Thanks, coach

Racing season is upon us ...

After my second marathon, I had a chat with my coach last spring, and told him I'd like to work on my speed. I'd survived my first marathon, up and down and around the hills of Mt. Desert Island, Maine. On the flats of Long Branch, I finished my second in just under 4 hours. Now I wanted to go faster, over shorter distances -- half marathons. We put together a plan, and I spent a lot of time on the track, going round and round.

I had visions, of course. Visions of not just being faster, but of being fast. My coach, wise in these matters, parried my queries about how much faster I'd be with delphic answers: you'll be faster, he said. Encouraged, I ran the workouts, which were hard, and long. I got a little faster, but no one was going to confuse me with Frank Shorter. After several weeks, I humbly accepted incremental improvement. But I keep after it, and I'm faster. Coach was right.

How much faster? Yesterday I ran past one of those radar displays set out by the police to let you know you're driving too fast. Coming up on it I was wondering if I'd even register, or if it could display speeds so slow as mine. I was pleasantly surprised. We went back today to document my progress. Judge for yourself. [It is reading me -- not a car out of the shot -- or more correctly, misreading me.] 

Encouragement is where you find it.

Thanks, coach.

BeBop's Birthday Party

With 18 of her closest friends, BeBop (seen here reading one of her cards) celebrated her eleventh birthday yesterday. She received many thoughtful gifts, including a new eco-friendly (and green) collar, treats and chews and toys, and no doubt best of all, cheese. Somehow in the happy buzz of events, we didn't sing a chorus of  Happy Birthday, but that's probably because the lead singer -- who's 20 months old -- was taking her nap. 

A word about the cheese: Bop has a working vocabulary of 20 or 30 words. Some are obvious; "treat," "out," "walk," "ride," and some not so much; "ball" (this has faded with advancing age), 

"sit," "stay." And some she knows but chooses to ignore, most notably "come." But when she

 has  wandered off the lot and gone visiting down the street,  ignoring "come," the promise of "cheese" always brings her  running. So maybe this was a gift to us, her innkeepers.

Hard to say who had the better time: BeBop or her owners, the granddaughters. But I'll throw my hat in that ring -- I had a grand time. A gathering of family and friends, good food, good times. The Way Life Should Be.

Happy Birthday BeBop

Our little schnoodle begins her twelfth year today, going strong. She's lost half a step going to her left, but can still get air when she wants to. She doesn't want to quite so often, but I know a couple of moves that get her engine room making full steam.  Her ability to motor at high speed inspired this line in a song: "She's got two pairs of legs, but it seems like thirty-two."

She spent the day with our 20-month-old granddaughter, who likes to feed BeBop treats, and puts dogfood in the water dish. BeBop is followed, and petted, and searched for, and petted, and followed, and petted, and followed. She's patient with this, and with the occasional pokes and hair-pulling. When she's had enough she retreats to her impenetrable fortress beneath the bed, where small children can see her, but can't touch. 

On this sunny, cold day, the three of us went to the park. This seemed like a good idea, so I clipped BeBop to the leash, and bundled The Little One into the stroller, a jogging thing a bit past its prime with a front wheel that doesn't run true. We set off down the street, and I was feeling like a pretty good grandfather, pleased with myself, and having a grand time. 

Well, it turns out that it takes two hands to manage the stroller, which due to the front wheel problem wants to turn right only a little less than it wants to go forward. It takes one hand to hold the leash, which makes three hands and I have only two. But I'm a grandfather; I sort this out, and we get to the end of the block and turn the corner onto a busier street (that's bad), with a sidewalk (that's good) that's cracked and uneven (that's bad) from tree roots. I'm still managing, but it's not getting easier, and gets harder when I go left around a tree and BeBop goes right. We manage that, too.

Of course, as a grandfather I don't buckle The Little One into the stroller -- I can manage, right? and it would be too confining, and we're just walking, and what could go wrong? Well, here's what can go wrong. While dealing with the dog, the leash, and the tree, and the stroller that wants to turn right, The Little One decides she'd rather walk than ride and begins to climb out of the stroller. A twenty-month-old loose on two feet beside a busy street takes at least one more hand, and ... well, I don't have one more. So I scoop her up, turn around, and somehow herd the dog and the stroller back to the house, where I buckle The Little One into the car seat, put BeBop in the car, put the stroller in the garage, and drive to the park. This gives me hope that we do get smarter as we get older. Or at least we can, if we pay attention.

At the park, we have a grand time. BeBop romps, at high speed. The Little One and I head for the swings, and we try them all. We try them all facing the other way. We try the big ones with me sitting on the swing with Georgia sitting on me. Facing both ways. We take a break, and The Little One heads for the biggest slide, and climbs to the top. I wait at the bottom, thinking -- I have no idea why -- that she knows what she's doing. On top, looking down, she knows what she's doing, and it surely isn't sitting down and sliding down to me. So ... I go the wrong way up the slide, to encourage her, to educate her in the fine art of the slide. 

Remember, I'm a grandfather. I have no clue. So I crawl through the bars to the top, sit down, put The Little One in my lap and down we go. Great fun. Highly recommended. When it's your turn to do this, I suggest you wear shoes that will give you traction going up the slide, 'cuz you don't want to climb up the little ladder. We do this several times until we're good at it, and then return to the swings. BeBop watches patiently, and keeps an eye out for other dogs in the neighborhood. Her neighborhood, apparently.

Did I mention it was cold? After 40 minutes of revelry, we returned to the car and home. And warmth.  And I'm sure I saw BeBop smiling. I'm also sure she saw me smiling. She's a good dog. The best.

We'll have a party for her soon, with all the granddaughters. With a cake, and home-made (by the seven-year-old) treats. It'll be a time of happiness and appreciation, warm and loving. 

Where are the snows of yesteryear?

Two weeks ago we were in Maine, for the biggest snow of the season. In Maine, the biggest snow of the season is a big snow, 19" big. You can read all about it here,  and here. Be sure to read the comments, too. 

It turns out that in New Jersey, too, the biggest storm of the season is (or at least can be) a big snow, at least 12" big last weekend. After altering the world here, the storm rolled on up the coast and added another foot or two -- after awhile counting seems pointless -- to the accumulated pile in Maine. For an on-the-scene report, click here.

In Maine, winter is hard, and Mainers deal with it. The first snow that falls in November is likely to be the last to melt in, oh, April. It persists, and those who live there do, too. It more than persists, it accumulates. It's a trial, and can be a burden, even an overwhelming burden, if you let it. Snow is a condition of life there. It comes and stays for awhile. A long while. Snow, ice, sub-zero cold, wind ... deal with it. If you can't, don't go. It's a challenge some take on; it suits their need. Some endure. Some flee. Some prevail. And some are broken. Cabin fever is just another part of the deal.

The pictures here are of New Jersey, where icicles three feet long hung from the gutters, and where Life As Usual took a break for a day. We aren't as hardy, or perhaps hearty, as Mainers. And that's okay. Our trials are different, but with faint echoes: replace snow with traffic, which also persists and accumulates and (if snow is added) can become an overwhelming burden. You get the idea. 

Our snows are different: while storms can arrive in wintry blasts and blanket us in deep drifts, the smart money knows the snow can be relied upon to melt away quickly. We're different, too, knowing and relying on the nature of nature here. We weather the storm -- we duck, take a break, shovel out, spread some salt, move on -- gingerly at first. It's like this: our big storm knocked out Monday. Tuesday the roads were slippery and the traffic snarled (more than usual). Wednesday we were dealing with slushy puddles. Temperatures Thursday were in the 50s. Most of the snow departed Friday. And on Saturday I ran the Asbury boardwalk through crowds bigger than any I've seen in nearly 30 years. Snow here is a distraction, an interruption -- not a way of life, not an existential challenge. Life's for more than winter. An alternate point-of-view: Winter's nice to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there.

Before the storm, crocus were just beginning to appear in our front lawn, wee bursts of yellow and violet sprinkled on brown grass. The snow gone,  the crocus are still there, still small, and still glorious. They endure. They prevail, and in prevailing serve as pillars to prop me up, to help me endure and prevail.

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