Marathon Madness in Millinocket

When I told my friend Tasha that Nels, without my permission, signed me up for a half-marathon (while he ran the full) in Millinocket, Maine in December, she said, “You tell Nels you’ve had a good run together for 25 years, but that’s grounds for divorce.” 

Of course she was kidding.  However, as I plowed uphill on snowy footing that felt like running on a beach with 19 degree wind biting my face, I contemplated her recommendation.  

I wore four layers and yet was sure my frozen pinkies would fall off only to be found by an intrepid moose seeking protein to add to his herbivore diet.  Since the first half of the race was uphill and on difficult terrain, I felt no shame in walking with many of my racing sisters and brothers.  A man in a banana suit trotted ahead, beyond my reach. I suppose it is an existential question: are you really racing if you’re walking, the water stops all have shots of Fireball, Kahlua, and/or McGillicuddy's, and you can’t catch a banana?  

While I didn’t imbibe (some Rhode Runners would be ashamed of this choice) for fear that I would lose whatever mojo I had left, it was fun to see runners enjoying the spirits, as it were.  At the starting line, I had asked some locals how they were able to deal with living in such a cold place, and provided a possible list: was it snow sports like skiing or perhaps sitting by a warm fire? No, they replied. We like to drink. Things were starting to make sense.

During the second half of the course, my attitude perked up: pavement appeared and we turned downhill.  When you see signs like “Snotcicles are sexy” and “Speed limit...slow” and “I just farted, run faster,” who wouldn’t be encouraged?  Lightheartedness was prized over competitiveness, and the residents cheered us on with the aforementioned alcohol, accompanied by everything from hot dogs to bacon cheeseburgers to cookies.   My speed went from glacial to merely slothful.  I finally saw the guy in the banana suit again, and decided my goal was to beat him. However, when he stopped for selfies and shots of maple syrup at mile 12, my victory rang hollow.

It wasn’t until I changed my clothes and came back to the finish line to pick up what would be left of Nels (the full was two loops of this challenging course), that I realized something important. Sure, marathoners were finishing, but there were also groups of 3-4 people in half-marathon bibs straggling along, brightly smiling. Apparently, some smart and enterprising folks figured out that this is an opportunity for an outdoor pub crawl, and they walk the entire course doing shots along the way.  

And then I saw Nels looking reasonably strong as he ran the last several hundred yards. I ran with him carrying two muffins given to me by a student group that was closing up shop. He finished with dignity and then tried to get into the backseat of the Equinox, which took about 10 minutes. Luckily I’m patient and had those muffins to eat. 

1273 people ran the half marathon and 186 ran the full (several finished in the dark--which shows their tenacity or insanity, I’m not sure which).  This was definitely the hardest race we have ever done, and yet it was also the friendliest with the best run support.  Do I recommend other runners try it?  Yes, but definitely try to stay in town or plan to spend time there to shop, eat, and drink local. The race is free and the whole town turns out to support the runners. The dedication, planning, and sheer goodheartedness made the brutal conditions worthwhile if not exactly enjoyable.  Will I run this again?  Maybe if that guy lends me his banana suit. 

Fee and Fluffhead

Shelley and I trotted across Boylston Street to the dog park.  I saw many of the Saturday morning regulars, humans carrying coffee cups and phones, dogs straining at leashes.  I looked for Fee, one of my favorite playmates.  We met at Buzzard’s Bay animal shelter where he taught us how to show sad puppy dog eyes and wag tails when prospective humans came around.  He’s easygoing and smells better than most dogs.  Luckily, his human, Barry, brushes his fur but doesn’t make him go to the dog groomer.  Those perfumy smells make me sneeze.  Shelley learned that long ago, so she doesn’t make me go any more.  And Doug never did care.  She says he’s coming home soon from Afghanistan, but I have no idea what that means.  My concept of time doesn’t seem to match hers.  When she says we will be going for a walk “soon” it seems to take three years.

“Yo, Fluffhead!  What’s up?”  Fee trotted over and gave me a sniff.  I could see him back off a bit.  “What’d you eat last night?”  he asked.  I was busy sniffing him as well to see what he had been up to the last couple of days.  “I was afraid you’d notice,” I said.  “I couldn’t resist getting a ham sandwich out of the garbage and forgot she had just thrown away Clorox cleaning wipes.” 

“Dude, you better roll around in some dirt.  That shit is nasty.  Follow me.”  And we were off, me chasing him across the field.  He’s fast, so I had to concentrate and not get distracted by the dogs who were playing tag with some humans.  I’m not a ball chaser, which used to disappoint Shelley, but she’s gotten over it.  Doug would get upset about it and talk to me as if I was stupid.  Then I would just lie down and look sad.  He couldn’t resist that, and then I would get a treat.  Fee definitely taught me well.

 Of course, it’s different if Shelley throws rocks in the water.  I love going for a swim in the Charles.  Fee says it’s dumb to chase something you can’t ever get and plus the river is gross, but I’m less sensitive than he is.  He’s all Mr. Natural, just like Barry, only eating organic food and making fun of me for getting into the garbage.  Maybe that’s why he can run faster too, but I blame genetics.  Whenever anyone asks Shelley what I am, she says a peekapoo-poodle mix.  Fee is mostly poodle, but I swear he has some border collie in him with his long nose and bossy instincts. 

“Here, Fluffhead,” Fee said, directing me to a dirt patch underneath a tree.  “Shelley’s gonna be pissed,” I answered, as I dropped on my back in the dirt.  It felt so great!  I could also smell that cleaner on me, so I was glad Fee had this idea.  It’s just that the ham sandwich was so delicious, especially now that I’ve had to go on a special diet.  Less food, and the new “light” variety is virtually tasteless.  I was about to ask Fee if he knew how to open cabinets or refrigerators, when I saw that he was honed in on the group playing tag. 

“Did you see that guy?  He completely kicked that ball away from Queen B,” he huffed, showing his side teeth like he always did when he became irritated.  “Just because you have a crush on her doesn’t mean you need to get in the middle of this,” I cautioned him.  Fee was always trying to break up fights and make sure dogs played fairly.  He also had a thing for Queen B, who, I had to admit, was an elegant retriever mix who smelled like fresh grass with just a hint of meat.  I liked her too, but I knew she was out of my league.  “Fluff, I’m going in.  Stay here.” 

“You’re an idiot,” I said, trotting after him.  After all, I may be short, fat, and lazy, but I am a good friend.  Fee zoomed toward the guy with the ball who kicked it toward him.  Fee nosed it away and toward Queen B, who scooped it up and ran to the other side of the park, Fee chasing her. The human yelled, “Hey, that’s my ball!”  Fee just turned around, wagged his tail, and barked twice, both acknowledging the guy and ignoring him.  He was that kind of dog. 

For the Love of Loitering

I.

Who shall I be today?  Poet or scholar?  Please, not the administrator.  While I prize my executive functioning, it’s also exhausting.

Ross Gay writes a meditation on the relationship between productivity and consumption in an “essayette” (his word), titled “Loitering” from The Book of Delights:

The Webster’s definition of loitering reads thus: ‘to stand or wait around idly without apparent purpose,’ and ‘to travel indolently with frequent pauses.’ Among the synonyms for this behavior are linger, loaf, laze, lounge, lollygag, dawdle, amble, saunter, meander, putter, dillydally, and mosey…All of these words to me imply having a nice day.  They imply having the best day.  They also imply being unproductive.  Which leads to being, even if only temporarily, nonconsumptive, and this is a crime in America…(p. 230, italics in original). 

One of Henry David Thoreau’s most famous quotes is “It is a great art to saunter.”  I have always been jealous of how he spent his days.  He worked all morning, ate lunch, and then went exploring in the afternoon.  He didn’t walk with purpose, looking straight ahead and trying to burn a certain number of calories, go a certain number of miles, or take a certain number of steps.  Instead, he ambled, perhaps even loitered, over plants, insects, rocks, gullies.  He observed, he took notes, he sat down and watched the light change perspective as the sun moved across the sky.  He didn’t worry about productivity or accountability, but instead let his curiosity lead him.  In today’s world, some take what Tiffany Schlain calls a tech Shabbat.  But I want more than a break.  I want to be drawn to something.

II.

Out of exhaustion, or stubbornness, or just plain resistance, I decided to be gloriously unproductive last Friday afternoon.  I poured myself a fizzy water, grabbed my book, and headed outside to read.  A Pure Heart by Rajia Hassib is about two Egyptian sisters, Rose and Gameela, who defy convention in different ways.  When Gameela is killed in a terrorist attack by someone she knows, Rose tries to find out why and how this happened.  Interestingly, we, the readers, hear from the terrorist and Gameela, so we know more about their motivations and perspectives than Rose, even at the end.  As a reader, I felt entrusted with important information even as it was difficult to watch Rose struggle to come to terms with her sister’s death. 

After finishing the book and making bars that are more like cookies because I substitute chocolate chips for cranberries, I headed out to walk in our nearby cemetery.  As a runner, it feels wrong to be walking when I could be running, so I usually stride briskly.  This time, though, I took a hint from Ross Gay, ambling through the grass and taking time to read headstones.  I found bizarre inconsistencies of stone and sentiment even within the same family plot.  Why did Julia have a column when the rest of the family had square headstones with full names and dates?  Why did some of the benches have script on the top and others on the sides?  What does the giant pink piece of quartz resting on a cement pedestal signify?  And who put the bowing, prostrate monk figurine there?  And isn’t it lucky that no one has taken it, smashed it, moved it? 

III.

The headstones contain narratives, not so much of the dead, but of how their descendants wish the dead to be remembered.  I wondered, then, about Rose in A Pure Heart.  Like many of us, she saw people and events through her specific lens, inventing stories to make sense of tragedy, to make it tolerable.  Knowing the thinking of killer and victim is key to the reader’s understanding of what happened, yet Rose did not have that access.  It’s a reminder about accepting our lack of omniscience.  We simply don't know why people do what they do, instead inscribing our own motivations or wishes onto theirs.

IV.

Cemeteries brim with possible stories, so they are ideal for loitering.  Would it be more or less interesting if I knew the stories behind Julia’s headstone, the monk, or the giant pink quartz?  I am happy that in some aspects of my life, I can bask in my poet-self instead of my scholar-self or administrator-self.  Gloriously unproductive, I wander around, lost in my imagination, delighting in “the best day.”