Bruised

My hometown has had a tough time over the last year. Summer isn’t even here yet and we’ve already had a major brawl in a public park that left one young man dead. There have been multiple pedestrian deaths, shootings, and overdoses. In recent months we’ve become deeply divided by a vote over a proposed casino. This past Friday, 170 teachers were laid off—that’s right one hundred seventy.  If Brockton were a person, she’d need a hug and a double shot of whiskey. 

I’ve lived here my whole life and I’m no stranger to strings of bad news like this. Poverty and crime are a daily struggle for many in Brockton. But there are always moments—moments  that stick in my head and make me think maybe this place isn’t so bad after all. I witnessed a moment like that today. 

Every Saturday in the Spring and Fall there are kid’s road races at the local park. It’s a volunteer-run program. More than 100 kids show up every week, pay a dollar, and run. It’s a 2.2 mile loop through a wooded park. A lot of parents run with their kids (I do, but I get left in the dust—I am NOT faster than a 5th grader). For those that don’t, there is a path through the woods that leads to the 1/2 way point in the race. You can cheer your kids as they start the race, cheer them half way through, and get back to the finish line so you can see them cross. I love the kid’s road races. It’s outdoors, low-tech, lots of fun, inexpensive, and run by people who really care—just what a town like Brockton needs more of. 

I was running with my older son Owen this morning. James and his dad were way ahead of us. We had passed the half-way point when a boy in near us stumbled and fell. He landed hard, face down. Owen and I, and a couple of other adults and I checked on him. There was a nasty abrasion on his knee and blood trickled down his leg. One women offered to walk him back to the parking lot through the short cut. But he shook his head and said he wanted to finish the race. He started jogging really slowly—obviously in pain and holding back tears. Periodically I looked back to check on him. Sometimes he was walking, sometimes he was jogging, but he never stopped. 

He met up with his brother and they crossed the finish line together shortly after Owen and I did. The concern on his parents’ faces was obvious. I went over to them and told them how brave he was—how he got right back up, determined to finish the race. The concern on his dad’s face turned to pride and he said to me, “He’s very strong.”

That little boy is Brockton. Bruised and bleeding, but strong enough to keep going. 

Cheap Therapy

            Yesterday was one of those days. I had signed the kids up for a sports camp all week so I could work day shifts at my job. I wouldn’t be making much money—but I really prefer working days to nights and the financial trade off seemed worth it to me. We have a great summer program run through the school system here. The kids can choose from six different sports and the cost is very reasonable.

Then my car broke down Wednesday night while Owen and I were shopping for a birthday present for James. I had it towed to my mechanic and called my manager to say I wouldn’t be at work the next day. I felt a little guilty because we’re really short staffed right now, but I didn’t see an alternative.

            My neighbor was kind enough to lend me her car to bring the boys to camp. I was a nervous wreck—my car is a ten-year-old Windstar with 111,000 miles on it. Her car is a Jaguar that has half the miles and is rarely used to transport juice box wielding little boys.

            It took most of the day for the mechanic to figure out what was wrong with the car. It wouldn’t stall out for him so he had to keep taking it out to drive. Finally in the afternoon he called to say it was the cam sensor and it would cost about $400 to fix. That’s the second $400 repair bill in less than two weeks. Also, the part wouldn’t be in until the next day, which meant another day of missed work unless I rented a car.

            I called around and renting a car would cost me slightly more than I would earn if I went to work on Friday. I made another guilt-ridden call to my manager and explained the situation. I was feeling worse and worse. I couldn’t shake that “everything sucks” feeling that had taken over my brain. I had put out around $280 to send the boys to camp so I could work this week and I only ended up working six hours. Plus I had a $400 repair bill on my hands.

            My husband came home from work a little early so he could pick up the kids from camp. He asked me if I wanted to go to the gym after dinner. No, I didn’t want to go to the gym. I wanted to wallow on the couch with some chocolate ice cream and watch old episodes of Dr. Who (my current obsession) on Netflix. But I couldn’t be a slug in the face of Dan’s dedication to fitness, so I grabbed my iPod and laced up my Sauconys after dinner.

            Dan went to kickboxing, which is really intense and held in an un-air-conditioned gym. I’m not quite as insane dedicated as he is so I went to the nice cool fitness center and found a treadmill. I jogged for the first ten minutes or so wishing I had never left the couch. My foot hurt, my knees ached, and even with air conditioning I felt hot. I pushed myself to stay on the treadmill and slowly started to unwind. My body warmed up and stopped aching. The tension came out of my body along with the sweat. I started putting things in perspective.

            So, my car was broken down. It happens. I was missing work. But I had a job to go to in the first place. I was paying for the kids to go to camp. They were having a great time and I had managed to get a few things done around the house. I was going to feel like I owed favors to the coworkers who were covering for me. Big deal—what goes around comes around.

            By the time I had been on the treadmill for 45 minutes I was calmer and happier. I started working out to be thinner and stronger. I stick with it for what it does to my mind and spirit. I don’t make time for exercise as often as I did when my boys were younger. But I’m always happy when I do. Besides, I still managed to watch a little Dr. Who and I didn’t need the ice cream anymore.

Back in the Saddle

            Friday was both warm and sunny—a double blessing after a very snowy and sickness prone winter. So after I walked my boys to the bus stop I took a jog—the first outdoor run since before Thanksgiving. I don’t wear headphones when I run outdoors. I use them on a treadmill because it SO boring and the music makes me feel a little less like a hamster in a wheel. This is primarily for safety—so I can hear cars and possible assailants (unpleasant but realistic). When my only accompaniment is the sound of my landing feet and the world around me I focus on my thoughts and sort through them. It’s like a sweaty appointment with a therapist.

            If you’ve been reading this blog for a while you might remember that back in January I made the foolhardy announcement that I going on a diet. I figured making that announcement public would keep me honest. I knew making a resolution was silly. I believe that January is the worst possible time to make drastic changes in your life. Especially this January. Like a lot of the country we had record snowfalls and on top of that my kids managed to catch every bug that hopped onto the school bus. I spent more time talking on the phone with the school nurse than my mother this winter. 

            With the snow piled high and the kids constantly sick the idea of eating healthy or limiting portion size was a pipedream. When they were home on February break they wanted nothing but toast or chicken broth with pasta. So that’s what we ate—all of us. Even when I wasn’t sick (because even though Mom can’t get sick, this time around, Mom did) I was drinking tea and eating toast. Salads? Fresh steamed veggies? Lean protein? Fruit? Nope. Tea and toast.

            So when the weather man said that it was going to be sunny on my day off, I promised myself to lace up my Sauconys and hit the road. I started with a long brisk walk. I needed to warm up after being so sedentary for months. Then I told myself to jog to the end of the street. When I made it that far I set another goal and then another. When it was done I rewarded myself with a long slow stretch. I felt great. My body felt the way it was supposed to, not like the achy elderly feeling woman I was morphing into.

            I’ve packed on a winter layer this year and it’s time to bid it goodbye. My plan this time isn’t to drastically alter my life, and make unrealistic resolutions. This time I’m going to set one simple realistic goal at a time.

My Favorite Holiday

            This may be my favorite holiday of the year. No, not Black Friday. I wouldn’t venture to a mall on this sacred day if they were giving out dates with Russell Crowe and Viggo Mortensen (well maybe for Viggo). Today is “National Buy Nothing, Drink Tea and Wear Sweatpants Day” in our house. I’m absolutely thrilled that it’s a rainy day here. If I were inclined to go outside, I’d probably find the weather miserable. But since going outside would involve putting on shoes, I’ll skip it. 

            Yesterday was a marvelous and manic Thanksgiving Day. I got up at 4:30 to head to New Hampshire where much of my family lives. I intended to be up by 5:00 but that OCD of mine kicked in early. By 6:00 we were packed, gassed up, and had made the requisite stop at Dunkin’ Donuts and were on the road.

            I ran the 37^th Annual Greater Derry Track Club Turkey Trot with a few members of my family. It was, as we say here in New England, wicked fun. They are all much faster than I am. My brother Jim, nephew Jack, niece Annie, and husband Dan all crossed the finish line10 minutes or more before I did. But I finished—with no passing out, vomiting or injuring myself. So I call it a success. 

            After showering and doing a little baking in my mother’s kitchen we headed over to my sister Katie’s house. After devouring enough Brie en croute for a small city in France (not to mention proscuito, red wine, salami, and gorgonzola-walnut spread) and waiting for the football game to be over (GO PATS!) dinner was served. Katie and her family had ingeniously put together tables in the living room in such a way that all twenty of us could sit down at one large t-shaped table. Having a kids’ table would be torturous to some members of our youngest generation who are rapidly turning into adults. I would love to show you a picture of the set up, but I was having so much fun I didn’t take my camera out all day.

            Somehow we all managed to leave room for dinner—potatoes, squash, turnip, stuffing, cornbread, sweet potato bacon biscuits, peas (I think there may have even been turkey and gravy). As a family, we aren’t big grace-sayers, but my lovely sister-in-law Kim raised her glass at the beginning of the meal to give thanks for our wonderful family. I looked around and thought about how true that was. Not only do I love everyone who sat at that table, but I genuinely like everyone who had gathered. What a blessing! As much as I enjoyed the meal, it was the warmth and companionship I enjoyed most of all. Long after the plates had been cleared we continued to sit and talk. If it weren’t for our long drive home, I could have stayed for hours more. My boys were teary-eyed when we told them it was time to say goodbye to their cousins.

            So today is marvelous and mellow day. Leftover cornbread for breakfast followed by a day of reading, playing games with the kids, a little writing, and maybe an afternoon cuddled up watching a movie together. After that I’ll be spending a little time in the kitchen whipping up a batch of tortilla soup (perfect dish for a rainy day) and another apple pie (I was just too full to fully appreciate my favorite dessert yesterday). I wish you all a happy and unproductive “National Buy Nothing, Drink Tea and Wear Sweatpants Day”.

It isn't Thanksgiving without a chorus or two of "Alice's Restaurant"

Run Vickie! Run!

            I’m a runner. That sounds weird to me. I didn’t start running until well into my thirties. I wasn’t a high school or college athlete. The last time I played a team sport was intramural basketball in the 5^th grade. Some of my former teammates read this blog. Maybe they can tell you about the only basket I ever made—into the wrong net. Who knew you changed sides at the half (everyone but me apparently)? If I hadn’t been the shortest girl in school my athletic skills still would have been lacking. One might even say hopeless. Even though sports were a mystery to me I was in pretty decent shape. I danced and did Jane Fonda’s workout daily during high school—sometimes twice a day. I guess that’s why I stayed under 100 pounds. I was a little obsessed. I didn’t even know I was thin. There is no skinny like teenaged skinny and there is no stupid like teenaged stupid (apologies to my nieces of that age who are a thousand times smarter than I was back then).

            This week I realized that the running shoes that I bought right after the kids went back to school in September were still looking really new. I think they had only been on my feet once or twice. Not coincidentally, I noticed that my church clothes were uncomfortably tight around the waist. I try to avoid stepping on scales—it makes me crazy, but I knew I had packed on a few pounds. The holidays are rapidly approaching and this is no time to diet. Who am I kidding? Diet—is there a good time to diet? It’s time to rev up the old metabolism. So on Wednesday, I strapped on those still-shiny Saucony running shoes and headed for the Y.

            I got a lot of “Gee we haven’t seen you in a while” sort of comments from the folks at the gym. I work out in the middle of the day so almost everyone else there is a retiree. They are a chatty bunch and they seem to like me. I think they think I’m funny—watching a tiny girl lift heavy things makes them laugh. Plus, I find it very motivational to see old people running and lifting weights. I figure, if they can get there I have no excuses. One day I ran into my uncle (great uncle actually) when I was on my way out of the Y. He said, “I come here every day and I’m 87 years old.” I said to him, “You’re 87 years old because you come here everyday.”

            So I picked my favorite treadmill—second one from the right and pressed manual. I set the incline on 0.5 and the speed at 3.5 to warm up. I popped in my ear buds and started walking.

            At 3.0 minutes I started getting bored. Was it time to up the speed? Surely I don’t need to warm up that much. But I kept walking until after Darius Rucker finished his first song.

            At 5.14 minutes I upped the speed and started jogging. “Wow,” I thought to myself. “It’s been a while.”

            At 6.14 minutes I thought, “Maybe I should have walked for longer.”

            At 7.32 minutes I thought, “Damn, my knees hurt. Maybe I should walk for a while.”

            At 9.02 minutes I thought, “Okay, I’m almost to ten minutes. When this song is over I’ll let myself walk.” But the next song was “Sin Wagon” by the Dixie Chicks. I can’t walk during that song—it’s a running song if ever there was one.

            At 15.17 minutes I thought, “Hmm… that wasn’t so bad. Too bad this sports bra was designed by someone who had never been the victim of gravity, aging or a nursing child. I think I can make it through one more song.”

            By minute 18 or so I reached that runners high people talk about. Those endorphins start pumping and you feel really good. The trick is to get there. Before I was a runner, other runners had told me the first mile was the hardest. It got easier after that. I didn’t believe them until I pushed myself beyond a mile. Once you get to that mile, you want to get to another one and another one. Something might hurt—but it doesn’t bother you enough to stop.

            So I ran that day for about 40 minutes. I talked myself into sticking with it, one song at a time. Each moment my body made some excuse for me to stop, but I talked myself into running for one more song until I didn’t want to make excuses anymore. I managed to run a little over three miles. It wasn’t my best time, but I did it and I felt great.

            A lot of things are like that in life: starting a new job, cleaning the attic, teaching a child to ride a bike, directing a play. It’s always the beginning that is difficult and scary. Once you make some progress and find your rhythm it all comes together. You just need to ignore those aches and pains (whether they are physical, psychological or emotional) and keep on running. You’ll get there.

My fantastic coach and husband with me at my first race. He graciously agreed to run at my beginners pace.