PARIS, WEDNESDAY, OCT. 19
It’s 5:30 in the afternoon when we were shopping in the Lower Marais Farmers’ Market, and through the day, M and I have been close, taking pictures and for long hours, 11:30 a.m. jusqu’a 3:30 p.m. we’re writing, eating French onion soup, two coffees for me, Coca Light, coffee for M, bread/butter and jam, mostly working by la fenetre: two tables, four chairs. I’m on a high; M too – “Pooch” and “Centipede” – very far along in the latter. Encounter with an American woman married to a Frenchman at Café Panis, near Shakespeare & Co. (it’s still there!) along the Seine, and further south, Saint-Germain-des-Pres, where M will buy her waterproof pens, Faber Castell, although before that she will pick up a red wool hat for 10 euros, ridges and daisy decoration, and gloves too, a little Eiffel Tower for our pal at the neighborhood gym, then on to tourist row, a crepe beurre et sucre.
Running for Your Life: Training for Boston
So back at it. Blogging and marathon training. Not the New York City Marathon, which is only days away. (Don’t miss the excitement if you’re in the city. Last year I came home from an old boys’ reunion weekend to find a rockabilly street band still! playing at the ten-mile mark at Fourth Avenue and Center Slope three hours after the start for the walkers and the stragglers and the sheer gut-priders who were ambling past.) No, I’m up for Boston, my second attempt after coming up lame in 2011.
Running for Your Life: A Week’s Pause
For M, it’s October study days; for me time to be with her – and myself.
To recharge, begin new work, and finish old.
At times like this I think about a little boy whose longing for travel and adventure was represented by a boy’s palm-size stone that I collected from the laneway of a favorite uncle who lived eighty miles from my hometown of Owen Sound in a splendid place called Guelph.* I put that stone atop the bureau I shared with my brother T, and more than occasionally would pick it up and rub it, thinking about travel to not only Guelph but to other places that I could only hope would be as splendid.
To recharge, begin new work, and finish old.
At times like this I think about a little boy whose longing for travel and adventure was represented by a boy’s palm-size stone that I collected from the laneway of a favorite uncle who lived eighty miles from my hometown of Owen Sound in a splendid place called Guelph.* I put that stone atop the bureau I shared with my brother T, and more than occasionally would pick it up and rub it, thinking about travel to not only Guelph but to other places that I could only hope would be as splendid.
Running for Your Life: Pain Inc.
I’d like to think that after what happened to me earlier this year that I’ve learned my lesson. In March, only a month before my first Boston Marathon, I’m laid up with the Mother-Of-All torn hamstrings. The rip’s the size of a quarter just south of the right butt-bone. Today, a half-year later and I feel only the faintest of tugs back there; my range of motion as normal as it’s ever been.
Since then, getting back on my feet and on the road in June (a year after Thurb! came into our lives), I’ve been pretty much pain-free – outside of a sizzlingly hot July day on Fire Island when after about a nine-miler the forefoot pain returned, like what I suffered at the 10-10-10 Steamtown Marathon. But months later even that pain has eased and not because I have done anything different. Rather, I’m just staying to a steady pre-marathon training regimen, running a 1:05 with Thurb and without, depending more on his schedule than mine. (We both need to run, to shake out the cobwebs; I wouldn’t be keeping this blog, prepping a book proposal, preparing for travel, if I didn’t keep up with my running. Mind and body in sync. Keeping age at bay. At this point, almost effortlessly. What I see every morning in the hound. He’s raring to go. Start the day. Get up and run. Anything’s possible. Show me.)
Since then, getting back on my feet and on the road in June (a year after Thurb! came into our lives), I’ve been pretty much pain-free – outside of a sizzlingly hot July day on Fire Island when after about a nine-miler the forefoot pain returned, like what I suffered at the 10-10-10 Steamtown Marathon. But months later even that pain has eased and not because I have done anything different. Rather, I’m just staying to a steady pre-marathon training regimen, running a 1:05 with Thurb and without, depending more on his schedule than mine. (We both need to run, to shake out the cobwebs; I wouldn’t be keeping this blog, prepping a book proposal, preparing for travel, if I didn’t keep up with my running. Mind and body in sync. Keeping age at bay. At this point, almost effortlessly. What I see every morning in the hound. He’s raring to go. Start the day. Get up and run. Anything’s possible. Show me.)
Running for Your Life: Canada: A Visit
My brother T and my sister-in-law L are visiting from Canada (Sept. 29-Oct. 2). It’s been awhile since they’ve been in Brooklyn. Certainly more than a decade, but for busy-ness, this period of time has few parallels in life. Now, though, all our kids are grown, and needing us in different ways, so during our visit to Canada in the summer (See Running for Your Life: Canada!, posted July 28) T asked what weekend would work best for them to come visit in the fall, which turned out to be the one in brackets above, a week before my birthday (Oct. 5) when the tourist buzz at Brooklyn’s TKTS is down to a dull roar so that reasonably priced seats can be had for even high demand shows like “Billy Elliot” and “Anything Goes,” L is fine to go along with whatever during the weekend, enjoying everything in equal measure but she’s the one who picks Billy Elliot, so on Saturday morning T and I do the hunting and gathering, snagging a couple pair in the mezzanine, which for a dance extravaganza like BE was just the ticket, because it was an amazing show.
Running for Your Life: Relativity of Size
A lifetime ago, in January 1985, I'm standing among a large group of young Cuban students. The woman I was seeing at the time, a Yugoslav translator for Cuban authorities and a student of social revolutions, is running her hand casually through the locks of one particularly handsome boy in a way that seemed timelesss, without a tincture of self-satisfaction on her part, rather that it was the most natural gesture in the world.
It also was a time, the only moment in my life, in that sunny day crowd, when my less than normal North American size, 5’11” and low-150s, is well above the norm. Not just my height but my girth. I’m young myself, 29, but in this company like post-steroid Barry Bonds among his SF Giants teammates. My shoulders, hips and legs much bigger and thicker than the youngsters I see. They are skinny but healthy- and athletic-looking, slender reeds to a Louisville Slugger.
It also was a time, the only moment in my life, in that sunny day crowd, when my less than normal North American size, 5’11” and low-150s, is well above the norm. Not just my height but my girth. I’m young myself, 29, but in this company like post-steroid Barry Bonds among his SF Giants teammates. My shoulders, hips and legs much bigger and thicker than the youngsters I see. They are skinny but healthy- and athletic-looking, slender reeds to a Louisville Slugger.
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