddies and a friend from my bidness networking group, Jason. It was Jason's first time, so we were all pretty psyched about that.
Conditions were P E R F E C T. Certainly the best conditions I've ever skiied in. We were in position by about 09:40, and at that time of the day with no wind, a near-glass surface, and nary a competing boat to be had, it was just swish swish swish. This was three feet of trackless Utah powder, but add 60 degrees and move it to the water.
Donna (daughter Donna) is now skiing on one ski, and she launched just fine, pretty much routine at this point. Great accomplishment for her, since it takes many/most people (it certainly took me) many, many attempts to get up on one ski. She was up on one her second weekend of trying... sheez. Kate/Jay are now both up on two skis. Fred and I both do one ski, of course, but Fred is much better at it than me. I'm still working to get nice fans of water on those cuts across the wake. Fred is a pro, makes it look easy, and believe me, it ain't. Jason owns a gym, and expected to snap right out of the water, NO problem. He didn't think that for long... He did manage to get up on two skis for a bit after the obligatory many attempts, much water up the nose, down the throat, and in the ears. I think he's going to be a sore puppy at the gym tomorrow.
Karen will be off WORK next weekend, so we should have a full boat once again, Mom Nature permitting...
Anyway, that's the news flash from here... definitely gotta go night-night. A tip of the cap to Fred/Donna for yet another awesome day on the water, the awesomest.
Cheers
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Flying in the B-17
Yo:
Susan reminded me that I hadn't checked in with the post-flight debrief.
Oh man.
Tough to get started, almost one of those "words fail me" things.
Almost.
Attached a few pix to this... hopefully it won't balloon the size of the message too bad. Accidently switched the date setting to Day Month Year, so it really was October 5 when all this happened.
If you want to read more about these planes, check out http://www.collingsfoundation.org/
And now, to our story.
This all came about through one of the guys at the gliderport, who is learning to fly gliders as one of Paul's (bro-in-law) students.. He donated some thousands of bux to the Collings Foundation, got his name on the side of the plane, and as a plane sponsor gets to ride in it from city to city from time to time. Super nice guy... Can bring a few guests along, too. NICE to have friends in high places. Got a pic of him polishing his name on the side (Alain).
Weather started off pretty iffy... when I left home at 9 a.m. it was maybe 800 over, 1 mile in drizzle. But as I left the greater Stroudsburg metroplex and got closer to Hazleton the weather started to break up. By the time we flew around 2 p.m., you couldn't have ordered a better day for this flight. Screaming blue skies, calm air, early fall Poconos warm/cool, awesome all the way.
They sold rides for $400 for what basically amounted to a long spin around the pattern, had 8 or 9 takers for each plane which I guess for Hazleton is some sort of record. While the planes were on display we had a chance to spend time in the B-24... the only restored, flying B-24 anywhere. Remarkable... there's so little space inside either of these two planes for anything but bombs. They planned to have the B-25 there as well but, can you believe it, couldn't get a pilot? I'd do just about anything to fly one of these planes, any one of 'em, and here they are coming up short on pilots. Incredible. (Maybe it's time to get checked out in a B-25... anyone got a spare $30K or so?) Anyway, we took a few pix of the B-24, and climbed around inside... but most of our attention was focused on the -17.
We knew that was our ride.
After they finished with the local flights, it was time for us to climb in for the flight to Carroll County airport in Westminster, MD. We all had to be buckled in during ground ops, but as soon as the wheels left the ground, we could get up & go wherever we wanted. For takeoff I had an awesome seat at the left side, just forward of the waist gunner position, at a radio (with telegraph key). Unlike the folks further back, I actually had a small window. They had to sit on the floor, strapped in... at least I could see out, nice for me.
I expected this airplane to be LOUD... and it was pretty loud, but not as much as I expected. I brought along my DC headset, in case it was either (a) too loud and I had to put them on for protection, or (b) I could plug in. Turns out, I did neither. Those 9 cylinder radial engines really purr, a smooth, flowing sound, no brap brap brap at all. It was way too loud to hold a normal conversation, but you could make yourself heard if you shouted and were about 1 ft. away from the person you're talking to... all in all, about the same acoustics & volume as the Irish pub here in town.
I made a beeline for the bombardier's station as soon as we were wheels up, and stayed there while we climbed to a lofty 2200 ft. for the flight to MD. Scoped it out, spun the seat, adjusted the Norden bombsight, then (grudgingly, hesitatingly) let the others have a crack at it. It requires some gymnastics just to get to the bombardier's station... you have to crawl down through a tunnel, then back up a couple steps. But man, whatta view... perfect viz in all directions, including (especially) straight down. Left the bombardier's station, stood behind the pilots a while (note the GPS moving map in front of the pilot, vs. the 60-year-old power levers with the chipped paint between the pilot and co-pilot). Up to the radio operator's station, confirmed that our mission planning hadn't changed, did some celestial nav, fired a few hundred .50 cal rounds at a swarm of incoming Me262's, saved the B-17 once again. Back to the bombardier's station, took out a ball-bearing factory, an ammo dump, *and* a rail yard -- all on the same bombing run (a record for the month!). Captain Mitty got on the intercom with his warm congratulations on a Job Well Done.
Of course this plane has a few mods, one of the best ones being where they cut the roof off right in the middle of the plane, so as you're flying you can stand up and stick your whole head in the slipstream. An incredible view, completely unrestricted.
As we flew across central PA, I couldn't help but think how the landscape had to look like Germany, 1945... gently rolling hills, mostly small farms, lots of trees, a very few small towns. But you can bet we were thinking very different thoughts than when Uncle Ed was fline these for real Back When.
The other thing that struck me was... the skin on this airplane is t h i n and if you get hurt, you are in a World of Trouble. I never thought about it much, just sort of assumed these planes were armored, or at least protected *somehow*... but no. There is very little space to move around at all, much less try to treat someone who's bleeding all over the floor. Then there's the poor guy stuck in the ball turret (the station below the belly of the airplane... he sits in there scrunched over, firing his machine guns when needed). There's no way out for that guy... he gets in and out of the ball turret only when the plane is parked. So if there's any trouble with landing (say, one of the main gear legs breaks off) it's all over for him.
I had tons of respect for the guys fline these planes before... but now, seeing what they had to work with, thinking of sucking oxygen through a mask in an unpressurized plane at 31,000 ft. when it's 40 below outside and not much warmer in, the 22 year old captains and the 17 year old waist gunners and the 19 year old radio operators, and the guy stuck in that ball turret for 6 hrs. at a time, hoping the gear stays on when they land. Unbelievable.
What an incredible day. Thanks, Uncle Ed.
Cheers
Saturday, March 15, 2003
Week in UT... some snow, some not
Yo:
Figured I'd knock aht a quick note while in the skies over, oh, let's see, Nebraska.
Fline home from our annual trip to Salt Lake City after quite a mixed bag of a week. Of course they received tons of snow last week. Of course there are tons of snow in the forecast for next week. Amount of snow we received the week we were there? 6", all of it yesterday (and I
wasn't even on the mountain to enjoy it!). El Stinko. But I guess you've got to have years like this one to balance out the years like the last one, when we got 53" of snow in 2 days. That was one for the history books.
Arrived last Saturday 3/8, solo this time, as Karen stayed home with the kiddies. Nice to find that our haus was still in very good shape, always a pleasant sight to see. No repairs needed, no trips to Home Depot. Just focus on relaxing...
Jumped right on the slopes Sunday. Beautiful day (if you call cloudless, infinite sky beautiful, a hotly debatable topic). We went to Solitude, ordinarily one of my favorites... but even Solitude couldn't cope with the relentless lack of snow the last few days, and conditions were not all that great by Utah standards. Probably "good" by Pocono standards, but when we're in Utah we want to be skiing with snorkels, and we weren't. So we stuck to the "groomers" (the trails where the grooming machines condition the snow like a farmer plows a field, leaving parallel lines like corduroy pants) and zoomed around for the day. Usually we're in the powder, in the trees, going slow and mostly avoiding running into the trees. Gave the ankles a workout... probably too much of a workout.
Sunday evening, we went to the Yurt at Solitude, a Mongolian-style tent stuck out in the woods somewhere. Jeff, Glenn, and I ( the brave (?) souls) opted for the cross-country skis; everybody else went for the snowshoe option. I learned a lot about XC skiing that night:
-- They don't go so good on ice
-- They don't stop so good on ice
Unlike regular downhill skis, there are no discernable edges on XC skis. You're skiing on just a slab of very long, very narrow fiberglass that mostly refuses to go where you point it. Uphill (to the Yurt) is not so bad so long as you stay in the railroad tracks left by XC skiers before
you. The bottom of the XC skis are fashioned with ridges, like fish scales, that sort of keep the things from sliding backward as you're going uphill. Jeff got the hang of it pretty quickly, and was off like Leif Ericksson in a race to be the first to map Greenland or something. (Remember this for later). Glenn is an awesome skier anyway, so he had no trouble. I slogged along, and did manage to survive the trip to the Yurt. It was uphill, and there were the tracks to keep the skis in.
Now, once you get to the Yurt (a trip of a kilometer or so, no big deal), the feast is on. There was a new chef this year, and he whipped up quite a feast - gour-met all the way. We had squab over mushrooms for an appetizer. Hot, spicy borscht (sp?), made with a veal stock that was awesome, and some of us had seconds. If you've had cold borscht, don't even try to compare... there is no comparison. The entrée was lamb shank that fell off the bone. Then homemade cinnamon ice cream and bread pudding for dessert. Not a dinner for the calorie-conscious, not at all.
Now it's time to return to the base. This is crunch time.
The skiers lead off. Glenn goes first, not a problem there. I'm next. I'm happy just to stay upright, left ski in the track, the other canted at 45 degrees, theoretically to maintain some control over speed. It works, a little. I sprain my ankle, a little. I slide doggedly on.
Jeff starts behind me at some distance. At first we're fine.
Halfway to the bottom, Jeff catches up - remember he's a man on a mission to conquer Greenland. Jeff has both skis in the frozen tracks. This, he realizes with a damp horror, means zero control over speed. There's Ed, dead ahead. Periscope up. Load torpedo bays. Target off
the nose,
range 15 meters. 10 meters. 5.
3.
Crushing disaster imminent, Jeff takes one for the team.
Unable to stop any other way, he falls to one side, BAM. BAM. It's crude but effective, collision avoided (other than his with the ground, of course). Jeff gets up, dusts himself off, and in a display of lesson-unlearned, starts again and hurtles past.
Watching him advance in the moonlit darkness, I'm able to see only a small, almost playful, puff as he goes down once again. I could be wrong, but I'm pretty sure his fall count stayed under 5 for the return trip.
Monday, with my ankle hurting a bit, just where the boot pounds into it, I took the day off. Donna (Fred's wife) and I went to the zoo. Pretty cool. We learned the difference between African and Asian elephants, fed birds out of my hand, talked with a bird, and watched a giraffe eat out of a bin 17 ft. off the ground. The rest of the gang went to Alta and had a good day of skiing. Went to the Mayan restaurant for dinner, where they serve Mexican food, and have a diving show every 1/2 hour.
Tuesday - ankle still hurt, so I took another day off. Figured I'd rather take it easy, since the skiing wasn't so good anyway. Fred was resting his knee (he's recovering from ACL surgery a few months ago) so he, Donna, and I went to ride "Nascarts" - these go-karts, but they
weren't open. Bummer. That would've been fun. Dinner that night we all went to the "Made in Brazil" restaurant, which is always a kickin' time if you're a carnivore. They have a salad bar, which is pretty good actually, but the main event is the meat that just keeps coming. Again
we dispensed with the whole concept of watching what we eat, this is vacation after all... They make fresh juice drinks - you want a mango drink, they're throwing mangoes in the blender. Kiwi? It's peeled and in it goes. Papaya? They've got it. Awesome. But as good as the
drinks are, the highlight is the meat. They cook meat on skewers, all different kinds of meat, and it keeps coming until you moan "Uncle" and flip over the little gizzy that's half red and half green to the red side up. Garlic steak, top sirloin, tenderloin, chicken, turkey, ham. Even pineapple, and believe me, that's the way to have pineapple. More sirloin, and tenderloin, and chicken. And more. And more. For the last few years, we've always gone to Made in Brazil at least once/trip,
especially since the regrettable closing of the Hungry Heifer. We can't remember the actual name of that restaurant, but they'd serve a bowl of chicken breasts as an appetizer for the table, to go along with your steak. Guess they figured they'd make it up in volume... and didn't.
Wednesday - Jeff had scheduled a shortened week, so he left Wed. morning, vowing to be back and conquer the Yurt next time. Lee and Nate decided to take the day off, and stayed home, I think. For ski destination, we had a divergence of opinion; Glenn and Bonnie (I work
with Glenn) wanted to go to Snowbird, as Glenn's parents (who were also in Salt Lake this week) had never been there. Fred's not so wild about "The Bird" and I hadn't skied Alta, so to Alta Fred and I went, first time for me, a return trip for him. Ankle was feeling better, but since
it was so warm we were concerned about conditions in the afternoon getting sticky. We bought a morning ticket, and skied hard until about 1 p.m., when the ticket ran out. It was getting a little sticky to be sure, and the ankle had had enough by then anyway. Conditions were
surprisingly good, though, high on the hill. If you've gotta live without fresh powder, then that's the kind of day you want - good skiing, good company, and ready for the hot tub at the end. Tried the Ruby River Steakhouse for dinner that night (keeping with a carnivore
theme, I guess). It was OK, but worth a return trip? Hmmmm.
The news ALL over the TV that night (and the next day, and the next) was that they'd found Elizabeth Smart in Sandy, about 10 minutes from our house. Talk about great news!
Thursday - Nate and Lee left today; Nate lucked out and got an earlier flight, Lee was stuck with his 10:30 p.m. departure, boo hoo for him. I guess a lot of people were bailing out of SLC because of the high temps/lack of snow anat. Anyway, how insane is this -- I'd scheduled a
sales call in Logan, UT, about 2 hrs. north of Salt Lake, and besides, temps in the valley were a record-breaking 72 degrees, so we figured the skiing would be "iffy" anyway. The good news is that the sales call was sorta near the Golden Spike Nat'l Historic Site, a place Fred wanted to
see at some point in this trip. Fred & Donna dropped me off and I made the call while they stopped in Border's Books in Logan. When I was done (mercifully brief call, and they're even
interested in some stuff, whaddya know) Fred and Donna picked me up and off to the Golden Spike site we went. Very interesting. This is where the Union Pacific RR (building from the east) met the Central Pacific RR (building from the west). When we got there I thought we'd be about it for the day, but surprisingly there were quite a number of people that followed us. Why surprising? This place is in the center, of the middle, of nowhere. If you want to check a map, it's near Promontory, UT. Good luck. Really gave us an appreciation for what those guys went
through, though, building the transcontinental railroad. Digging, by hand, tunnels through the mountains, making 8 inches / day of progress. Roasting heat. Vicious cold. Maintaining a maximum 2 degree slope to the tracks that meant (by hand, of course) digging & blasting trenches through hills in some places and (by hand, of course) filling in gullies in other places. Rarely did the topography cooperate, it seemed. We did a walking tour of about 1.5 miles that showed, among other things, where someone (a surveyor?) screwed up the location of a trench. Turns out the advance team was off by 75 feet, so this huge trench that they'd dug and blasted (by hand, of course) was a waste of time. Makes you want to cry. Saw the "big fill" where the Central Pacific filled in a 400 ft. ravine. By hand, of course. Built in the 1860's, it's still in
use today by ranchers for access to their farms.
Friday - Temps were in the 60's, and I just couldn't get inspired with skiing, and didn't want to stress the ankle, on the off chance that I'll still have to do the Ski Patrol gig back home once I return. Little did I know that this would be the one day this week we'd get snow (the
Weather Channel sure wasn't saying much about it)... and the gang at Alta got ~6" of new stuff, which made it a very good day indeed for skiing. Oh well. Donna and I did some souvenir shopping, then I made chili for the gang. Turned out pretty well, except I put the red and green
peppers in way too soon, and they ended up mushy. I'll know for next time. Made tarragon and basil sourdough bread, which came out much better.
So here we are Saturday, and ze plane is ready to start the descent. Totally uneventful flight so far, except for a half hour delay while they fixed one of the brakes, nice for us to have good brakes. V. psyched to be getting home. Will have a crowd at the haus tonight, as Karen went skiing with Donna (ours), one of her (our) friends from long ago, and her (very nice) kids. Kate and Jay spent the day in daycare with Miss Terry at the mountain. So it will be cool to see everyone when I get home at 6 or 6:30. Will send this sometime after that.
Until next year... thinking powder.
Cheers
Figured I'd knock aht a quick note while in the skies over, oh, let's see, Nebraska.
Fline home from our annual trip to Salt Lake City after quite a mixed bag of a week. Of course they received tons of snow last week. Of course there are tons of snow in the forecast for next week. Amount of snow we received the week we were there? 6", all of it yesterday (and I
wasn't even on the mountain to enjoy it!). El Stinko. But I guess you've got to have years like this one to balance out the years like the last one, when we got 53" of snow in 2 days. That was one for the history books.
Arrived last Saturday 3/8, solo this time, as Karen stayed home with the kiddies. Nice to find that our haus was still in very good shape, always a pleasant sight to see. No repairs needed, no trips to Home Depot. Just focus on relaxing...
Jumped right on the slopes Sunday. Beautiful day (if you call cloudless, infinite sky beautiful, a hotly debatable topic). We went to Solitude, ordinarily one of my favorites... but even Solitude couldn't cope with the relentless lack of snow the last few days, and conditions were not all that great by Utah standards. Probably "good" by Pocono standards, but when we're in Utah we want to be skiing with snorkels, and we weren't. So we stuck to the "groomers" (the trails where the grooming machines condition the snow like a farmer plows a field, leaving parallel lines like corduroy pants) and zoomed around for the day. Usually we're in the powder, in the trees, going slow and mostly avoiding running into the trees. Gave the ankles a workout... probably too much of a workout.
Sunday evening, we went to the Yurt at Solitude, a Mongolian-style tent stuck out in the woods somewhere. Jeff, Glenn, and I ( the brave (?) souls) opted for the cross-country skis; everybody else went for the snowshoe option. I learned a lot about XC skiing that night:
-- They don't go so good on ice
-- They don't stop so good on ice
Unlike regular downhill skis, there are no discernable edges on XC skis. You're skiing on just a slab of very long, very narrow fiberglass that mostly refuses to go where you point it. Uphill (to the Yurt) is not so bad so long as you stay in the railroad tracks left by XC skiers before
you. The bottom of the XC skis are fashioned with ridges, like fish scales, that sort of keep the things from sliding backward as you're going uphill. Jeff got the hang of it pretty quickly, and was off like Leif Ericksson in a race to be the first to map Greenland or something. (Remember this for later). Glenn is an awesome skier anyway, so he had no trouble. I slogged along, and did manage to survive the trip to the Yurt. It was uphill, and there were the tracks to keep the skis in.
Now, once you get to the Yurt (a trip of a kilometer or so, no big deal), the feast is on. There was a new chef this year, and he whipped up quite a feast - gour-met all the way. We had squab over mushrooms for an appetizer. Hot, spicy borscht (sp?), made with a veal stock that was awesome, and some of us had seconds. If you've had cold borscht, don't even try to compare... there is no comparison. The entrée was lamb shank that fell off the bone. Then homemade cinnamon ice cream and bread pudding for dessert. Not a dinner for the calorie-conscious, not at all.
Now it's time to return to the base. This is crunch time.
The skiers lead off. Glenn goes first, not a problem there. I'm next. I'm happy just to stay upright, left ski in the track, the other canted at 45 degrees, theoretically to maintain some control over speed. It works, a little. I sprain my ankle, a little. I slide doggedly on.
Jeff starts behind me at some distance. At first we're fine.
Halfway to the bottom, Jeff catches up - remember he's a man on a mission to conquer Greenland. Jeff has both skis in the frozen tracks. This, he realizes with a damp horror, means zero control over speed. There's Ed, dead ahead. Periscope up. Load torpedo bays. Target off
the nose,
range 15 meters. 10 meters. 5.
3.
Crushing disaster imminent, Jeff takes one for the team.
Unable to stop any other way, he falls to one side, BAM. BAM. It's crude but effective, collision avoided (other than his with the ground, of course). Jeff gets up, dusts himself off, and in a display of lesson-unlearned, starts again and hurtles past.
Watching him advance in the moonlit darkness, I'm able to see only a small, almost playful, puff as he goes down once again. I could be wrong, but I'm pretty sure his fall count stayed under 5 for the return trip.
Monday, with my ankle hurting a bit, just where the boot pounds into it, I took the day off. Donna (Fred's wife) and I went to the zoo. Pretty cool. We learned the difference between African and Asian elephants, fed birds out of my hand, talked with a bird, and watched a giraffe eat out of a bin 17 ft. off the ground. The rest of the gang went to Alta and had a good day of skiing. Went to the Mayan restaurant for dinner, where they serve Mexican food, and have a diving show every 1/2 hour.
Tuesday - ankle still hurt, so I took another day off. Figured I'd rather take it easy, since the skiing wasn't so good anyway. Fred was resting his knee (he's recovering from ACL surgery a few months ago) so he, Donna, and I went to ride "Nascarts" - these go-karts, but they
weren't open. Bummer. That would've been fun. Dinner that night we all went to the "Made in Brazil" restaurant, which is always a kickin' time if you're a carnivore. They have a salad bar, which is pretty good actually, but the main event is the meat that just keeps coming. Again
we dispensed with the whole concept of watching what we eat, this is vacation after all... They make fresh juice drinks - you want a mango drink, they're throwing mangoes in the blender. Kiwi? It's peeled and in it goes. Papaya? They've got it. Awesome. But as good as the
drinks are, the highlight is the meat. They cook meat on skewers, all different kinds of meat, and it keeps coming until you moan "Uncle" and flip over the little gizzy that's half red and half green to the red side up. Garlic steak, top sirloin, tenderloin, chicken, turkey, ham. Even pineapple, and believe me, that's the way to have pineapple. More sirloin, and tenderloin, and chicken. And more. And more. For the last few years, we've always gone to Made in Brazil at least once/trip,
especially since the regrettable closing of the Hungry Heifer. We can't remember the actual name of that restaurant, but they'd serve a bowl of chicken breasts as an appetizer for the table, to go along with your steak. Guess they figured they'd make it up in volume... and didn't.
Wednesday - Jeff had scheduled a shortened week, so he left Wed. morning, vowing to be back and conquer the Yurt next time. Lee and Nate decided to take the day off, and stayed home, I think. For ski destination, we had a divergence of opinion; Glenn and Bonnie (I work
with Glenn) wanted to go to Snowbird, as Glenn's parents (who were also in Salt Lake this week) had never been there. Fred's not so wild about "The Bird" and I hadn't skied Alta, so to Alta Fred and I went, first time for me, a return trip for him. Ankle was feeling better, but since
it was so warm we were concerned about conditions in the afternoon getting sticky. We bought a morning ticket, and skied hard until about 1 p.m., when the ticket ran out. It was getting a little sticky to be sure, and the ankle had had enough by then anyway. Conditions were
surprisingly good, though, high on the hill. If you've gotta live without fresh powder, then that's the kind of day you want - good skiing, good company, and ready for the hot tub at the end. Tried the Ruby River Steakhouse for dinner that night (keeping with a carnivore
theme, I guess). It was OK, but worth a return trip? Hmmmm.
The news ALL over the TV that night (and the next day, and the next) was that they'd found Elizabeth Smart in Sandy, about 10 minutes from our house. Talk about great news!
Thursday - Nate and Lee left today; Nate lucked out and got an earlier flight, Lee was stuck with his 10:30 p.m. departure, boo hoo for him. I guess a lot of people were bailing out of SLC because of the high temps/lack of snow anat. Anyway, how insane is this -- I'd scheduled a
sales call in Logan, UT, about 2 hrs. north of Salt Lake, and besides, temps in the valley were a record-breaking 72 degrees, so we figured the skiing would be "iffy" anyway. The good news is that the sales call was sorta near the Golden Spike Nat'l Historic Site, a place Fred wanted to
see at some point in this trip. Fred & Donna dropped me off and I made the call while they stopped in Border's Books in Logan. When I was done (mercifully brief call, and they're even
interested in some stuff, whaddya know) Fred and Donna picked me up and off to the Golden Spike site we went. Very interesting. This is where the Union Pacific RR (building from the east) met the Central Pacific RR (building from the west). When we got there I thought we'd be about it for the day, but surprisingly there were quite a number of people that followed us. Why surprising? This place is in the center, of the middle, of nowhere. If you want to check a map, it's near Promontory, UT. Good luck. Really gave us an appreciation for what those guys went
through, though, building the transcontinental railroad. Digging, by hand, tunnels through the mountains, making 8 inches / day of progress. Roasting heat. Vicious cold. Maintaining a maximum 2 degree slope to the tracks that meant (by hand, of course) digging & blasting trenches through hills in some places and (by hand, of course) filling in gullies in other places. Rarely did the topography cooperate, it seemed. We did a walking tour of about 1.5 miles that showed, among other things, where someone (a surveyor?) screwed up the location of a trench. Turns out the advance team was off by 75 feet, so this huge trench that they'd dug and blasted (by hand, of course) was a waste of time. Makes you want to cry. Saw the "big fill" where the Central Pacific filled in a 400 ft. ravine. By hand, of course. Built in the 1860's, it's still in
use today by ranchers for access to their farms.
Friday - Temps were in the 60's, and I just couldn't get inspired with skiing, and didn't want to stress the ankle, on the off chance that I'll still have to do the Ski Patrol gig back home once I return. Little did I know that this would be the one day this week we'd get snow (the
Weather Channel sure wasn't saying much about it)... and the gang at Alta got ~6" of new stuff, which made it a very good day indeed for skiing. Oh well. Donna and I did some souvenir shopping, then I made chili for the gang. Turned out pretty well, except I put the red and green
peppers in way too soon, and they ended up mushy. I'll know for next time. Made tarragon and basil sourdough bread, which came out much better.
So here we are Saturday, and ze plane is ready to start the descent. Totally uneventful flight so far, except for a half hour delay while they fixed one of the brakes, nice for us to have good brakes. V. psyched to be getting home. Will have a crowd at the haus tonight, as Karen went skiing with Donna (ours), one of her (our) friends from long ago, and her (very nice) kids. Kate and Jay spent the day in daycare with Miss Terry at the mountain. So it will be cool to see everyone when I get home at 6 or 6:30. Will send this sometime after that.
Until next year... thinking powder.
Cheers
Saturday, September 15, 2001
Aftermath of 9/11/01
Yo: Arrived back home from Portland this a.m. amidst many hugs. Jay announced "Mommy inside"
as I stepped through the kitchen door, then immediately took a look at "Daddy's car" in the driveway. Followed all this up with a big Jay Smile (tm). All is right with the world as far as Jay is concerned...
Was in Portland, OR for a conference, scheduled to fly home Wednesday. That didn't happen, and spent the next few days in a maze of cancelled flights, rescheduled flights, no crew, no plane and so on. Checked Amtrak but no dice -- no seats for 2 days, then 3 days after that. Since no one really knew when the planes would be flying again, I even considered a rental car (for a 5-day trip nonstop if you could make it nonstop), but there were no cars to be found. Figured I'd tough it out with Northwest. Finally ended up on one of the very first flights to fly anywhere (I said I'll take a flight anywhere, just get me headed east). Did manage to get as far as Detroit last night around midnite, grabbed a nap at a local hotel until 4, then started the final leg of the trip.
Should've slept in the terminal at DTW. Lines at PDX were long but there were so few flights leaving that it wasn't too bad at all, under an hour to check the bag and get a boarding pass. Security in Detroit was, in a word, unbelievable. At 05:00 two lines feeding the check-in counter were about 150 ft. long each. Then you got in the door and the real fun began.
I guess everyone is getting used to the new world order, or disorder. Personal stories abound. Our next door neighbor's office was in WTC #1, and was vaporized in the hit. He was in the office every day like clockwork. Except that day. He was in a meeting somewhere else, and got out without a scratch, physically anyway. Was on the plane this morning with a guy whose neighbor had an office on the 100+ floor in WTC #2. He had car trouble on the way to work, and didn't make it in at his usual time of 07:30.
Who says there's no God.
Hope everyone's flying the flag high.
ESK
Wednesday, January 20, 1999
Running for Diabetes
January, 1999
A Brief History of the Diabetes Run
And a Thank You to the donors. You’re making a difference!
#1 on the list of things you don’t want to hear Friday morning:
“Flight 1535 to Bermuda is CANCELLED due to a MECHANICAL DEFECT. The soonest we can get you there is 1 p.m. Sunday. Maybe.”
What? 6 months of training, worn out shoes, 5 a.m. wake-ups, running in broiling heat and on glare ice & snow & slush, grubbing donations from people all over the country, and you expect us to sit still and accept that we can’t even get to the race until the winners have already crossed the finish line?
I don’t think so.
July, 1998
Eye-catching it is – the green & white brochure loudly promoting “TEAM Diabetes – Bermuda Marathon – January 17, 1999.” Raise a bunch of dough to benefit Diabetes, train hard. To quote the brochure “Whether you are a long distance runner or an accomplished couch potato, we’ll be there for you.” I was surely a committed member of the second category; nevertheless, the idea was intriguing. I’d write a stack of letters, mail the contributions which would doubtless come tumbling in faster than I could collate, run during the week, run long during the weekend, lose weight, and meet a bunch of interesting people along the way.
It might even be easy.
I was much younger then.
I attended the very last “no obligation informational meeting,” conveeeeniently held at the library in Cheshire. Debbie from the local ADA office gave a nice presentation, pretty darn convincing. Beside myself, there were perhaps 8 others at the meeting. The college kid who looked like he could run a 5-minute mile with one foot tied behind his back. Another woman, a grandmother no less, Barb Something from a little town along the shore. A woman, didn’t catch her name, who was planning on walking. Several others. A mixed bag of folks to be sure.
I didn’t sign on the line at the meeting because I had to check out a few things – what percentage of donations to ADA actually went to help people with Diabetes, the tax deduction angle, could I do the running. As it turned out, the ADA boasts one of the top “goes to help” percentages of the “big charities” so no problem there. Tax deduction was a gimmie. I ran the first week of the training schedule to see how it actually felt. Felt OK. So it was “all systems go” when I wrote the check to register, thinking about the other folks at the meeting, and how, if at all, we’d see each other as time went on.
Who would’ve guessed that Brenda who was planning on walking would instead run, and run well. That Barb would literally have us running rings around Branford, the little town along the shore. I am proud to call them both, as well as many outstanding runners I met along the way – Lynn, Alexis, Gerard, Jeff, Diedre, Gary, Melissa, Mary, and others – friends.
And you know, we never did hear from the college kid.
The slog
If I was thinking of writing a book, I guess I would’ve kept a day-by-day diary of the training schedule. But I wasn’t and I didn’t, so I hope you’re satisfied with some random recollections.
• Week 2. My first week with the team. A group of us met on a hot Sunday morning in late July or early August. The schedule said 7 miles, I think we planned on 5. About 4 too many as far as I was concerned. Walked most of the way. A few of us got lost, which added an extra mile or so. Cursed the extra mile or so. Wondered, severely, what I was getting into.
• Week 3. Another 5 or 7 miles, take your pick, another Sunday morning. Still walked most of the way, but didn’t, at least, get lost this time. Still wondered “what does a marathon feel like if this is 5 miles.” However, if they can do it, I can do it. Peer pressure is a wonderful thing and the watermelon at the end was oh so delicious.
• Week 4. Supposed to be 9 miles, but we were lagging a little behind the official training schedule (not that there’s anything wrong with that). I think we did around 7, but the really good news is that we were able to run/walk along a rarely used road in the middle of nowhere. No traffic. Lots of trees. Great watermelon.
• Week 5. We did a road trip to Branford, where Barb had gone out the night before to plot the course. The day started out hot, and got hotter. Killer, drop over type hot. Questioned, again, the value of doing this. Decided, still, it was a good idea. Besides, there’s that darn peer pressure thing.
• Week 7 or so. Ran along the trail in the middle of nowhere again. Not walking quite so much anymore. And the checks are starting to come in – a very nice check and “go for it” note from my brother, my mother putting the arm on the rest of the gang at the retirement community where she lives, Karen’s aunt & uncle, our Allstate agent from Pennsylvania, guys from the glider club. The list is growing. There’s no way out now. Good.
• About Week 8, the Saturday before Labor Day. Took Max the Golden Retriever Next Door for our standard Saturday a.m. run, just a couple miles. The run is finished, Max is his usual thrilled to be here, tail spinning like a helicopter blade. We’re walking the last 100 ft. to the front door, cooling off.
Bang! – Suddenly feels like the ankle is filled with broken glass. Didn't trip over the dog. Didn't slip into a hole. Nuttin.' Walking one second and howling in pain from an inward-buckled left ankle the next. Didn’t fall down. Should’ve. A major sprain. Just like that.
There goes the plan to run in the New Haven 20K race on Labor Day. There goes the plan to run much of anything for weeks. This is Very Not Good.
• Week 13 or 15, I’m basically back on the horse. It’s October, and a bit cooler. I’ve been running around 4 or 5 miles nearly every day at lunchtime, and the ankle is feeling better. I hook back into the group for the Sunday morning runs. Despite taking it very easy for about the whole month of September, I’m down around 15 lbs.
• Week 19, we travel to Pittsburgh for Thanksgiving. That Sunday I map out an out-and-back course near my sister’s house to do 18 miles, my longest run to date. The day is surprisingly warm, a gorgeous fall day, delicious sunshine. The run is brutal. Pittsburgh is hills, all hills. The first and last 6 miles are hilly, but manageable. The middle 6 miles are 1.5 miles down, 1.5 miles up, turn around at the Amoco station near the Duke of Bubbles Car Wash, then 1.5 miles down, 1.5 miles up. Try this sometime. No fair to try it in a car.
• Week 23. Down 25 lbs. First time to do 20 miles. I leave in the afternoon and later, Karen drives out in the dark looking for me, hoping that I’m wearing reflective stuff. Finds me 2 miles from home. I run the last 2 miles. She’s proud, I’m proud. I’m tired. But hey, I can run 20 miles, and no walking. I can do this marathon. What the heck, the marathon is only another 6.2 miles beyond this. How bad can another 6.2 be?
I was much younger then.
• Week 26. A “don’t get hurt” week. Run a few miles here and there. No sweat. We pack for the car trip to Philadelphia, where we’re leaving Donna with her cousins for the time we’re in Bermuda. A storm threatens the east coast, and the roads are lousy between CT and PA, but we know we’ll get there. The trip normally takes 3.5 hours in clear weather, Thursday night it takes 6. But hey, USAir says that the flight is still scheduled to fly the next morning, as scheduled, out of Philadelphia.
Friday morning we awake, confirm yet again that the flight is still a “go” and leave for the airport. At the airport Karen and I check our bags at the counter, mosey to the gate, buy a coffee, and settle in for the 30 minute or so wait to board the airplane. We’re ON THE WAY to Bermuda.
We were much younger then.
Friday, January 15, 1999
“Flight 1535 to Bermuda is CANCELLED due to a MECHANICAL DEFECT. The soonest we can get you there is 1 p.m. Sunday. Maybe.”
“Your best bet is to walk over to the payphones, dial the 800 number, and try to find alternate flights for yourself.
“Your bags are locked up, we’ll try to put them on your next flight, or we’ll ship them back to your house. It is NOT OUR POLICY to let you have your bags once they’re checked.”
We’re sorry for the inconvenience. And thanks for flying USAirways!
No no no. This wouldn’t do at all. Particularly aggravating was watching the plane with the alleged MECHANICAL DEFECT get fueled and depart 20 minutes later with a planeload of people to Indianapolis. Something rotten in the woodpile, lemme tell you. Sure didn’t seem like a defective plane (as it vanished into the wild gray yonder).
A mere hour on the phone, mostly on hold, later, I was able to secure some seats on a Delta flight connecting through Atlanta Saturday morning. I said “connect us through any place warm” and they did. Another hour, and $20, later a skycap appeared with the bags that USAir’s policy forbade them to give us. In fact, for another $20, he managed to find a few other bags for some folks also trying to get to the marathon. Nothing invigorates me more than those three little words I love to hear – “Not Our Policy.”
USAir did pay for a night at the world-famous Holiday Inn next to Veterans Stadium.
However, we do highly recommend the pasta buffet at the Holiday Inn Stadium.
But I digress.
Saturday, January 16
Made it to Bermuda! All baggage & body parts intact. A day later than we’d planned, but we’re here. Saturday evening is filled with a great deal of talk concerning the stunning creativity and never-say-die involved in getting the people here, here.
Lynn and her sister Helen took the train from New Haven to Baltimore, to get iced out in Balto, to take another train back north somewhere, to connect through somewhere else, to make it to Bermuda. Three hours sleep in two days, and those three hours on a commuter train. I think I got the story straight, but if I didn’t I’m sure the reality is even worse. Brenda, a nightmare. Barb and her husband Mike, a nightmare. Others connected through Boston, or Newark, or like us, through Atlanta. The last flight arrived around midnight Saturday, with the race starting in mere hours. Many people didn’t get seats at all, and just went home. We heard several in this predicament at the gate in Phila, and heard about many more. If there was anything sad about the experience, this was it.
But we are marathoners. We’re here, and nothing can stop us now. Following a dinner heavy on the carbs, we go to bed early for the 5 a.m. wakeup call to prepare for the 7 a.m. start. I fall asleep in minutes, and do not dream.
Sunday, January 17. Race Day.
04:45 – alarm goes off like a nuclear bomb. Incredibly, Karen insists on getting up with me (if you look under the antonym for morning person, there’s her picture) and she gets in the shower first. I welcome the few extra minutes rest, but then it’s time for me, too. I’m in go mode, ready to roll.
05:30 – meet for breakfast with the rest of our “early starter” gang. A great buffet, but the runners are uninterested in eating much, maybe half a bagel, a bit of fruit, some egg. The support crew tucks in like stevedores, because they can.
05:55 – shuttle bus leaves for Front Street in Hamilton, right on schedule. Refreshing to have something operate on schedule.
06:45 – drinking in the experience, 15 minutes to race start. No one’s too chatty, a few people comment on the interesting sensations, waiting to start our first marathon. Tough to describe the feeling – perhaps a combination of waiting to go into the dentist’s chair, waiting for a NASA launch, and, oddly, a certain sense of completion already. We’re stretched out and ready to go.
07:00 – Runners, take your marks. . . Go!
Mile 1 – Pacing nicely. They warned us to run the first mile at the same pace as we expect to run the last, for us rookies that’s around 12 minutes. Little did we know what that last mile would actually be like.
Mile 2.5 – the first water stop already? Hah! We drink because those who know say to drink at every opportunity. It turns out to be by far the single best piece of advice for reasons that will become apparent later.
Mile 5 – Feeling fine. We’re certainly not out to break any records, and it’s been great great great so far. We’ve stopped here and there to snap photos, we’re chatting. Plenty of encouragement. The field is stretched out by this point, and if you want to, you can run all by yourself. Four of us (Lynn, Barb, Brenda, me) stick together.
Mile 8 – Loose, still A-OK. This is as close as I’ve ever come to a “runner’s high.” Let me call it a “runner’s medium.” I don’t feel giddy or anything, but there’s no pain. We’re in the groove.
Mile 10 – our first contact with the pit crew of Karen, Anne, and Lee. We spot Karen first, her pink belly pack rather, uh, prominent – quite noticeable from down the hill. Great to see them, and hear their words of encouragement. We stop to say “hi,” and drink some of their water and take some of their ice. Conditions are surprisingly miserable for Bermuda in January – temperature 76o, humidity 96%. Did I mention that Bermuda is mostly hills?
Mile 13.1 – the course is two 13.1 mile laps around the main part of Bermuda, and we cross the finish line for the first time. We know it will be quite a bit different the next time around. . . We see our pit crew again, they took a short cut; they comment on how good the four of us look. I keep reminding myself that this is only the first of two halfway points I have come to expect – this one, which is halfway on the odometer and the next, theoretical, one at the 20 mile mark. We’ve also heard that “the race really starts at 20 miles.” We’ll see. None of us has run more than 20 miles to this point.
Mile 14.5 or so – Kenyan Simon Cherogony, the leader from tape to tape, the eventual winner, blows by. It has taken him a little over 1 hour to cover the distance we did in a little over 3. Amazing, just amazing. You can see his feet touch the ground once in a while, but you have to look close. Someone wonders aloud why those Kenyans bother with cars. Good question. Go Simon, Go!
Mile 16 – only 10 miles and small change to the finish! Heck, we do 10 miles on any Sunday. But man, it’s hot. Keep drinking.
Mile 18 – Tired. Hungry. Brenda and I have ended up running together and we stop in a convenience store for some crackers and other junk. Who cares about time?
Mile 20 – the second halfway point. 6.2 to go. 6.2 seems like a lot. We enter uncharted territory.
Mile 21.5 or so – the left knee, which has been hurting for a while, starts to rebel in earnest. I encourage Brenda, who is much tougher than me, to run. She wants to, and can, and does. As she vanishes around one of the hundreds of twists and turns on the course I wish her well. I also hope she sends the buzzards circling back after me to pick over the carcass. I walk.
Mile 22 – Feels GREAT when I stop and bend the knee. Zero pain. Hurts A LOT when I stretch the leg out to start moving again. If there is “the wall” in a marathon, this is it. I have found it, and embraced it. I know the wall. I hate the wall.
Mile 22.5 – you know, Ed, you can stop now you can rest that knee you can bend it and the pain will melt away like ice cream on hot asphalt. You can sit right here in the soft, warm grass. Sleep a while. . .
Hah!
Mile 22.7 – Debbie from ADA, working backward from the finish line rides up on a scooter and asks how I’m doing. Bless her, she has concern in her voice. I lie and say fine. I lie that the knee hurts “a little” but tell the truth that I’m otherwise OK, not lightheaded or anything like that. I give her the leftovers from my bag from the convenience store and continue hobbling forward. She wishes me well and disappears behind, looking for bodies. I like Debbie. I hate the scooter.
Mile 23 – there’s Karen and Anne and Lee! So great to see them! I stop for 20 seconds, and it’s a big mistake. The knee tightens miserably. Anne begs a couple Tylenols from the Team Leukemia crowd across the street, and they graciously oblige. When I was much younger, I’d invited Lee to jog the last 3.2 miles with me. He’s ready to go, but of course is forced to only walk along. As we go by, I thank the Leukemia folks for the Tylenols. I jokingly ask Lee if he can keep up. Lee could keep up if he was walking on his hands.
Mile 24 – the Tylenols kick in. I pick up the pace to a brisk walk.
Mile 24.5 – we see a runner on the ground just ahead, collapsed this close to the finish line. Lee jumps ahead to see if he can help, but they’ve got the situation under control, and the ambulance is ready to take the guy away. This brings to a sharp focus the ongoing battle diabetics face – every day, every single day. My admiration for the runners with diabetes (and there are many in this race) soars. My little annoyance with the knee is nothing in comparison. Nothing.
Mile 25 – a mile to go. Bring on the wild horses! Try to stop me!
Mile 25.5 – spontaneously, I break into a run. It’s nothing I think about, it just happens.
Mile 26 – the crowd lines both sides of the street. Everyone is cheering – for me! Some guy they don’t know, way way back in the pack, and they’re cheering loud and cheering long. Feels like a million bux.
Mile 26.1 – I hear my name on the loudspeaker. There’s the finish line.
Mile 26.2 – Karen is there, right at the finish line, standing on the other side of a low fence. A race official tears the ID strip from the number tag pinned to the front of my shirt. A kid hands me a medal, heavy. Another kid hands me a Mylar blanket with the sponsoring bank logo in case I feel the need to stay warm. Staying warm is the last thing I need to do. Tears and kisses from Karen. Congratulations from Anne and Lee. Relief.
I find some steps and sit down. Sitting is good.
Epilogue
So this little adventure draws to a close with quite a mixture of emotions:
Gratitude – Thank you for your donation. It goes not only to help the 8 million people in the US with diabetes, but goes to find and educate the other 8 million who have it but don’t know it yet. You kept me going during the weeks of training and hours of the race and you’re continuing to make a difference right now.
Pride – Word on the street was that of the 700 (give or take) people that started the race, fewer than 500 finished. Whether these numbers are accurate or not, I have no idea but in any case I am proud to be one of the finishers, finishing vertically, and not even strapped to an appliance dolly or stretcher at the time. And lest you worry, as I write this a few days later the knee is completely fine. Finishing is good. Vertical is good.
Gratitude – to the pit crew of Karen, Anne, and Lee, who went way beyond the call of duty, and who were adopted by the rest of the Connecticut Team Diabetes. You guys are super.
Friendship – to friends old and friends new. We’re already making plans to keep up with this running stuff and thinking about the next marathon, if you can believe it.
I can.
Ed Kmetz
January 20, 1999
A Brief History of the Diabetes Run
And a Thank You to the donors. You’re making a difference!
#1 on the list of things you don’t want to hear Friday morning:
“Flight 1535 to Bermuda is CANCELLED due to a MECHANICAL DEFECT. The soonest we can get you there is 1 p.m. Sunday. Maybe.”
What? 6 months of training, worn out shoes, 5 a.m. wake-ups, running in broiling heat and on glare ice & snow & slush, grubbing donations from people all over the country, and you expect us to sit still and accept that we can’t even get to the race until the winners have already crossed the finish line?
I don’t think so.
July, 1998
Eye-catching it is – the green & white brochure loudly promoting “TEAM Diabetes – Bermuda Marathon – January 17, 1999.” Raise a bunch of dough to benefit Diabetes, train hard. To quote the brochure “Whether you are a long distance runner or an accomplished couch potato, we’ll be there for you.” I was surely a committed member of the second category; nevertheless, the idea was intriguing. I’d write a stack of letters, mail the contributions which would doubtless come tumbling in faster than I could collate, run during the week, run long during the weekend, lose weight, and meet a bunch of interesting people along the way.
It might even be easy.
I was much younger then.
I attended the very last “no obligation informational meeting,” conveeeeniently held at the library in Cheshire. Debbie from the local ADA office gave a nice presentation, pretty darn convincing. Beside myself, there were perhaps 8 others at the meeting. The college kid who looked like he could run a 5-minute mile with one foot tied behind his back. Another woman, a grandmother no less, Barb Something from a little town along the shore. A woman, didn’t catch her name, who was planning on walking. Several others. A mixed bag of folks to be sure.
I didn’t sign on the line at the meeting because I had to check out a few things – what percentage of donations to ADA actually went to help people with Diabetes, the tax deduction angle, could I do the running. As it turned out, the ADA boasts one of the top “goes to help” percentages of the “big charities” so no problem there. Tax deduction was a gimmie. I ran the first week of the training schedule to see how it actually felt. Felt OK. So it was “all systems go” when I wrote the check to register, thinking about the other folks at the meeting, and how, if at all, we’d see each other as time went on.
Who would’ve guessed that Brenda who was planning on walking would instead run, and run well. That Barb would literally have us running rings around Branford, the little town along the shore. I am proud to call them both, as well as many outstanding runners I met along the way – Lynn, Alexis, Gerard, Jeff, Diedre, Gary, Melissa, Mary, and others – friends.
And you know, we never did hear from the college kid.
The slog
If I was thinking of writing a book, I guess I would’ve kept a day-by-day diary of the training schedule. But I wasn’t and I didn’t, so I hope you’re satisfied with some random recollections.
• Week 2. My first week with the team. A group of us met on a hot Sunday morning in late July or early August. The schedule said 7 miles, I think we planned on 5. About 4 too many as far as I was concerned. Walked most of the way. A few of us got lost, which added an extra mile or so. Cursed the extra mile or so. Wondered, severely, what I was getting into.
• Week 3. Another 5 or 7 miles, take your pick, another Sunday morning. Still walked most of the way, but didn’t, at least, get lost this time. Still wondered “what does a marathon feel like if this is 5 miles.” However, if they can do it, I can do it. Peer pressure is a wonderful thing and the watermelon at the end was oh so delicious.
• Week 4. Supposed to be 9 miles, but we were lagging a little behind the official training schedule (not that there’s anything wrong with that). I think we did around 7, but the really good news is that we were able to run/walk along a rarely used road in the middle of nowhere. No traffic. Lots of trees. Great watermelon.
• Week 5. We did a road trip to Branford, where Barb had gone out the night before to plot the course. The day started out hot, and got hotter. Killer, drop over type hot. Questioned, again, the value of doing this. Decided, still, it was a good idea. Besides, there’s that darn peer pressure thing.
• Week 7 or so. Ran along the trail in the middle of nowhere again. Not walking quite so much anymore. And the checks are starting to come in – a very nice check and “go for it” note from my brother, my mother putting the arm on the rest of the gang at the retirement community where she lives, Karen’s aunt & uncle, our Allstate agent from Pennsylvania, guys from the glider club. The list is growing. There’s no way out now. Good.
• About Week 8, the Saturday before Labor Day. Took Max the Golden Retriever Next Door for our standard Saturday a.m. run, just a couple miles. The run is finished, Max is his usual thrilled to be here, tail spinning like a helicopter blade. We’re walking the last 100 ft. to the front door, cooling off.
Bang! – Suddenly feels like the ankle is filled with broken glass. Didn't trip over the dog. Didn't slip into a hole. Nuttin.' Walking one second and howling in pain from an inward-buckled left ankle the next. Didn’t fall down. Should’ve. A major sprain. Just like that.
There goes the plan to run in the New Haven 20K race on Labor Day. There goes the plan to run much of anything for weeks. This is Very Not Good.
• Week 13 or 15, I’m basically back on the horse. It’s October, and a bit cooler. I’ve been running around 4 or 5 miles nearly every day at lunchtime, and the ankle is feeling better. I hook back into the group for the Sunday morning runs. Despite taking it very easy for about the whole month of September, I’m down around 15 lbs.
• Week 19, we travel to Pittsburgh for Thanksgiving. That Sunday I map out an out-and-back course near my sister’s house to do 18 miles, my longest run to date. The day is surprisingly warm, a gorgeous fall day, delicious sunshine. The run is brutal. Pittsburgh is hills, all hills. The first and last 6 miles are hilly, but manageable. The middle 6 miles are 1.5 miles down, 1.5 miles up, turn around at the Amoco station near the Duke of Bubbles Car Wash, then 1.5 miles down, 1.5 miles up. Try this sometime. No fair to try it in a car.
• Week 23. Down 25 lbs. First time to do 20 miles. I leave in the afternoon and later, Karen drives out in the dark looking for me, hoping that I’m wearing reflective stuff. Finds me 2 miles from home. I run the last 2 miles. She’s proud, I’m proud. I’m tired. But hey, I can run 20 miles, and no walking. I can do this marathon. What the heck, the marathon is only another 6.2 miles beyond this. How bad can another 6.2 be?
I was much younger then.
• Week 26. A “don’t get hurt” week. Run a few miles here and there. No sweat. We pack for the car trip to Philadelphia, where we’re leaving Donna with her cousins for the time we’re in Bermuda. A storm threatens the east coast, and the roads are lousy between CT and PA, but we know we’ll get there. The trip normally takes 3.5 hours in clear weather, Thursday night it takes 6. But hey, USAir says that the flight is still scheduled to fly the next morning, as scheduled, out of Philadelphia.
Friday morning we awake, confirm yet again that the flight is still a “go” and leave for the airport. At the airport Karen and I check our bags at the counter, mosey to the gate, buy a coffee, and settle in for the 30 minute or so wait to board the airplane. We’re ON THE WAY to Bermuda.
We were much younger then.
Friday, January 15, 1999
“Flight 1535 to Bermuda is CANCELLED due to a MECHANICAL DEFECT. The soonest we can get you there is 1 p.m. Sunday. Maybe.”
“Your best bet is to walk over to the payphones, dial the 800 number, and try to find alternate flights for yourself.
“Your bags are locked up, we’ll try to put them on your next flight, or we’ll ship them back to your house. It is NOT OUR POLICY to let you have your bags once they’re checked.”
We’re sorry for the inconvenience. And thanks for flying USAirways!
No no no. This wouldn’t do at all. Particularly aggravating was watching the plane with the alleged MECHANICAL DEFECT get fueled and depart 20 minutes later with a planeload of people to Indianapolis. Something rotten in the woodpile, lemme tell you. Sure didn’t seem like a defective plane (as it vanished into the wild gray yonder).
A mere hour on the phone, mostly on hold, later, I was able to secure some seats on a Delta flight connecting through Atlanta Saturday morning. I said “connect us through any place warm” and they did. Another hour, and $20, later a skycap appeared with the bags that USAir’s policy forbade them to give us. In fact, for another $20, he managed to find a few other bags for some folks also trying to get to the marathon. Nothing invigorates me more than those three little words I love to hear – “Not Our Policy.”
USAir did pay for a night at the world-famous Holiday Inn next to Veterans Stadium.
However, we do highly recommend the pasta buffet at the Holiday Inn Stadium.
But I digress.
Saturday, January 16
Made it to Bermuda! All baggage & body parts intact. A day later than we’d planned, but we’re here. Saturday evening is filled with a great deal of talk concerning the stunning creativity and never-say-die involved in getting the people here, here.
Lynn and her sister Helen took the train from New Haven to Baltimore, to get iced out in Balto, to take another train back north somewhere, to connect through somewhere else, to make it to Bermuda. Three hours sleep in two days, and those three hours on a commuter train. I think I got the story straight, but if I didn’t I’m sure the reality is even worse. Brenda, a nightmare. Barb and her husband Mike, a nightmare. Others connected through Boston, or Newark, or like us, through Atlanta. The last flight arrived around midnight Saturday, with the race starting in mere hours. Many people didn’t get seats at all, and just went home. We heard several in this predicament at the gate in Phila, and heard about many more. If there was anything sad about the experience, this was it.
But we are marathoners. We’re here, and nothing can stop us now. Following a dinner heavy on the carbs, we go to bed early for the 5 a.m. wakeup call to prepare for the 7 a.m. start. I fall asleep in minutes, and do not dream.
Sunday, January 17. Race Day.
04:45 – alarm goes off like a nuclear bomb. Incredibly, Karen insists on getting up with me (if you look under the antonym for morning person, there’s her picture) and she gets in the shower first. I welcome the few extra minutes rest, but then it’s time for me, too. I’m in go mode, ready to roll.
05:30 – meet for breakfast with the rest of our “early starter” gang. A great buffet, but the runners are uninterested in eating much, maybe half a bagel, a bit of fruit, some egg. The support crew tucks in like stevedores, because they can.
05:55 – shuttle bus leaves for Front Street in Hamilton, right on schedule. Refreshing to have something operate on schedule.
06:45 – drinking in the experience, 15 minutes to race start. No one’s too chatty, a few people comment on the interesting sensations, waiting to start our first marathon. Tough to describe the feeling – perhaps a combination of waiting to go into the dentist’s chair, waiting for a NASA launch, and, oddly, a certain sense of completion already. We’re stretched out and ready to go.
07:00 – Runners, take your marks. . . Go!
Mile 1 – Pacing nicely. They warned us to run the first mile at the same pace as we expect to run the last, for us rookies that’s around 12 minutes. Little did we know what that last mile would actually be like.
Mile 2.5 – the first water stop already? Hah! We drink because those who know say to drink at every opportunity. It turns out to be by far the single best piece of advice for reasons that will become apparent later.
Mile 5 – Feeling fine. We’re certainly not out to break any records, and it’s been great great great so far. We’ve stopped here and there to snap photos, we’re chatting. Plenty of encouragement. The field is stretched out by this point, and if you want to, you can run all by yourself. Four of us (Lynn, Barb, Brenda, me) stick together.
Mile 8 – Loose, still A-OK. This is as close as I’ve ever come to a “runner’s high.” Let me call it a “runner’s medium.” I don’t feel giddy or anything, but there’s no pain. We’re in the groove.
Mile 10 – our first contact with the pit crew of Karen, Anne, and Lee. We spot Karen first, her pink belly pack rather, uh, prominent – quite noticeable from down the hill. Great to see them, and hear their words of encouragement. We stop to say “hi,” and drink some of their water and take some of their ice. Conditions are surprisingly miserable for Bermuda in January – temperature 76o, humidity 96%. Did I mention that Bermuda is mostly hills?
Mile 13.1 – the course is two 13.1 mile laps around the main part of Bermuda, and we cross the finish line for the first time. We know it will be quite a bit different the next time around. . . We see our pit crew again, they took a short cut; they comment on how good the four of us look. I keep reminding myself that this is only the first of two halfway points I have come to expect – this one, which is halfway on the odometer and the next, theoretical, one at the 20 mile mark. We’ve also heard that “the race really starts at 20 miles.” We’ll see. None of us has run more than 20 miles to this point.
Mile 14.5 or so – Kenyan Simon Cherogony, the leader from tape to tape, the eventual winner, blows by. It has taken him a little over 1 hour to cover the distance we did in a little over 3. Amazing, just amazing. You can see his feet touch the ground once in a while, but you have to look close. Someone wonders aloud why those Kenyans bother with cars. Good question. Go Simon, Go!
Mile 16 – only 10 miles and small change to the finish! Heck, we do 10 miles on any Sunday. But man, it’s hot. Keep drinking.
Mile 18 – Tired. Hungry. Brenda and I have ended up running together and we stop in a convenience store for some crackers and other junk. Who cares about time?
Mile 20 – the second halfway point. 6.2 to go. 6.2 seems like a lot. We enter uncharted territory.
Mile 21.5 or so – the left knee, which has been hurting for a while, starts to rebel in earnest. I encourage Brenda, who is much tougher than me, to run. She wants to, and can, and does. As she vanishes around one of the hundreds of twists and turns on the course I wish her well. I also hope she sends the buzzards circling back after me to pick over the carcass. I walk.
Mile 22 – Feels GREAT when I stop and bend the knee. Zero pain. Hurts A LOT when I stretch the leg out to start moving again. If there is “the wall” in a marathon, this is it. I have found it, and embraced it. I know the wall. I hate the wall.
Mile 22.5 – you know, Ed, you can stop now you can rest that knee you can bend it and the pain will melt away like ice cream on hot asphalt. You can sit right here in the soft, warm grass. Sleep a while. . .
Hah!
Mile 22.7 – Debbie from ADA, working backward from the finish line rides up on a scooter and asks how I’m doing. Bless her, she has concern in her voice. I lie and say fine. I lie that the knee hurts “a little” but tell the truth that I’m otherwise OK, not lightheaded or anything like that. I give her the leftovers from my bag from the convenience store and continue hobbling forward. She wishes me well and disappears behind, looking for bodies. I like Debbie. I hate the scooter.
Mile 23 – there’s Karen and Anne and Lee! So great to see them! I stop for 20 seconds, and it’s a big mistake. The knee tightens miserably. Anne begs a couple Tylenols from the Team Leukemia crowd across the street, and they graciously oblige. When I was much younger, I’d invited Lee to jog the last 3.2 miles with me. He’s ready to go, but of course is forced to only walk along. As we go by, I thank the Leukemia folks for the Tylenols. I jokingly ask Lee if he can keep up. Lee could keep up if he was walking on his hands.
Mile 24 – the Tylenols kick in. I pick up the pace to a brisk walk.
Mile 24.5 – we see a runner on the ground just ahead, collapsed this close to the finish line. Lee jumps ahead to see if he can help, but they’ve got the situation under control, and the ambulance is ready to take the guy away. This brings to a sharp focus the ongoing battle diabetics face – every day, every single day. My admiration for the runners with diabetes (and there are many in this race) soars. My little annoyance with the knee is nothing in comparison. Nothing.
Mile 25 – a mile to go. Bring on the wild horses! Try to stop me!
Mile 25.5 – spontaneously, I break into a run. It’s nothing I think about, it just happens.
Mile 26 – the crowd lines both sides of the street. Everyone is cheering – for me! Some guy they don’t know, way way back in the pack, and they’re cheering loud and cheering long. Feels like a million bux.
Mile 26.1 – I hear my name on the loudspeaker. There’s the finish line.
Mile 26.2 – Karen is there, right at the finish line, standing on the other side of a low fence. A race official tears the ID strip from the number tag pinned to the front of my shirt. A kid hands me a medal, heavy. Another kid hands me a Mylar blanket with the sponsoring bank logo in case I feel the need to stay warm. Staying warm is the last thing I need to do. Tears and kisses from Karen. Congratulations from Anne and Lee. Relief.
I find some steps and sit down. Sitting is good.
Epilogue
So this little adventure draws to a close with quite a mixture of emotions:
Gratitude – Thank you for your donation. It goes not only to help the 8 million people in the US with diabetes, but goes to find and educate the other 8 million who have it but don’t know it yet. You kept me going during the weeks of training and hours of the race and you’re continuing to make a difference right now.
Pride – Word on the street was that of the 700 (give or take) people that started the race, fewer than 500 finished. Whether these numbers are accurate or not, I have no idea but in any case I am proud to be one of the finishers, finishing vertically, and not even strapped to an appliance dolly or stretcher at the time. And lest you worry, as I write this a few days later the knee is completely fine. Finishing is good. Vertical is good.
Gratitude – to the pit crew of Karen, Anne, and Lee, who went way beyond the call of duty, and who were adopted by the rest of the Connecticut Team Diabetes. You guys are super.
Friendship – to friends old and friends new. We’re already making plans to keep up with this running stuff and thinking about the next marathon, if you can believe it.
I can.
Ed Kmetz
January 20, 1999
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