Black Friday

I don't understand the need some people seem to have to line up in the middle of the night to rush into a store to buy supposedly marked down goods they probably don't need. People have died in the crush. It's totally nuts. And this is why I stay far away from stores on this day. I don't care how great a deal might be out there. Maybe I'm lucky the Snyder family is so small and that the Mann family has agreed to buy for the kids 16 and under only. This year there are only 5 that fit into that category. The 4-year-old is fun to buy for. The other 4 are old enough that they really care what they get, so Aunt Toni and Uncle Doug get them gift cards. High utility and easily done. 

So today I had lunch with a dear friend and got caught up on our family news, then came home to strip the turkey carcass and get the soup started. Dinner was turkey sandwiches; tomorrow the soup will be featured. One thing I love about winter is home-made soup -- turkey, split pea, vegetarian chili. Fits into the WW plan and sticks to ribs.

Today the bottom fell out of the thermometer and the mercury went south. Our high today was around 30 degrees. These are the conditions that make outdoor activity much less attractive. I think the time has come for me to join the community center and start swimming. I am not really looking forward to it, but it is necessary and I have gone quite public with my triathlon sprint goal. Gotta get going.

Stuffing Strut 2010 is now history

It's 8:30 pm on Thanksgiving. The 5k run is done -- perhaps not in ground breaking time, but still fine. The runners are certainly thanking the cosmos for the rain stopping at race time. Then home again, jiggety jig, where my stalwart spouse has accomplished poultry roasting and a lot of helpful decluttering. I manage to get a shower, but folks are arriving before Doug has a chance. He gets one in later anyway. This is a pretty relaxed group! We put up the tables arranged chairs, put on covers and set the silverware. The turkey has been cooked, carved and eaten, along with mashed potatoes, stuffing, squash, green bean casserole, rolls, venison from the Swartz Creek gang, and a handsome array of pies and an interesting pumpkin roll. Water, cider, chocolate milk and water are copiously quaffed. Football is watched and euchre played. Phone calls to distant family are made and catching up done with those close. Leftovers are bagged and loaded. Coats are donned and goodbye hugs exchanged. Car doors slammed and engines started. Tired but happy, my husband and  I relax with a little more football and then a Netflix. The cats, ever xenophobic, have re-emerged. All is quiet once more. Setting furniture back to "normal" can wait until tomorrow. The clutter will re-establish itself without our trying. But for now, I am thankful for my mellow.

Almost Turkey Time

I did several things today for my wellness. 1) One hour of strength training; 2) 2 hours at Bible Study; 3) a good talk with a pastoral friend about a problem that is tying me into knots. I have mixed feelings about this Bible study format, but I decided I would give it a chance, especially since there are several people I really like and respect in other contexts who also attended. One really cool thing was getting a chance to speak French a little with a woman from Haiti. I'm sure it was not perfect French, but I think it was good enough.

It is chilly and blustery today, but the sun is shining, so it lifts my spirit to be outside. It doesn't look good for the weather on Thursday for the 5k I am going to run downtown. Tip Top Susie says you can't wear the shirt if you don't do the event, and it's a really cool shirt. The "Stuffing Strut" start time is 8:00am, which means I should be done before 9:00. My guess is we will be home by 10:00 or so, and the cooking can begin (or continue).

Another Monday

Today I ran a bunch of errands, including going downtown to pay my Blue Cross Blue Shield premium. Woohoo! If you want to know about the high cost of health care, get stuck in an individual policy where you pay a huge amount before you even consume health care at all. But let's move on from that...

I had lunch with my friend Lea, who listened with great compassion and caring as I gnashed teeth and vented. More than that, she took me somewhat to task and challenged me to think about what I really wanted. Wallowing in self-pity without making any real change, or some kind of behavior modification that might actually result in some inner peace. I have several friends like that, and believe me, they really are gold.

Okay... Moving on....I have vowed to keep some discipline in my fitness routine. Today was not necessarily a banner day for that. However, on the plus side, I did go for second weigh in at Weight Watchers. I'm not blogging about numbers here, folks, but just wanted that to count as a step toward a more healthy life.

Tomorrow, working out with Susie, Bible Study, consultation with a pastoral resource and borrowing tables from church for Thursday's onslaught of the Mann family. Body count for Thursday is 17. Everyone always brings stuff and helps make the potatoes and clean up. In between, it is a raucus and rowdy time. Should be fun!

11 down, 1 to go!

At the beginning of the year, I set myself a goal of riding my bike at least once in every month of the year. I have to say that I almost failed right out of the gate. January was blankety-blank cold!! So finally, on the 28th or 29th, when it was at least dry on the roads and not windy, we bundled up as much as possible and set out. As I recall, we did a chilly 6 miles -- more than a token, less than a "regular" ride in reasonable weather. I think we did 2 or 3 rides in February and so on, as the weather became more conducive.

It's funny what pushing your limits can do. I vaguely remember a quote that goes along these lines -- "A mind stretched by new ideas can never go back to its original size." Or something like that. Well, my assumptions about the conditions under which I would ride, having been challenged by the winter rides, have changed to include much more unpleasant possibilities. It's really just a matter of having the right gear. Okay, I do have some limits. But they are not as restrictive as before.

I am keeping my eyes peeled for reasonable weather for a December ride, believe me.

Four and more

It has been a busy couple of weeks, although not exactly physically active ones. I am going to make a point of writing at least a little something every day now. Part of this is for the triathlon and part for the C25K at church.

Today I took advantage of the relative warmth (50 degrees) and sunshine and went for a run. I thought I would mix it up a little and take a different route than I have been running lately. I used MapMyRun.com to determine the distances. West River to Meridian through Hawthorne Glen is a mile. From that point down to Lake and back is a mile. From that point up to Bellevue is a mile. So there are a variety of ways to do a 3-mile run with an option to extend the distance.

Although I went out with the idea of running 3, but making the extension decision as I came up to the 2-mile mark (Meridian and Hawthorn Glen) after going down to Lake and back. I was feeling good at that point, breathing well and heart rate near the top of my working range but not straining past it. So I decided to add on the mile. Anything I did after getting back to Hawthorn Glen would be extra and I could always complete the run with some walking. It's all good.

As it happens, I started having some foot discomfort right about the 3 and 1/2 mile point and had to ease up to a walk. I did my 4 miles in 1 hour 4 minutes, or an average pace of 16 minutes per mile. I 'm okay with that!

I was thinking about when I started and could barely gasp my way through a half mile. My goal was to be able to run one mile on a regular basis. Now that is no big deal at all. It's astonishing, really, when I think of it in those terms.

Next on my to-do list is to get signed up at the Flat Rock Community Center and get the swimming going. I guess I should go all Nike on that and "just do it."

Triple insanity kickoff

I didn't go to Washington to rally for sanity (and/or fear). I thought I would generate my own homegrown variety, in the form of training for a triathlon sprint event next June. This event involves a 500M open water swim, a 12 (or is it 15?) mile bike ride, capped off by a 5k run (or walk/crawl, by that time). At this point, I can certainly ride that far, and I can certainly "run" that far, but have never tried to do them in sequence. And I have no idea how far I can swim.

So the plan is to concentrate on the swimming during the winter. I will be joining the Flat Rock Community Center, a beautiful facility less than 10 miles from home, with lap swimming every morning, but is also available during the day. (It makes training a lot easier when one is retired!) What I want to do is get to a point where I can swim at least 750 yards in a pool without being wiped out. I am hoping this will help me overcome the added difficulty of open water versus pool swimming. I don't really relish the swimming. It doesn't interest me in its own right.

So...I now have a theme for blogging for a while. If there is anyone actually following this, let me know what you think!

See you in the pool!

Life on the dash

Two weeks ago I was in Charleston, West Virginia, to inter my mother's ashes in the family plot where my Dad and his parents and grandparents are buried. Present were my brother Hugh, his wife, Maria, her son Curtis and my husband, Doug. We had a really lovely half hour or so at the graveside, very personal, very intimate. We had Mom's ashes wrapped in a jazzy piece of silk she would have loved. We took some pictures of the headstone with a photo portrait of my mother next to it, then we popped the cork on a bottle of Veuve Clicot champagne that my aunt gave us for the occasion. We sipped the bubbly and talked about this and that. There was bright sunshine, moderated by shade in just the right place for our comfort. A light breeze topped it all off. I really think Mom would have approved of the unconventional but highly personal tone of the event. After a bit, we went into town to a casual Italian restaurant we had found, had a tasty lunch and enjoyed each other's company. A perfect capstone.

I mentioned in an earlier post that I had only been to this family plot three times -- for my grandmother in 1959, for my Dad in 1973 and this year for Mom. It was interesting to see the stones covering the older graves and remember those other occasions. Looking at them, I found it curious to think that their whole lives were summarized by two dates separated by a dash. The two dates, while marking what are arguably the two most impactful experiences a person has, are only two moments in time. All the rest of the lives in question take place on the dash.

My mother was born in October 1918, just a month before the Armistice. The family story has it that my grandmother went into labor on a Sunday, at which time Grandaddy bundled her into the car and drove her to the hospital. The thing you night not know is that one of the things the folks at home did the support the war effort was to conserve gasoline by not driving on Sunday. So when Grandaddy's car went by, the neighbors, not knowing the circumstances, ran out and shouted at him for his unpatriotic activity. Hopefully they apologized later when the new baby came home!

My mother was the first and only grandchild in her mother's family and was doted on. She said the aunties (her mother's sisters) would put her on a blanket in the middle of the table when she was a baby and just sit around watching her. That seems like a lot of pressure. She went to a great high school and then to Wellesley College. Somehow she never felt as though she fit in, a girl from a family of modest means in a population that was mostly more affluent. She was smart and capable, but always felt awkward and out of place. I saw glimmers of that in her eighties as her mind lost hold of the present day, and fears thought long laid to rest resurfaced. She still managed to capture the attention of a quiet, kind, intellectual doctoral student at MIT. They married six months after they both finished their degrees.

Life went on for my parents as it does for many. They had three children -- two boys and a girl (ahem, me). Dad worked as an engineer and Mom kept the house, raised the kids, managed their social lives. They both found foreign cultures fascinating and loved to travel. Life was comfortable and predictable. Then, after 32 years, Dad suddenly had a burst aortic aneurism and died at the age of 62. That was 1973. He was the love of her life, and she was a real mess for a good year or more. As she came out of it and started to conceive of a life without him, she began figuring out who she was. She discovered she liked jazz and that she could manage her own finances and get credit in her own name. It was interesting to watch.

Mom did a great job making a new life for herself, both on her own and with Jack, her second husband, with whom she had 8 good years and 4 not so good ones after his stroke. Then there was Fred, a guy with a fierce intellect and what he himself described as "an excess of personality." He kept her life interesting for 10 years, as they travelled extensively, played bridge and otherwise enjoyed the time they had.

In a double whammy that left us all reeling, Mom and Fred were both diagnosed the same week of February 2005 with brain tumors. Fred's was a very nasty type that took him in only a few months. Mom's was less aggressive but relentless. She slipped away one little bit of clarity at a time and finally died July 4, 2005. By that time, it seemed poetic and appropriate that she died on Independence Day. Free at last from these earthly coils. 85 years of good followed by 18 months of ick. At least there was a point at which she really didn't realize anymore how confused she was. It was heartbreaking for the rest of us, but we had a chance to take care of her at the end of her life in a way that she took care of us at the beginning of ours.

That brings us all to the family plot in West Virginia, looking at the two headstones side by side. Mom and Dad, together again at last. The dash complete and the closing number etched in stone. Ann Webb Snyder Evans. 1918 - 2005. A full life on the dash, no matter how it looks to a stranger.

Sometimes the destination is not important at all

My stepdad Fred liked to say the life is a process, not a destination. The other day I had a real experience of that. The plan was for my friend Lea and me to drive up to the Michigan Renaissance Festival together for a fun outing. We have done a bunch of community theater together and have taken a number of Chautauqua vacations together. We both have a sense of humor that can be quirky and enjoy period costumes, although neither of us is so into it that we considered going to the RenFest that way.

There are folks for whom the costume part is very serious business indeed. For example, my son's 10th grade Shakespeare teacher and his wife had costumes that were really wonderfully done. The reason I came to know this is that the Grosse Ile Boar's Head Festival was being produced that year, and Ed -- tall, thin and with a thick head of wavy, shoulder-length hair -- had been recruited for the part of the knight. The costume folks had located just the thing for him to wear -- his teacher's RenFest costume, which consisted of a handsome red, knee-length tunic and a breath-takingly fluid, full-length "cloak" made of a material that was light and flowing but somehow managed to look like chain mail. His teacher's wife also offered the use of the black tights, but that was apparently way too close for comfort for Ed, so we spent the $30 for a pair of his own. In the end, he was truly a vision of knightly grace and charm, if I do say so myself.

For me, Boar's Head is a great place for this kind of costume, so I have a kirtle and chemise and head piece of my own. But not to wear while running around in a field in Holly, Michigan, on a Saturday in September.

So I was in jeans and a sweatshirt when I picked Lea up at her house and off we went. The weather had unfortunately taken a turn for the potentially unpleasant. Rain was expected in the region, although timing and specific location was not certain. We decided to take a chance.

It's a long way to Holly from downriver. On a good day, an hour and a half is making decent time. We were on track for that until we were just shy of University Drive. Then the tail lights went on ahead of us like Fifth Avenue in New York at Christmas. Four lanes were merging into 3, no 2. No...into 1!!!!!

Anyone who knows me will know that I am not necessarily the most patient person. (Note to my husband -- stop laughing!) Sitting in a traffic mess fuming is not my idea of a way to spend more than about 10 minutes. There was a ramp ahead, and I took it. All of a sudden, we were faced with a new choice -- straight ahead into the Chrysler gated facility (an obvious no) or turn and follow a road that seemed to lead into a parking structure. I pulled over and we searched the door pockets for helpful maps. Let's see - Philadelphia, PA. The Lower Huron Metropark system. Ann Arbor-Ypsilanti. Curses.

I recruited Lea to call my house and contact my personal OnStar wannabe navigator. Doug sat at his computer and did a Google map on our location. Using what I call the spy satellite, he zoomed in on the roads we were on. The images are not real-time, so it's not like he could see our car, but he could see the buildings and the twists and turns in the road clearly. Then he switched to the street map and guided us around and out of the industrial complex and back onto more familiar public byways. By the time we got north of the traffic jam, I am sure we had spent more time than if I had just taken a chill pill and waited for the merging process to complete.

Once we got past this, we were almost at our destination, but the skies, which had not been particularly friendly looking, decided it was time to become downright threatening. We lined up and made the turn into the parking field for the RenFest. A host of folks in ponchos were standing ready to point us into a space in what was not yet a sodden mess. Lea and I looked at each other, imagining what this might be like in a couple of hours. I poked my head out the window and said to the nearest poncho person, "You know, we changed our minds. Can we please just turn around here and leave?" Well, of course, what could she say? And out we went.

We decided we would head toward home and figure out an alternative on the way. In the end, we just ended up in a shop in Wyandotte having a cup of coffee and a good laugh. We had started out to have a fun outing and had achieved our goal, even though the particulars didn't resemble the original concept as closely as we would have liked.

As my favorite philosopher, Roseanne Roseannadanna, would say, "It just goes to show ya. It's always sumpthin."

The Zen of Waterskiing

When asked about my favorite activity, I do not hestiate to say "waterskiing." There is no sensation on earth -- at least, within my experience to date -- that compares to that of the nearly frictionless glide across mirror-smooth water. When I lived on Ford Lake, I owned a 15' tri-hull with an 86-horsepower outboard motor. Plenty of power to pull a skier on an inland lake. Living on the lake meant I was able to get out early enough to get the really smooth water. No wind, no crazies from the public launch site, no fishermen sitting in the sheltered coves where the water is especially still.

Sitting in the water, steadying the ski tip, yelling "Hit it!," rising into the air and feeling the play in my legs and arms as my body adjusts to the ride behind the boat -- these are sensations I remember as deeply satisfying to some inner part of me. Explain it by endorphins if you want to, but I think that body chemistry explains only part of this effect.This will always be the defining experience of personal joy for me.

[Wow, what kind of mother am I? -- Sorry, kiddo, as much as I am delighted to be your Mom, so much of that process is uncomfortable, confusing, frustrating and ego-challenging that the joy is often obscured or diluted. -- That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.]

The last time I tried to ski was about 15 years ago, and at that time, I hadn't skied in about 8 years. I had gained weight and was woefully out of shape. Forget grip strength. As a result, I failed to get up on my slalom ski. After 3 or 4 tries, I decided to try and get up on two skis. Try as I might, I failed at that also. In the process, as I gripped the handle of the tow rope as hard as I could, I damaged both carpal tunnels enough that I couldn't button anything for weeks and had to wear wrist braces for months. Very discouraging. It was enough to keep me from trying again for a really long time. Or even being interested in doing so.

Now I am retired, and I have been doing strength training for two years. I know my arms and hands are much, much more able to handle the task than before. So I found a friend with a boat who was willing to take me out for a try. We set up a time to do so, last week, on a hot and very windy day.

When Doug and I got to their house, Tim and Virginia asked if I really wanted to go out. It was windy enough that the chop was going to be fierce. If you have ever waterskied, you know that this makes getting up more difficult and the skiing itself a miserable pounding for your legs and lower back. But I was determined to give it a try.

Out we went into the water in front of the house. Way too rough. So we went around the tip of the Island to the wall or jetty that creates a relatively calm area. Of course, the fisher folk like this place, too, which complicates the tow.

We stopped the boat and into the water I went. I struggled to get my slalom ski on. I forgot what that was like, as I rolled on my side and tried to get a good grip on the boot to pull it on. Once that was done, Tim circled the boat around me so that the rope came into range. The handle was split, and I was used to a one-piece handle. I bobbled side to side as the slack was taken out of the rope. Finally, I call "hit it!" The motor kicked into life. The water scooped toward me, billowing my suit and splashing into my face. I was not able to keep a grip on the rope handle, and was soon floating free, waiting for the boat to come back and bring me the rope for another try.

We tried this 4 more times. Once, I was almost up. Almost. Finally I was just too tired to try again. I climbed back in the boat and back we went to land. So what went wrong? I am not sure. It may be that I just have to keep trying, so that I can re-awaken what I used to know. Maybe the split handle was a factor, or maybe I should start again with two skis, before I can try again with one.

It was frustrating, but I don't feel discouraged. I remember some of those sensations that go with this most favorite activity. I still like those sensations. I still want to re-experience them. Okay, I am not that crazy about the river water going up into my sinuses. But that's just part of the deal. In spite of that, therefore, I hope we have some summery days again before Fall settles in for good, so that I don't have to wait until next July. With the help of my boat-owning friends, Tim and Virginia, and my husband, spotter extraordinaire, I know I can do it.

Remembrance of Things Past

Marcel Proust's multi-volume first-person narrative "A la recherche du temps perdu" is literally translated as "In Search of Lost Time." It starts with the narrator sitting in a cafe with a cup of tea and a cookie (a "petite madeleine," to be precise). When he dips the cookie into the tea and takes a bite, the sensory experience puts him in touch with all these past experiences. Wow! That's some cookie!

The point is, I think, that we are tied to the rest of our lives by all of our senses and that even a small thing can trigger the retrieval of a memory long buried in the far recesses of our minds. These things are not actually lost after all.

The brain is an amazing organ. Research has shown that vivid mental images can be virtually indistinguishable from the actual experiences from a brain and body chemistry perspective. This is the science behind visualization therapy, for example. So the taste of a tea-soaked cookie -- or our creating a detailed picture in our heads -- can bring it all back.

I am thinking about this because my family is presently making plans to put my mother's ashes in the ground in the family plot in Charleston, WV, where my Dad was buried in 1973. That is the last time that I was there. Thinking about this trip later this Fall, looking at pictures of the family plot sent to us by the cemetery manager, takes me back to that graveside and then, by extension, to that of paternal grandmother 12 or 13 years before, my first experience of death and death rituals.

The night we heard about Grandma, I remember playing with the dog and thinking that we shouldn't be having fun. I loved Grandma tremendously and had no idea what no longer having her at holidays -- ever again -- was going to mean. My dad was sad and withdrawn in a way that I had never seen in him before, even though he was always a quiet, gentle person. Of course I had no idea what to do with that either.

We flew down to Charleston in what was my very first plane ride. Talk about mixed emotions! It was a time of year when the weather was chilly and rainy -- November, I think. At the funeral home, we were in a side room most of the time, although they had the family come in before the service to view Grandma in the open casket. Then we went back out. I remember thinking it didn't look like her, and also that this was the last thing on earth I wanted for myself. That thinking has stuck to this day.

At the graveside, it was gray and wet. There was the hole surrounded by some kind of ground covering, and the casket on a lowering mechanism. I don't remember what was said there or what we did afterward. I am sure that some kind family friend had a meal of some kind. Then my parents stayed on to settle things, sending the three of us kids home on the overnight train, my 17-year-old brother in charge of my 13-year-old brother and me. Friends met us at the station and life went on. It was all a bit surreal, a kind of anti-climax. I wonder if I really dealt with it or knew how.

When my Dad died suddenly in 1973, it was June. He was cremated, so we did not have to deal with the whole casket thing. Down we flew again and stood at the graveside. It was a beautiful sunny day, for which I was monumentally grateful. And there was this tiny box instead of a large casket. I remember looking at it and thinking this was way too small a box for a person (and the plain casket he was cremated in), way too small. Cognitive dissonance and then some. Family friends had a lunch for us afterwards. And we made our own ways home. I flew back to Connecticut, where I was working, by myself and went on with my life, surreal and anti-climactic.

I don't know if I am better prepared this third time or not. I'd like to think so. It has been a while since Mom died and now it is more a question of getting this last thing done for her and getting the final bit of closure. The weather will hopefully be pleasant. I am looking forward to seeing this place again, with my grandparent's stones and my Dad's stone, and now my mother's. Any contacts with family friends are long disappeared with the passage of time and the changing of the generational guards. We will all go home, and life will go on. Not as surreal this time, I don't expect.

I doubt I will be back there again. This is not what I see doing for myself.

So what does this have to do with being retired, being 60ish, etc? I guess because this is the last thing I have to do for the generation before me. Now I am solidly in the senior generation in the family. It's scary. It also makes me think about how to make the best use of this time in my life. Now is the time.

Carpe diem.

Post-Vacation downtime

It seems ironic that returning from vacation should result in a period of reduced activity, but that is the way it is for me right now. Maybe when you are retired, vacation has a different function. I really don't know where to go with that, though. I mean, I don't have a routine that consumes my entire week, as I did when I was employed full time. But I do seem to have quite a few things going -- workouts twice a week, bike riding, some running, church work at my local church and in a committee at the Presbytery level. That seems to suck up enough time that my husband said, as I worried about having missed a meeting, "You mean there's something at the church that you aren't going to?" Oops. Might want to rethink the word NO and its relevance to my life. Remember that comment about church work being something wherein it is the volunteer who sets the limits? So true.

I had a great time at Chautauqua and recommend it to one and all. Now I am home and have to find a reason to continue. No, that sounds way to serious. Life is sweet, as I realize over and over these days. There are things that confound, confuse, irritate and downright scare me. But overall...

I am going to pick out a 5k to run this fall. That will give me some focus. Sigh.

CHQ -- Journal #3 --- Doing the NFO run

I ran the 3 miles again, only this time I went the other way. The advantage here is that, instead of having to go up this one really steep hill near the beginning of the run, you get to go down it near the end. The up runs are shorter and less steep. The path I have been running is the one that is used every year for an annual run call "Old First Night" for no reason I understand. On the pavement, to indicate the turns for the runners, are spray painted arrows and the letters "OFN." I call my run the NFO run.

The NFO run starts and ends at the same spot and follows the same route as its more recognized (at least here at CHQ) cousin. It follows the same path in reverse, and when I see the spray painted notation "1/2 mile," I know I am almost done, not just beginning.

Today's run is great in most ways. At 6:00 am, there is almost no noise or air movement. The lake is almost as smooth as glass, as cliched as that phrase is. Boats anchored off-shore point their masts to the overcast sky. and their reflections in the water are betrayed as copies by delicate ripples teased into existence by a feather-light breeze. A ragged tear in the cloud cover lets through a glow of light from the rising sun. Priceless.

Then the route turns away from the water, turning and going up the hills in short rises that are almost like steps. It is always interesting to see the houses and their varying architecture and the well groomed plantings of carefully tended gardens.

The run past the main gate and the firehouse is relatively easy -- flat and smooth. There is more activity along here, as the Farmer's Market vendors arrive and begin setting up. The bus drivers who loop the grounds all day are arriving, and other joggers and walkers begin to populate the path. Some say hi and wave on the way by. Others have a misty look in their eyes and iPod wires hanging from their ears. No greeting there.

On past the new Jewish Life Center, a beautiful pale yellow building with Victorian design elements and a wonderfully welcoming porch.

Soon I am at the southernmost part of the grounds, a seldom-traveled area comprised mostly of private homes. As I turn to go down that wickedly steep hill for the final half mile, I see a whimsical diorama of little wooden bats, a bluejay and a "Welcome to Chautauqua"sign. Another sign in the exuberantly ungroomed plantings declares that this is a backyard wildlife habitat certified as such by the National Wildlife Federation.

As I slow down enough to be sure I am not going to be going down the hill head over heels, I see a couple -- somewhere in their twenties, I think -- jogging up the hill, talking! I look over at the gray-haired woman laboring up the hill behind them. I raise my eyebrow, toss a thumb in the couple's direction and shrug. She laughs and says, "What's up with those people?" Funny how quickly common ground can be established.

I go carefully down the hill and turn into the final length of road, running along the lake again. By now, though, I am dripping sweat off the back of my hair onto my neck and repeat to myself silently, "Just a little further. Just a little further." It's hard to enjoy the scenery, at least for me, when I have to work at breathing. I know I am okay, but I am definitely pushing the envelope for a flatlander.

The century-old Athenaeum Hotel sits grandly along this stretch of shoreline, presenting its guests with a soothing view of the lake and all its activities. I wish there were any way I had the energy even to turn my head. All I could focus on at this point was the last spray painted remnant of the OFN (now NFO) run -- the Start/Finish line.

Finally I reach the sports club building ahead and the shuffleboard courts. The finish line. Huffing and puffing, I cross it, do my little arm-raised victory dance, and start to walk, to slow down my heart rate and see if I can't get my red face to cool down a bit.

Back at the house, I go for a shower, fresh clothes, clean hair, breakfast. Let the day begin.

Begin??? Are you kidding?!?

CHQ -- Journal #2

It's Wednesday night and the time already seems to be winding down. Two full days of programming are ahead, then home again on Saturday.

The theme for the week is Sacred Spaces, and lectures both secular and religiously oriented have centered around this concept. We heard Ken Burns speak twice this week -- once about William Seagel and a place in France called Vezelay (very contemplative), and tonight about battlefields, which have their own sacred nature in a "lest we forget" kind of way.

In the afternoons, the Department of Religion lectures have been Abrahamic in nature and have focussed on Jerusalem and its role as a sacred place from different points of view. So far we have heard a Muslim, a Jew and a Christian speak. They have taken very different tacks, but it has been so interesting and surprisingly not contentious. The Jewish speaker was Rabbi Melchior, who must be well-known, though not by me. At any rate, he has been, among other things, a member of the Israeli Knesset, and I wondered if he might not be more of a hard liner. Never assume....

I have been taking an acting class this week from a woman who works in NYC as an actor and is lots of fun. As there are only two of us students, we get a good amount of time to do actual scene work. I do love the stage and wish there were more opportunities for me to indulge this hankering closer to where I live.

Only two days left. I am beginning to feel sad already, but I don't want to give any of that time away, either, in premature grieving. In the morning, I will run again and then let the rhythm of the day proceed in its customary way. In a right/left brain exercise, I will get some needlework done during lectures, a cultural thing here that I love.

Tonight we go "off campus" for dinner at Andriaccio's, an Italian restaurant near enough to walk to, and then back for a symphony concert. Tomorrow is leftover night, in an attempt to use up what is still hanging around in the fridge. And so it goes!

CHQ, you're the best!

Chautuaqua (CHQ) Journal #1

I am in heaven right now, although on the map it is called Chautauqua, NY. (For brevity's sake and to give my keyboarding skills less of a workout, I am going to say CHQ instead.) If you have never heard of it, all I can say is that it is like sleep-over camp for grown ups, only way better. CHQ started as a summer lecture program for Methodist Sunday School teachers. The program was held in a small town on a lake in upstate New York (Chautauqua), and the organizers brought in interesting lecturers to illuminate the listeners' lives.

More than 125 years later, the town is a gated community for 9 weeks in the summer. Lectures are held in a huge covered ampitheater, instead of the park by the lake, with audiovisual equipment out the wazoo, plus classes in a huge variety of topics, from personal finances to digital photography to yoga and zumba and conversational French for beginners. If you feel like vegging out, just go down to one of the three swim areas, or take a walk along the lake, or sit and listen to enterprising young musicians playing chamber music at the central plaza, an open violin case in front of them, seeded with a few hopeful greenbacks.

Because CHQ started as a place for Sunday School teachers, the spiritual aspect to the place is still integral to its identity. There are numerous "denominational houses" on the grounds who provide housing and a refuge for their followers, plus the interfaith service in the Amp every morning. In the last ten years, there has been a further expansion of ecumenism in the form of the Abrahamic Initiative (now a Project), with a goal of bringing new understanding among peoples of the three traditions -- Christianity, Judaism and Islam. Sunday night, for example, there was a vesper service that was put together by three young persons (one from each tradition), including calls to prayer, and other worship elements from all three traditions. It was very moving. At least it is a start. How can we figure out how to get along if we don't know anything about the others?

Don't forget to bring the kids. There is a day camp for kids from 7 to ll and a half-day option of daycare for littler ones, all designed to give the parents a chance to enjoy some of the less kid-friendly programming, like lectures on the cosmos, or a few words from Sandra Day O'Connor or Jessie Jackson, or (as happened yesterday) Ken Burns of the PBS series on National Parks fame.

Central to the town is the plaza, a wide open green area with a fountain in the center. The library is at one end and the administrative office building at the other. Then there is the Post Office, Bookstore, Refectory, and a number of stores. Don't forget the kiosk where those of us who are espresso-dependent can get their grande latte.

Wander around the town in your spare time and revel in the variety of Victorian architecture. "Life is a porch" is a favorite t-shirt saying. Owners have spent a lot of time coming up with multicolor paint schemes and elaborate floral plantings. Outdoor sculptures sprout in the most unexpected places, and you never know when you will stumble on to a little garden with a bench on which to rest your weary self and get back in touch with nature and the mystical aura of CHQ.

There is so much more to this place -- like opera and theater and student art and dance programs. There is an orchestra, comprised of off-season or retired symphony members, that performs once or twice a week. There is a movie theater and a golf course and a fitness center. Seriously, if you can't find something to do here...I just can't imagine that, actually.

I am in heaven. I fell in love with it 5 minutes after arriving and it has stayed that way for 10 years now. Before I went the first time, at the invitation of a couple of friends who seemed to keep going back every year, I said to my husband, "I just don't want this to be the last place I ever go to for a vacation." Well, it hasn't been the only place. Although I have gone other places as well, I have only missed one summer in CHQ since that first visit.

It looks like I will not be able to come next year, because of some other things going on that need to take precedence. I can tell you that I will miss it and will eagerly anticipate my return in 2012.

Heaven on earth.

When early isn't early enough

I decided to get back to the running in an organized way. After all, I have that new long-term training goal of doing a triathlon sprint next spring. The thing is, I puff up in humid weather and this is shaping up to be a humid summer. Bleah! That means that I have to get up and out before it gets too beastly. So far, I have not managed to do that.

It turns out that 9am is too late. I ran "the Southern loop" last Wednesday -- our house down West River to Groh across to Meridian up to Hawthorn Glen Drive and back to West River -- and made it home red-faced and dripping. At that time, whether there is humidity or not, the sun is already up above the trees along the bike path, and there is no shadow to be found.

Last night, I decided I would do the loop again today, but earlier. Out the door at 8 am. So there was still some shade available on the path. But not enough and none for that final leg through Hawthorne Glen Drive. I managed to "run" (remember, slow is the new fast) two and a half miles before my heart rate got too high to do even that. Well, that's my reason and I'm sticking to it.

Next run is Friday, at 7am. If that isn't early enough, I'm waiting for a new climate.

The filling in the generational sandwich

The departure of my son for parts distant has me thinking about passages, the meaning of life, etc. etc. One of the transitions that is scary and strange is the one in which we become the seniors. I don't mean the students just about to graduate, unless you want to get back into that metaphorical mode. I mean geezer-dom, elderly-ness, old, old OLD.

My mother died in 2005 at the age of 86 after an 18-month decline into dementia. Her final illness was terrifying and bewildering and frustrating. It was an exercise in futility most of the time. At the same time, Ed was graduating from high school and going to college, moving the first 40 miles or infinity-and-beyond away from home.(Have you seen Toy Story 3? If not, do.) I had to juggle being the parent to my parent and learning how to parent but not micromanage my almost adult child at the same time.It felt like getting the old one-two to the jaw.

When my mother died, in the mix of the confusing turmoil of emotion that included intense sadness at her final absence and relief that the excruciating drawn-out process was finally over, there was the sense that I had just taken that last step forward. Now it was me, standing at the edge of the cliff. The next step would take me over.

I wish I could tell you I had moved past that. Is there a point at which we really come to terms with our mortality? Maybe some do. Maybe most are like me, not dwelling on it most of the time. Maybe this is why I feel so driven to reinvent myself at 60. Maybe this is why I want to do something more meaningful with my time than the corporate finance stuff that took up 30 of my years. Maybe this is why I care so much less about whether everyone approves of what I do or say.

About that cliff -- the truth is, we are not lined up one behind the other. We are all standing at the edge, never knowing when that last step will be taken. I don't know if this should depress us or embolden us. Carpe diem! Seize the day. Gather ye rosebuds while ye may...

I said in an earlier post that "I am sure that there are limits to what I can actually do, but Iam not sure what those limits are. They are most certainly not as restricted as I used to think." This actually helps. What's the point of putting limits on myself that I don't have to? Life does enough of that.

Sorry about the buzzkill. Sometimes it just goes that way.

Empty Nest

My son, Ed, left Michigan this week to live in Austin, Texas. Even though he has said for years that he will be leaving Michigan as soon as he could, it is still a wrench. This is the first time in all of his 24 years that he is living more than 40 miles away, and I find that there is an Ed-sized hole in me, a sort of metaphorical equivalent to how I felt inside the first couple of weeks after he was born.

Having a baby is an interesting experience. Things happen to your body that you wouldn't have thought possible and over which you have no control. You can't do things you used to be able to do. During the pregnancy, I occasionally found myself resenting some of the restrictions that this baby was already putting on my life. I also remember those childbirth movies we saw as part of the pre-natal classes and thinking, "I'm not doing that." Of course, that's just silly. And the baby was quite welcome. But there have been moments...

The thing about gestation is that it rearranges your insides. The baby may start out smaller than the eye can see, but it sure doesn't end up that way. In the process, in between those weird Zumba sessions in your belly, it slowly shoves aside things that were pretty well settled in their locations. The baby is the boss of the local real estate. (This is true after birth, as well!) As a result, after the baby vacates the premises, everything kind of rattles around until it settles back down to at least an approximation of the pre-baby norm. I found it to be peculiar and a bit unsettling, and ultimately just the way things are.

Ed is living his life in a way that works for him. He is taking risks and handling things. He seems settled into a relationship. He has a firmly-established idea of where he wants to go professionally, which helps focus his present efforts. I am immensely proud of the young man that baby has become.

Still, I am sad, and I insist that I be allowed to be sad as long as I need to be. Support and understanding are welcome, of course. Just don't cheat me out of my passage through this transition. Soon enough, I will emerge. I am well on the way.

I think I will go online and check out airfares to Austin.

One Helluva Ride - indeed!

Last week, a cycling buddy of mine and I rode the 64-mile loop at the One Helluva Ride, put on every year by the Ann Arbor Bicycle Touring Society the second Saturday in July. They have 6 loops for interested riders of varied skills and experience -- two "family fun" rides (15 and 30 miles) and 4 longer ones (39, 64, 75, and 100). In years past, the 75 and 100 mile loops actually went thrugh hell, Michigan. This was not true this year, because of road construction. But that is not relevant for me, as there is no way I presently aspire to ride that far in one day! My buddy and I have grandiosely calling our ride a "metric century." since 64 miles is about 100k. No matter what you call it, though, it's a long way.

We got started a little later than we had initially planned, because we had a hard time getting up early enough to leave our homes by 6:00am. This would have gotten us on the trail by 8:00am, with a reasonable chance for being done by mid-afternoon.

As it was, we pulled out of the Chelsea Fairgrounds on our bicycles at about 8:45 -- heading for a water/snack/port-a-potty stop at mile 13 and lunch at Portage Lake at mile 38. The scenery in this area is enjoyable -- acres of farmland, stands of tree, very few buildings. It's such open country that it's hard to imagine you are not that far from "civilization." It isn't a solitary ride, though. Most of the time there are other cyclists around, and the SAG wagons go by regularly,just in case. (If they aren't in sight, there is a number on your wristband that you can call for help.)

When you are on the trail like this, you have automatic entry into the cycling subculture, at least for the event. It's a surprisingly diverse group of people -- young and old, obviously fit and seemingly not, cycling jersey and spandex shorts or tee shirt and cargo shorts, road bikes or hybrids, recumbent or upright, single or tandem. If you're on a bike, you're one of "us." If we stopped at the side of the road for a few minutes for a drink or just a break from the saddle, riders with always checked on the way by to see if we were okay. When we pulled into a convenience store for a cold drink, we stood with other riders and exchanged "where are you from" information. There were a couple of guys from Dearborn who had ridden to Chelsea, were riding the 100-mile route and then riding home to Dearborn.

"You're crazy!" I said. "Er, I mean, you are great cycling enthusiasts."

One of them replied, "No, we're just crazy." LOL!

This is the longest ride I have ever done in one day. One of the Katy training rides I had done and one of the days on the Katy trail itself were 50 miles each. That seem plenty long at the time and that was 8 months ago. As it happens, I started feeling quite tired about 25 miles into the ride, way too soon to be failing. The surprise for me was that my quads started burning. This was a first for me, and it hurt like all get out. I am so used to relying on my legs being strong. There were some hills that really challenged that assumption for me, and I was incredibly glad to pull into Portage Lake at about 12:45pm for an extended break that involved sitting down in a shaded area. Maybe some potassium (a banana) and other nutrients (turkey sandwich), plus the respite from riding, would alleviate the burn.

Alas, my legs did not recover during the break. As we rode out of the park (up a damn hill!), I told my buddy that I was not at all sure I would be able to ride all the way back to Chelsea. I was pretty sure I could make it to Grass Lake for the next stop (about 10 miles) and would re-evaluate the need to SAG at that point. If I needed to, I would take the truck keys and go back to the fairgrounds in comfort. I really hated to fail finishing the ride, but was not interested in torturing myself, either. On we rode.

When I had to, I walked up the hills. There was a long stretch on a service drive next to I-94 that was a series of hills and no shade (of course not!). I rode halfway up the first, then dismounted and walked up, stopping at the top for a breath and a drink. I actually waved the SAG wagon on. The next hill didn't look all that bad from this vantage point. But I was mistaken and ended up walking up from halfway again. As I cam to the top and saw a third hill ahead, I thought there was just no way I could do three. I coasted down, enjoying the wind and the easy ride, dreading the climb. Then what to my wondering eyes should appear, but the little trident spray painted on the roads the show where we should turn! There it was, just before the road rose again, blessed turn onto flat land. Divine providence? I wouldn't eliminate the possibility.

I made it to Grass Lake okay! Hooray! At this point, we were about 16 miles from the end. My legs felt better and I seemed to remember this part from last year as being less hilly, so I decided to keep going. Still, as the miles stretched out through fields of half-grown corn, there were times when I wished that those irrigation contraptions that look like a long snaky shower for the crops were operating. I so would have gone over for a soak. But it was not to be. Sigh.

I was wrong about the final miles being less hilly. As with the 39-mile loop I rode last year, the final 5 miles were mostly mental for me. I just wasn't going to give up at that point. The iced watermelon at the end was also a prize keeping me going. We rode in together, both of us digging deep for that last little bit of energy. Then we arrived, pulling into the fairgrounds just after 4:30pm. The last trident on the road had "Yay! Good job!" spray painted underneath it. Yay, and then some!

The rest is denouement. Iced watermelon, (nectar of the gods!), shower, fresh clothes, cold drink from a drive-through, and home again, picking up a steak at the Outback curbside take-away. Red meat, wine, ibuprofen, bed. Priceless.

The next day, I was able to walk without wincing. Not too shabby at all.

Rails to Trails and Parks - Oh, my!

As I have previously noted, the first big, long-term goal I set for myself after I retired was to ride the two hundred miles of the Katy Trail in Missouri. This is the trip that my friend Sue spearheaded and that we trained for during the 5 months leading up to the tour. Our training rides included the three Metroparks in the New Boston area (Oakwoods, Willow and Lower Huron), the KalHaven rail-trail and the Pere Marquette rail-trail.

So far, the park ride is my favorite. It is a scenic 25 miles, with a few "hills" to give it some texture and enough flat land so that new riders are not over-taxed. Our training group, including a few drop-in friends who came along for the exercise from time to time, would meet at a picnic area in Willow. We started by riding down to the nature center at the far end of Oakwoods, then back up through Willow and onto the connector path that takes you to Lower Huron. We would ride the length of the park and out the far end onto a nice flat road that took us back along the edge of the park and into New Boston. A little way past Waltz Road, there is a little breakfast/lunch place which is a great place to take a break, about 18 miles into the ride. After the break, we would take the connector back to Willow and our cars.

By August, only 6 weeks away from our Katy trip, we were ready to do a back-to-back, two-day ride. Doug and I had run across literature on the KalHaven trail when we were at Al Petri's one day. It was described as a family-friendly and novice-friendly ride of 35 miles between Kalamazoo and South Haven. This seemed an ideal way to experience a fairly significant ride two days in a row.

One of the things you have to remember about rails-to-trails paths is that they used to be railroad tracks. This means that the grades are relatively moderate. It also means that they can be somewhat narrow in areas where the land is hilly and had to be built up to keep the grade low enough for a train to manage. (Staying on the straight and narrow has real meaning in those places.) When the train lines fell into disuse, parks were formed by interested parties to take advantage of the existing rights of way, and the trails were converted to use by bikes and, in some areas, by horses.

On a mid-week August morning, we met at the trail head in Kalamazoo and set out on the adventure. The first stretch of trail was a very pleasant downhill grade through the woods. I think it must have been at least a couple of miles of this easy going before we came out onto flat land, with only intermittent shade. One stretch of trail was really quite unpleasant as it took us close to a pig farm. There is nothing fun about being down wind of that, I can tell you.

The ride took us about 5 hours, including the lunch stop we took in the town at the halfway point. By the time we were approaching South Haven, it was late afternoon. We were all looking forward to the showers in the rooms we had reserved at a local camp ground. Doug had a flat tire about a mile out, but managed to fix it well enough to ride in. After settling in to our rooms, we all rode into town to an Italian restaurant for dinner and found out on the return trip just how dark it can be when there are no street lights. None of us had headlights on our bikes, and the road was pitch black for the last mile back to the campground. I will never ride at night without a light again.

On the way back the next day, Doug's tire, which seemed to have been fixed, blew out again as we were approaching the halfway point. He tried to fix it, but the wall of the tire was damaged and couldn't be repaired. We were 17 miles from our cars at that point. How were we supposed to get a disabled bike and its rider back to the trailhead? The most likely plan involved me staying with the bike, while Doug (a stronger rider than I am) rode my bike to the car and came back for me. That would mean a wait of a couple of hours, we figured. Could have been worse!

As it happened, though, a very kind soul hanging around the sandwich shop where we had eaten was headed to Kalamazoo and offered Doug a ride. Off they went, bike and all, while the rest of us took to the trail for the final leg. Sun, shade, sun, pig farm (ick!), and finally the welcome shade of the woods leading up to the trailhead. Oh, yes, remember the lovely downgrade we started with. Payback time. But we could all smell the barn by then. We just wanted to get to the cars and get off those bikes!!! Doug was there as we rode into the parking lot, waving us in with a smile.

It was a trip with its ups and downs, literally and figuratively, challenging and empowering. It strengthened our riding skills and group esprit de corps. Things I could not have imagined myself doing a year ago I had done.

Look out, Katy, here we come!

Goals, training and insanity

Insanity has struck. I am actually considering training for a triathlon sprint. This from a person who couldn't run a mile 6 months ago. Insane! Here's the thing -- I find I really like a long-term stretch goals and feel restless without one. I learned this when I decided to train to ride the Katy Trail.

Cycling has become one of my fave things to do, as I have previously noted. One day, during a strength training session, I was warming up on the stationary bike. I remarked casually that I was surprised how much I was really enjoying the bike riding. Susie heard this and told me that another of her clients was planning to train for a week-long, 200-mile bike tour on the Katy Trail in Missouri in October of the following year. This would mean a full 12 months to get ready. I was in. [Side comment -- be careful about those casual remarks when Tip Top Susie is within earshot!]

Step one was to introduce myself to the other client, so we could train together once the weather got good again in the spring. When I did, I liked her right away. Sue is tall, blond, and (as I soon discovered firsthand) very determined. She had some very specific ideas about how to train. We started out with a plan to meet two week nights a week at the gazebo, since we lived in various parts of the island. Weekend rides were more structured and planning responsibility rotated. -- Actually, this sounds more structured than it was when we started, but it quickly evolved. -- Anyway, from a fitness and cycling experience standpoint, we were a diverse group. There was also a range of ages, from 50's to almost 80. It might surprise you to learn that the 80-year-old was our most able rider. Humbling!

As the spring gave way to summer and summer inched toward fall, our rides became longer and longer. Those seemingly long 5 mile rides in May were routine, minimal maintenance rides by September. We expanded our locations to the Metro Parks (20-25 miles), Dexter (remember the haranguer lady?), Hines Park into Northville, and an overnight excursion on the KalHaven rail trail from Kalamazoo to South Haven (35 miles each way). We rode mostly on pavement, but had several rides on chat, which is basically crushed limestone. Pavement is the easiest surface to ride on. Sand is horrible. Chat is somewhere in between.

As we rode greater distances, we became more comfortable with the distances, as well as a variety of road, traffic and weather conditions. Well, maybe not all of "we." And I don't think any of us was happy the day we rode down Dixie Highway past the gravel quarry. There is nothing fun about being buffeted by double-bottomed gravel haulers speeding down a two-lane road. To quote Sancho in The Man of La Mancha, "whether the stone hits the pitcher, or the pitcher hits the stone, it's not going to be good for the pitcher." Cyclists are definitely the pitcher in this scenario.

Two pieces of gear are really key to an endurable and even enjoyable extended ride -- the right bike saddle and the right shorts. (I'm talking comfort, not safety, here.) As it turns out, there are gender-specific design elements to a good saddle. Without going into details, it has more to do with where the padding isn't than where it is, thus giving soft tissues a break. It turns out that the saddle that came with my bike was a man's saddle. It didn't really matter when I was just tooling around the neighborhood, but was quite noticeable when I started riding down to Flat Rock and beyond! And the chamois in the shorts -- OMG, thank heaven!

We have acquired other gear and doodahs as we progressed and as weather and conditions became less of an inhibitor in our own minds. For example, the following items have all found their way into our house -- UVB resistant shirts for the fair-skinned (me!), a wide-mouthed water bottle that will allow ice cubes in easily (Doug), arm warmers (me), various reflective clothing items (both of us), skull caps and toasty-warm pants, rain jackets, and a variety of half- and full-fingered gloves. Then there are the computers to monitor heart rate, cadence, speed, and distance; the flashy lights for dusk or dawn riding, a good rearview mirror and a bell. And of course, there are plenty of whatchamacallits still out there just waiting for gadget geeks to stumble across them!

I'll tell more about the Katy trail later, but for now, I just want to say that I view differently what the conditions need to be for riding. I have a goal in 2010 to ride my bike in every month of the year. So far so good, but it was a near thing in January. As the end of the month neared, I carefully considered my condition requirements for meeting my goal that month. I sure didn't was to fail in my overall annual goal the first time out of the gate! As it turned out, for me, I need dry riding surfaces, no precipitation and preferably no wind. On January 29th, Doug and I went for a fairly short ride (5 miles, I think). We went out twice in February, and so on from there.

Crazy!

The bike path as a metaphor for life

Remember those essay assignments in high school English? The whale in Moby Dick as God. The Mississippi River in Huckleberry Finn as (once again) God. Sarah Vowell's essay on the corner of Wacker and Wacker as a metaphor for the whole history of Chicago. The secret garden in the novel of the same name as a metaphor for what? Life? Love? Freedom? Self-esteem? Along those lines, I would like to propose my title metaphor.

The bike path runs the length of our island and is a microcosm of our community. Here and there, you can encounter some curves and some admittedly gentle grades up or down. There are several places along the way that provide an opportunity to rest up and refresh before proceeding. The population of the path at any given time can include people of all ages walking, running, roller blading or riding bikes. Swarms of children on bikes, a young mother walking or running behind a stroller with an infant or toddler on board, young or not-so-young men with or without spandex and helmets and clipped into their bike pedals, an older couple strolling at a more leisurely pace and holding hands, lots of folks walking their dogs. All of these and more populate our bike path.

Two stretches of the path are particular favorites of mine. The first is the part that goes by the West Shore golf course, probably because it is such a pleasant vista of trees and well-groomed expanses of grass. The other is the part going South from Bellevue. I love how it curves in and out and gives me a chance to swoop back and forth. It touches the inner child in me, and I am exhilarated by a sense of freedom from some of the constraints that go with being on foot.

A metaphor is, by definition, imperfect. It is like the thing it describes, but it is not the thing itself. So this one breaks down quickly. Nevertheless, perhaps it captures one aspect of our island life in a way that enhances our experience. To paraphrase our state motto, if you seek a beautiful island, look around.

See you on the path!

On Sharing the Road Safely

Remember when you got your driver's license? You studied that booklet of rules of the road as if your life depended on it. Of course, it did, even if we teenagers didn't realize. For us, it was our social life that depended on it. It was a badge of honor to have that license and be able to offer your friends a ride to ... well, anywhere, really. The destination was not actually the point. I remember sweating over how many feet you had to leave between you and the car in front to be sure you could stop safely. And there were those funky hand signals for turns, though most cars had turn signals, even in the late 1960's (if you're snickering, then just hush, whippersnapper). Anyway, we worked hard to learn those rules of the road.

Now that I have been riding a while, I have a whole new view of how to use the road as the operator of a motor vehicle. I have also had a couple of experiences, both as a rider and as a driver, that have highlighted for me the importance of sharing the road safely. It might seem like a given that we should be doing that. Safety is kind of like Mom and Apple Pie. It should be a given that we mean to operate safely. Shouldn't it?

There are actually rules for the proper use of the roads by bicycles in the state of Michigan. First of all, guess what, car and truck drivers? Bikes have the right to use the roads, just like motor vehicles do, under the laws of Michigan and most or all other states. (Bold italics are definitely indicators of a pet peeve here!) What that means is -- When you yell at us cyclists to get off the road, or you come too close or cut us off, it's the same as if you did that to a person driving a motor vehicle.

"But what am I supposed to do when there is oncoming traffic and I am stuck behind you?" I was asked once. Well, same thing you would do if it were a car in front of you. It's not any more complicated than that. "Same road, same rules."

If I sound aggravated, then you are definitely picking up the tone I intended. Over the last two years, I have had several experiences of road rage from a driver toward my riding companions and me. In one case, we were going off the island and down Jefferson toward Gibraltar. This means that we had to turn left off Parkway onto Jefferson, then proceed in the through lane at the light at Van Horn. After that, riders can hug the right side of the lane and give drivers plenty of room to get around. At any rate, on Parkway on the other side of the bridge, we signaled our move into the turn lane and stopped at the red light. The driver of a pickup truck behind us laid on his horn and yelled at us to get off the road. When the light turned green, we turned left as a group and moved toward the light at Van Horn. The truck turned left into the rightmost lane, gunned his engine to go around us, and actually pulled in front of us at the light. I cannot tell you how scary and irrational this action was to me. However angry this guy was, this manoeuvre was really dangerous. This turkey could not wait an extra 10 seconds to get through the traffic light behind us, at which point he could pass us safely? Apparently not. What if he had injured one or more of us with this dangerous driving?

Another time, a group of us went for a ride out in the Dexter area. Actually, we rode through Hell that day (Hell, Michigan, of course). Most of that ride was out of town on some scenic two-lane roads through rolling hills. Just lovely. Unfortunately, there was a woman who was quite offended by our using the road for cycling. There was no other vehicular traffic in sight and plenty of visibility ahead. But this driver chose to slow down next to those of us that were lagging behind a bit and proceeded to harangue us for a number of minutes. We should not be on these roads. There was a double yellow and she was not supposed to cross those to get around us, and we were inconveniencing her. Then she drove ahead and proceeded to harangue the leading riders. Finally, she drove around them and went on. It was absolutely ridiculous. In this case, it was also at least not physically dangerous. But still... She didn't have her facts straight and she spent a disproportionate amount of psychic energy on this.

There are rules for both sets of road users. Motor vehicle operators need to understand that bikes actually do have the legal right to use the road. With that in mind, the idea is to drive in a way that treats the bikes as if they are cars and take the appropriate actions. On the other hand, cyclists need to behave in a way that takes into consideration the motor vehicles. This means that bikes should ride at the right side of the lane and no more than two abreast. When traffic comes up from behind, the bikes are supposed to single up, so that they can be passed more safely. Cyclists need to know and use correct hand signals. Motorists need to give at least 3 feet of space when they pass riders. Cyclists -- you are very vulnerable, no matter how careful you are. Give the motor vehicles extra attention and make yourself as visible as possible, especially if you choose to ride on sidewalks or through parking lots. I think bikes are invisible to drivers in these places, so act in the interest of self-preservation.

Okay, I guess that's a little preachy, but I do feel strongly about it. There are many stories of cyclists gravely wounded or killed by vehicles every year. I am sure that the drivers in these cases are not trying to kill or injure the cyclist. Well, not all of them, anyway. And yet, I see that wreath laid at the street sign on Jefferson just north of the turn from Parkway, marking the location where a family lost a loved one this way.

Cycling is such a great activity, good for our health and very accessible to a wide range of fitness levels and budgets. Let's all do what we can to keep it that way!

Slow -- It's the New Fast!

I'm really not sure what possessed me to register for the Grosse Ile Memorial Day 5k Run last year. I hadn't been running, or jogging, or even walking for exercise. Probably it was Tip Top Susie saying something like "Why don't you do that 5k just for fun?" For some reason, it seemed like a good idea to me and I went over to Total Runner and signed up. I didn't do any training, and I was really not committed to becoming a runner or even doing a second event. I was really thinking of it as a "fun run/walk." Just a one-time thing. So there I was, 9:00 am Memorial Day morning 2009, in a crowd spanned the range of ages and apparent fitness, way over dressed for the temperature, my number pinned to my sweat shirt, ready to go.

When gun or whatever went off, I started jogging along. At least Doug got off a snapshot before I gasped and fell back into as fast a walk as I could manage. Yikes! How embarassing is that? Every so often I would try to crank back up to a trot, but that lasted about two driveways. Little kids passed me. Someone with a stroller went by. A couple who looked like they might be in the next age group up passed me, and they were talking!

By the time I got to the water station (2 miles into the 3.1 mile course), I was exhausted. No amount of water would help. The sweatshirt was off and tied around my waist, and I was wishing I had another layer I could remove. Runners from the 8k course had been going by at an easy lope for a while, and even though there were plenty of folks (volunteers for the event, I assume) standing at the side of the road clapping and saying, "Great job, runner! You're almost there!," all I could think was that I wasn't sure I could go another step. And still, I somehow wanted to save a smidge of energy so that I could something more than stumble across the finish.

As I came into the stadium for the final tenth or two of the course, I ramped up to an impressive shuffle. As I came down the final stretch, the announcer said, "And here comes ... uh.. another runner. Congratulations, runner." Oh, right. My number was pinned to my sweatshirt, which was around my waist. Not that I really wanted name recognition at that point.

In the end, my time was 47:28, .8th out of 9 in my age group. The woman who came first did the run in less than 25:00. Are you kidding????

And so commenced my life as a runner.

What's Next -- Part Deux

Who would ever have thought I would fall in love with cycling? Certainly not I. Think back to that little voice telling me "We aren't athletes." Maybe one problem is what my definition of an athlete is. After all, I have been riding a bike since I was 5 (at a guess). I remember so clearly the day I took the training wheels off my two-wheeler and rode down the slight decline that was Edgehill Road. The wind in my hair and the sense of mastery are sensations that are with me almost as strongly as when they happened most of my lifetime ago.

Summer 2008 was definitely a time of resetting my compass. So many years of sitting at a desk, working on a computer, going to meetings and doing all that thinking. I had not ever established a good way to offset the sluggishness that accumulated. So in addition to sleeping late and making very few specific plans, I got outdoors on my bike most days.

The view of the island from the saddle of a bike is different from the one you get from a car. In most cases, I didn't actually have a destination when I was on a bike, which I pretty much always do when I get into a car. Who just rides around in a car any more? If nothing else, what a waste of gas! When you don't have a destination, when your riding is a goal in its own right, you really do have time to notice more details.

Like what?

Well, the variety of landscaping choices is impressive. Among other things, there are some really cool topiaries on the island. I especially love those little twisty ones that look like the business end of a corkscrew. I am in awe of the wonderful 4-color (5-color?) paint scheme on the "castle" on Parke Lane. And there are all the construction projects under way to monitor. Seeing a house take shape from their wood or steel skeletons to their final form is fascinating to me.

The variety of mail box posts is interesting to me. Some look like armored bunkers. I wonder if these were houses where youthful pranksters (a.k.a. vandals, from the homeowners point of view) had bashed their conventional mailboxes into oblivion. BTW, as residents of West River Road, we had that happen to us three times. Finally, we said "The heck with that!" and got a PO box. I can see that other people have been more defiant of the damage and built brick or stone block housings for their fragile metal mail boxes. Some have gone the molded plastic route. Some have customized their boxes to reflect their interests, like the fish with an open mouth and another with a little car on it. I thought I had seen one with wings and a propeller, but can't locate it. Perhaps these are just too cute to trash.

When you are on a bike, the island isn't quite as flat as it seems in a car. In our early days of riding around on our bikes, we often went through Hawthorn Glen on our way to the bike path or back home. The curve and dip by the pond seemed like a something of a challenge, as did the longer, slower grade from Lowrie up to Macomb Street on the bike path. I am actually a bit embarrassed to admit that. Now, two years later, those same "hills" have been relegated to ho-hum, and we are accustomed to riding 10 or 15 miles without it being remarkable or even tiring. The island is once again flat (and small).

And then I started running...

What Next?

Having retired, I faced, for the first time in my adult life, a seemingly vast expanse of open time. No longer did I have a place to be at a certain time, or any specific tasks to complete. It was all available to do with as I chose. An exciting prospect, but a little scary. My first choice was to take the entire summer as an extended vacation, let myself do just what I wanted, sleep in as long as I wanted, detox from my worklife.

Two things stand out for me from the summer of 2008 - 1) finding a new trainer to go to for strength training, and 2) taking almost daily bike rides around the island with my husband. I this entry, I want to consider the training aspect.

When I mentioned I didn't think I was making much progress, fitness-wise, I was lucky to get a referral from a friend. She recommended Susan Armiak of Tip Top Physique. Soon I was slotted into a group that met Tuesdays and Thursdays from 8:00 to 9:00am.

Maybe that seems fairly ho-hum to you, but for me it is really something extraordinary. You see, my inner dialogue my whole life has been along the lines of -- "We're not athletic. We're not sports people. We're not outdoors people." (Also in there, by the way, is a whisper "We're not good at theater.") It's really hard to fight those little voices, no matter how smart you are. The fact that it is a lot easier to be inactive doesn't help. Plus all the other demands on my life - job, husband, child, commute, house, church. And so on and so forth, ad infinitum, ad nauseam.

Susie started me out easy, I think. She would say that she started me at a level that was appropriate to my fitness level at the time. I remember one exercise she had me doing that involved lying on the floor with my feet hanging on to the punching bag. From that position, I had to sit up and touch the punching bag with my fingertips. In theory, I would be doing 3 sets of 10 reps. In reality, I could barely get all the way up and touch more than two times, and utterly failed to get to 10 partial sit-ups in one set. 3 sets? Fageddaboudit! My push-ups were from my knees and somewhat shallow. If I managed 5, that was good. You get my drift.

It took less time than I expected to see improvement. By the end of the summer, I was doing the full sets of sit-ups and was doing much better with the push-ups. Other things seemed to get easier as well. Unfortunately -- or fortunately, depending on how you see these things -- none of us are allowed to rest on our laurels. Once we can do one thing, we are challenged to do something more difficult. No one ever gets "there" because there actually is no "there." Kind of like what the bear saw when he went over the mountain! There is always an improvement that can be made.

An added bonus in this training experience has been the camaraderie of our small group. Sometimes it is a question of misery liking company. It is energizing, though, to be among people who have the same general goal in mind - in this case, the goal of maintaining and improving our overall fitness. We can encourage each other and commiserate over the difficulties. There are times when the upper arm work has been intense enough to make washing my hair a challenge for the next few days. We laugh about these things at our "afterglows" at Starbucks. Shared pain is a powerful binder. Okay, it's not damaging pain. It's a discomfort, a burn that says, "these muscles under construction."

As my strength has improved, those little inner voices became much less relevant. They don't know jack! I am sure that there are limits to what I can actually do, but I am not sure what those limits are. They are most certainly not as restricted as I used to think.

Now what?

[Check back later for "Now What? -- Part Deux" and thoughts on the joys of cycling.]

In which I introduce myself

Hello, Grosse Ile et al.! This is my first blog post and I find myself feeling quite nervous. Not about finding things to say, really.That has not ever been the problem. No, it's more a question of hubris. It seems to me to be a bit cheeky to think that anyone would be interested. Perhaps that will indeed turn out to be so. Just in case, however, I will take a shot at it. I am planning to share my thoughts and experiences about transitioning to retirement, reinventing myself at 60 and learning to live a less rigidly structured life -- Island Time.

My name is Toni Mann. My husband, Doug, and I have lived on Grosse Ile -- or is that in Grosse Ile? -- since March 30, 1985. Because our son was born on March 31, 1986, I often say "Eddie plus one" when asked. (The aforementioned Eddie has been known to roll his eyes when he hears this. Well, tough. The older I get, the more I see the value of any little memory trick I can devise.) Of those now 25 years, I have been employed full time for 23 and commuted at various times to Dearborn, to downtown Detroit and to Southfield. My favorite drive, however, was to the AutoAlliance plant in Flat Rock, a mere 4 or 5 miles. That was truly a dream of a drive, and I was sorry when that assignment ended after 4 and a half years. The change to Southfield was quite a shock. Suddenly I was leaving in the dark and getting home in the dark during more of the year than I cared for.

When Doug decided to retire in January 2007, I was envious. The plan in place assumed that I would continue to work until I was 62, another nearly 4 years. Those months stretched long ahead of me. I could see the light at the end of the tunnel for a challenging and interesting project and was casting around for what my next assignment might be. The more I looked, the more clear it was to me that there wasn't anything as appealing readily available. The most likely scenario was that I would work to retirement in the job I was in, but in a maintenance mode rather than a redesign. That, combined with the long commute, was a bit of a dismaying prospect. I called the financial planner and asked her to rerun the numbers for age 60. And then, after a particularly bad day, I asked her to look again, assuming I retired immediately. The numbers kept coming out in support of the earlier retirement. I gave my employer 6 months notice, since I knew it might be difficult to fill my position, and I retired effective July 1, 2008.

Since then, I have been indulging myself in a number of ways difficult to do when I had a full-time job with a long commute. These include cycling (love it!), running (not so much, although the events are fun), strength training (who knew there were actually muscles hiding there in my arms and legs?), church-related work (a black hole, it seems, that requires the volunteer to figure out where and how to draw the line), and community theater (2 appearances onstage, plus a foray into producing). The one goal I had for my retirement that has remained unaddressed is that of spending more time on my writing. This blog is an attempt to correct that omission. In the meantime, I can say in all honesty that I have not used an alarm clock more than a handful of times in the last two years. Busy as I am, I am living life on Island time, and it is sweet!