Wake-Up Bomb

So I made one simple request of my fellow runner and colleague, Mr. E. Pendleton (by whose name some of my students refer to me, strangely enough. Yes, Mr. Pendleton. Whatever. They can call me whatever they want), and that was to call me in the morning at 5:30 to get me up and at'em for a morning run. Well, I woke to my alarm at 7:30. The no-show call was welcome, however, as I've been extremely tired this week, still recovering from my whirlwind vacation.

Today I went out and did a quick 4.5-miler, not having time to get in a longer run, what with the laundry, dishes, pie-making, and Peace Train-practicing (Yusuf Islam, formerly known as Cat Stevens, formerly known as Steven Georgiou, while arguably a freedom-hater - though not my argument, mind you - in recent years, was most certainly not in 1971 when this anthem was penned) that needed to be done.

You cannot tell me this dude wasn't practicing what he was preaching. Lest there be any doubt of his sincerity, take a gander at those boots and bracelet. If you're not getting the message with those duds, I don't know what will work. The name Cat Stevens is synonymous with "peace", got it?Note to the haters!: He's the SAME GUY, just in different threads and facial hair; what's inside hasn't changed. He's still performing 'Peace Train', for heaven's sake!

It was in the 30s this afternoon, so I was pretty comfortable on my run, and didn't have to wear as many layers. The black fleece hood I've been donning all winter is annoying as heck and makes me feel like a ninja. There are plenty of folks out there who think the world of ninjas; I do not. Didn't need to wear the fleece hood today.
Pie turned out just okay. What wasn't okay was the Hannaford brand all-purpose flour that I used. Let that be a lesson - don't buy store-brand flour to try to save a few nickles. Stuff is garbage. May as well've used sand.


Tomorrow there'll be no time for an after-school run, so an early am jaunt will be required if I have a prayer of running any spring marathons.

Pendleton, if you let me down this time, so help me...

Didn't think I'd live to see the day, or My Future Career as an Old-School Ski Pants Model

I don't think I'd been this excited about the announcement of a snow day since I was in high school. Scratch that - since college, wherein my friend Sam and I would become several degrees beyond ecstatic, prompting incoherent speech and seizures. Kid you not.

At the witching hour this morning - 5:37 - the phone that lay in bed beside me (I'd be lying if I said I wasn't anticipating such a call) rang. On the other end, the voice of an angel, in the guise of Dana Mitchell, greeted me: Good morhning, Heathah. We're gonna call this one off today.
Sweet deal! click. At Beatrice Rafferty School this year we haven't had what you'd call a barrage of cancellations due to foul weather, despite some pretty foul weather, and not even by my Maryland standards (by no barrage, I mean zero).
Normally I would've chucked the phone and resumed my sweet slumber, but the storyline of the aborted dream was going down a bad road: some truckstop shenanigans involving a good ol' boy trying to pick up my old friend, Elaine, at a lunch counter. Wasn't interested in seeing where that led, so the call was fortuitous in a multitude of ways. To top it off, I stayed up and got a jumpstart on my snowday, resolving to milk this for all it's worth.The view of US Route 1 outside my living room window. Lookin' good. The drifts out front are now taller than me.

Since I've been up for 4 1/2 hours already, I'm having a second breakfast, or mid-morning snack, of leftover Brussels sprouts. Not as good two days afterwards, but still nourishing to the point where I can physically sense the good they're doing. I'd worked up an appetite pushing open my storm door (which budged just enough to let me squeeze myself through to the other side), kicking about eighteen inches of snow off my sixteen steps, trudging through the - at times - knee-deep drifts around the perimeter of my building in search of a shovel that never presented itself, and carving out a narrow path to the dumpster so I could dispose of garbage. I'm thinking of walking the two miles down to the Mobil station to purchase another shovel so I can get myself out of here.My lot in life - no snow shovel.

On the up-side of this, it's given me an excuse to break out my mother's old bib overalls from circa 1978. She handed them down to me when I was in college, and I didn't think they'd still fit but, low and behold, they do. I'm just sorry I'd let them sit in my closet all this time. They're made by Saska Skiwear, a navy poly-cotton blend, made in Hong Kong. These are the things to which people are usually referring when they say stuff like, "Cute as a button," and I have a real affinity for just those things. And buttons. Really, though, if anyone has a pair of these kicking around gathering dust, I just ask that you send 'em my way (just put my name and address it to Easternmost Maine and it'll find me).
But oh! Behold! Are these not spectacular?
This little number is, without a doubt, the most flattering article I've sported in a long time. Look out.

Anyway, it ended up that I struck out to the Mobil station on my x-country skis. The conditions couldn't've been a whole lot worse; the snow was far too deep to support me, so I stuck to the shoulder where there was about an inch of slush. I would've fared much better had I walked. A friend of mine had kindly offered to come and drive me to get a shovel, dismissing my skiing excursion as a terrible idea: "No. No, no, no. You're going to ski back home with a shovel? How's that gonna work?" Fair enough. I let her come get me at the Mobil station which, incidentally, was out of shovels (similar availabilities at the Irving station and Curtis', the hardware store and garage). We ran into a fellow music teacher who apparently, when not puttering around in his VW Rabbit, drives a truck with a plow, and we were able to convince him to swing by my place and plow out my car (which got me thinking about a local coalition: Music Teachers for Snow-Free Driveways - no clever acronym, though).

I got out the car with no incident. Now I'm just trying to remember where I left my camera...

Taking 5

A slight exaggeration of the proverbial "5 minutes". I'd thought about making it five days, but I don't think that's necessary; I'll run tomorrow. Or cress-country ski (you heard right. Cress-country. See my brother's blog* for the origins of this), depending on what it continues to do tonight. One of my common side effects of sleep deprivation - so much worse than looking more horrific than any zombie in that 28 Days Later flick and compromised judgment - is the raging sore throat that sets in from the hours of 9 pm to about noon. I swear, I think it's going to close up on my completely while I sleep. I've been cramming handfuls of Riccola and Halls lozenges into my mouth since Friday; I think my teeth are rotting out of my head.

Anyway, no run today. I drove back to Maine on Friday running on a cool 3 1/2 hours of sleep (on top of very little I'd gotten during the week).
What it's like to leave Delaware.
The Gateway to New Jersey
The elusive Tappan Zee Bridge...I nailed it the second time around.

Still, I was good to go. Did I hit the hay as soon as I walked in the door late Friday night? Heck no! An even better idea would be to have a friend over, eat bear sausage and pop in a documentary on the pillaging of European artworks by the Nazis. "Catching up" on sleep was snoozing till 8:30 (about 5 1/2 hours of shut-eye); I tried in vain to go back to sleep, and my bed felt even better than usual, having been laid out like a board on the couch in my parents' den for the four nights prior, but it wasn't happening. Anyway, I slept through my 8 am alarm this morning till 9:30, dined on Halls, a pint glass of orange Emergen-C, half a grapefruit, leftover bear sausage, and a pot of oatmeal with blueberries and walnuts.

I'm buckling down on stencil designs and practicing guitar for my lesson on Wednesday, and playing around on my new 10-string guitar, the Santa Rosa Puerto Rican Quatro, whatever that means.
Peace, hon.
Illustration sample; West African Cinderella. The Days Inn ballpoint pen was the dopest drawing tool I've used in years.
Will you take a look at this bad boy? 10 strings!!!

The sky has gone white, ready to usher in the snowstorm that will, if the fates are so kind, extend my already blessedly long winter break to ten days. Here's a taste of my dinner, sans the bear sausage; that was the first to go down the ol' hatch. In case a departure of trend hadn't been detected, I'm turning this into a conglomeration of my interests. Yes, I do more than make halfhearted efforts to run in the dead of winter. In the spirit of competition (to go up against my sister's food blog), I offer you a glimpse into my culinary handiwork:
the simplest of breakfasts. So perfect. And no, I'm not on a diet.
Leftover brussels sprouts from last night's bear feast. I will make it my life's work to convert the world to believers in this delectable vegetable treat.
A melange of ginger, carrot, miso, Bragg's Liquid Aminos, edamame, cabbage, sliced almonds, hot sauce and brown rice. Awesome.


*It should be noted that my brother's blog is some of the best reading since Foucault's Discipline & Punish. Actually, I'm just a wee bit jealous. Do yourself a favor.

Running out of time

Things are getting down to the wire here in the Old Line State, as I'm planning on peacing out of here at the crack of dawn tomorrow, and I still have to bid farewell my sister, Jack and Gail, and T, who's driving them back to Pittsburgh and staying on there for a few more days, going to Baltimore to see a few friends, visit the new Amaryllis, the jewelry store where I used to work, now in a new location, and maybe grab a gourd of yerba mate at Red Emma's (see http://redemmas.com/). Tough day. Nevertheless, I took advantage of the killer weather (48 degrees!) but left my camera behind, as I was jacket-, and thus, pocket-less, so I couldn't capture some of the cloud and shadowplay on the pale yellow cornfields. I ran three miles at a pretty good clip - in just under 25 minutes which, for a pokey gal like me, is darn fast. Good luck with that Nor'easter up there in Maine, for those of you to whom that applies!

Speed workouts while dodging the Fuzz

I'm not going to get in a run today (terrible weather, music-playing on which I need to catch up, and a Hebrew words to write and send to my friend Bryan for some t-shirts) , which is why I'll comment on yesterday's run instead. My car started having muffler issues while I was still in Maine, and I wanted to get it taken care of while I was here in MD, so my brother, Taylor, and I dropped it off in town and ran home.
T at the start of the run home, near the corner of Center and Main Streets. I call this one "The Hisser".

It was a short run - no more than three miles - but running with Taylor helped me work on my speed. He's much faster than I am, and I'd brought along my camera to document the event, so I'd slow down to take pictures and would then have to sprint to catch up with him. I can feel the results of that workout today.

T approaching the pig, hidden oh-so-cleverly in the cluster of trees. We're not too keen on the local fuzz.

When we got back to the house we kept going and did a little meandering around the neighborhood, down along the creek that snakes its way through the outskirts of the development.

Terabithia. Actually just watched the movie Bridge to Terabithia this morning with my 14 year-old brother, Romka, who was home sick from school - his first sick day ever - and nephew, Jack.

It was a beautiful day in the upper 30s, and made being outdoors all the more pleasant. I love running around here, too; despite the sprawling patches of new houses, there's still so much open land.

So in addition to bro-ing down with T (he and I do not ever call one another by anything other than our first initials), I've been spending a lot of time with this one:
Gail, my niece, who smells faintly of spit-up. She's nothing short of lovely.

In the words of Ringo Starr, "It don't come easy!"

Get ready for this. Pop some corn, grab a pillow and blanket, maybe a box of Kleenex. It's a long one...

I got into my pre-packed car yesterday morning at 6:45, pumped for my day of driving the 700+ miles to my parents' house in Maryland. I had my latest mix cd ready to go (which, after the first 45 minutes of listening to Rufus Wainwright, did not leave the cd player. It will most likely be put in the archives and only be revisited thirty years from now when I'm feeling up for reliving my Winter Break Sojourn '09), some of my more perishable foods (a carton of strawberries, avocado, and two packages of Earthbound Farms mixed baby greens, all of which were had has finger foods), and a back seat of belongings that made it appear as though I was slipping out of Maine altogether. Take the money and run.

Officially "slipping out of Maine" via the Piscataqua River Bride into Portsmouth, New Hampsha.
I love bridges.

The night before I'd called my author friend down in Boston to set up a long-overdue and impromtu first-time face-to-face meeting since being employed by him as an illustrator for his children's books since November 2007. I was shooting for lunchtime in Boston, and made really good time all the way down, getting waylaid only when I was circling Bryan's decadent Back Bay neighborhood looking for a legal parking spot. In the posh locale, I wasn't about to chance it; my fifteen year-old car, perpetually caked in salt, bumper stickers and rusting around the edges, stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the clean luxury automobiles with their slick paint jobs. This was not time wasted; the buildings were lovely, enhanced even more by the spring-like day.

We had a delish lunch at a little bookstore-cafe a few blocks away, on the swank and illustrious Newbury Street. Afterwards, he showed me samples from his homemade t-shirt line, and I'm soon going to try my hand at creating some stencil designs for him to use on these shirts that will eventually be selling for $600 a pop at elitist boutiques (even in a recession, there are still those of us with half a grand burning a holes in our pockets; one-of-a-kind t-shirts will always be necessities). We're talking some pretty dope designs; on our walk we were bouncing around ideas: Communist-themes with images of Stalin and sickles and scythes! Judaica! I'm all over it. I dropped him off in South Boston for a t-shirt meeting, then got back on the road, anticipating dropping in on my unsuspecting family just before bedtime. Boy, was I ever wrong...

Having a premonition of things to come while exiting Beantown.

Connecticut was going by speedily until some hellish traffic around New Haven. While inching along, trying to stay conscious of the Ford bumper in front of me, I suffered an allergy attack in both eyes; they both started watering profusely, and the salination caused an intense burning sensation, forcing me to fling off my glasses (used primarily for night driving), alternate keeping one eye closed and frantically rubbing at them, fearing impending blindness. I imagined it all going down just like that: losing my vision on Gov. John Davis Lodge Turnpike and subsequently wrecking my car whereby the vast contents would be fished and pillaged out of the New Haven Harbor (I should've labeled the violin that belongs to Alice! Who would know to return it to her? ). "The Fight" came over me, and I grabbed my gallon jug of water, nearly empty, and splashed the rest into my eyes. Problem solved.

Slightly more clear than the way things were lookin' in New Haven.

Onto the Merritt Parkway, almost into New York. I called my brother, itching to unload my secret onto a trusted family member. I gave him a few hints: Stamford, I told him as I passed through that town, making an Office reference that he'd appreciate, if not totally understand. Then I told him that a friend of mine had been to my apartment at some point during the day - without my being there - to feed the cats. Still not clue enough. I'd been waiting till I approached the Tappan Zee Bridge, my New York City bypass, to drop that hint, but it never came, so I told him anyway. He got it that time. However, the TZ Bridge remained a phantom in the night. The scenery started looking unfamiliar; I wasn't recognizing the names of the service areas, and I no longer knew in which state I was. It got very dark and the service stations stopped appearing, as did all road signs. Medians were guarded, so opportunities for U-ies, even of the illegal sort, of which I am never opposed, were nowhere to be had. And then, hark! A green road sign, showing my distance to Albany, Buffalo, and Montreal! I was going in the wrong direction, too far north on Route 87, and the TZ Bridge was some 30 miles behind me. It was ages before I was able to turn around, well after traversing under the Appalachian Trail bridge spanning the highway, and a sign welcomed me to the Catskills. How did I let this happen??? I spun it around and high-tailed it back towards the city and got myself on that Garden State Parkway in short order. Though I regretted leaving my Boss cds at home (As a rule, I like to blast 'Born to Run', 'Thunder Road', 'Glory Days', and the rest of the catalogue while passing through the Springsteen State), I was, for all intents and purposes, home free...

NOT SO FAST!

Meanwhile, the little purple Civic had been rocking some pretty impressive fuel economy on its first major road trip. I'd last filled up in Yarmouth, Maine, and in NJ, was still trucking along pretty nicely. I needed to fill up again soon, but wanted to see just how far I could make it on a strictly highway trek. I'd exceeded 420 miles, but the needle hadn't yet gone into the red, so I figured I'd hit the next service area on the Turnpike. It'd been a while since I'd driven that route, and had forgotten the significant distance between the last two stops along that road. I was beginning to panic as I watched the miles tick by and the needle sink. A sign said 8 miles to the last service area, and another announced an exit in 2 miles. I was afraid to risk the exit, not knowing how far a gas station would be, and decided to stick to the Pike. With five miles left before my destination, the car began to lurch and stutter. OH NO! It began to slow on its own, and I veered onto the shoulder, putting on the hazards just for kicks. The worst case scenario would involve me pushing the little rice-burner the rest of the way - not a super-tall order considering all the pushing of my car I've done so far this winter. I had a buddy on the phone talking me through it, offering endless amounts of support as I was venturing into crisis mode. I could literally feel the hairs dropping out of my head. The car nearly came to a halt but then rallied, jerking back into forward motion; the fumes were coming to my aid like nobody's business. I was blessedly spared by the whisps of gas vapor that got me all the way up to the line of cars waiting at the Clara Barton Sunoco; with 480.4 miles on the odometer, Civic was pronounced officially out of fuel as I waited for the white Corolla in front of me to be full-serviced by one of the two attendants on duty. Submitting, I turned off the rest of the car and waited, ashamed and embarrassed for pushing my car to its limit. An attendant motioned for me to come around to the next pump and I screamed out the window that I was Out of gas! Not to worry; he came around and, with what seemed like his little finger, prodded me along as I guided it into place. My great-aunt had just called to check on my whereabouts since I'd told her I'd be home in the 11 o'clock hour, and I was still a good three hours away. She freaked out, as members of the older generation are wont to do when hearing that a young woman is traveling alone and is docked at a New Jersey filling station in the dead of night. It's okay, Jean, I reassured her. All filling stations in New Jersey are full service; I didn't even have to get out of my car! Still, she made me lock my doors just in case. The kindly attendant instructed me to turn back my key, turn it forwards, then back again, to engage the engine and help shift the gasoline - a nugget for which he was given a $10 tip. Could've used that $10, though, a few miles later. I lost my ticket (ie. I was sitting on it. I found it just as I got back up to speed) from the Turnpike and had to pay the highest fare of $9.50, and I had $7 cash in my wallet, so now I have a pending I.O.U. from the NJ Dept. of Transportation to pay. I stopped at the next rest area to hit up the ATM, barely escaped an altercation with a local ruffian who was standing closer to me than is comfortable when retrieving handfuls of cash from a machine, and it was the first I'd stretched my legs since Boston, 7 1/2 hours before. It was then that I realized I was tired, and considered bundling up in my L.L. Bean down jacket and hunkering down in the parking lot of the Delaware House for the night. But then my buddy called me back, we chatted excitedly about bluegrass music, albums inspired by Cormac McCarthy novels, books, then school, and suddenly I'd been sitting outside my parents' quiet and sleeping house for twenty minutes. It was 1:45 am.
I should go. I'm home now.

Yeah, you'd better go, or it's going to look like you're casing the house. Good call. Getting accosted by the neighborhood fuzz, as fun as that'd be to recount later on, might have been overkill.

I gathered up most of my things, silently closed the car door - Bruce Michael is the world's lightest sleeper - and let myself in the house. Worried I'd wake the folks, then my visiting sister and her two small children, I stealthily set up shop in the den, grabbed the afghan off the back of the living room sofa, brushed my teeth and washed my face and crashed out, dreaming of my folk group in Machias, of all things.

When I woke up, my mother had just opened the double doors, looking panicked. TAYLOR! I sat up on the couch, revealing my identity, that it was me and not my 19 year-old brother, that the purple car parked out front was not his black Toyota, and that he had not overslept and missed getting to work at Target at 6 am. I laughed hysterically at her reaction. Later, when my grandmother came upstairs to meet a visitor, I peeked around the corner. She said she thought she'd seen a ghost. Big surprises all around.

I like surprises.

It's a gorgeous day, I have a little of my sister's oatmeal and raisins in my stomach, and I'm thinking about a little less driving and a little more running...

La Saint-Valentin et les maisons jaunes!

Last night I dreamed that I was taking out my trash at dawn and discovered that all the snow had melted and it was 60 degrees outside. This illusion worked wonders for my level of motivation; still imagining spring-like weather and ignoring the flakes that had just stared whizzing through the air (dandelion! milkweed! tornado!), I geared up and tried out my new Frisby wireless mp3 player headphones* for the first time. I first had to dislodge my car that had slid down my driveway into a pile of blue barrels from the marine research lab next to my building. All week my driveway has been a solid sheet of ice, exacerbated by the rain and slightly warmer temperatures this week. I came home this morning and my car, despite my efforts to turn the wheel and sail into my usual parking position, kept heading downward. So pre-run, I went out with a box of kitty litter and made myself little tire paths to get myself back up the incline. Worked like a charm.

So I was off, feeling light and happy, tunes, a little too loud, flowing into my ears. Old County Road, the back road that leads into the town of Pembroke, was still pretty dicey, but given the light traffic was able to run down the center of the road pretty freely. Blizzard conditions had set in, and I watched as the snowflakes began accumulating on my legs. Good thing I wore my hood today. Into about the third mile, I noticed that the clouds and snow were moving, making way for blue skies and sunshine. I was noticing all the houses along the way, looking cozy and wintry, particularly a yellow house I've always fancied, sitting in a wooded section of Garnet Road, a route I use for my longer runs (9 miles out and back). Later on, I could see my landlord's massive house across the bay - another yellow abode - and realized the joy that comes from seeing the color yellow on a winter day. I was thinking, too, about it being Valentine's Day, a holiday I don't celebrate or take seriously, but kind of like, nevertheless. I think it's the time of year, and was just glad to be doing what I was doing. The music was great company, and I was finding it surprisingly easy to do the first 4.5 miles (infinitely less taxing than the 4-milers I'd been doing at the gym), and decided to tack on a little more distance. I just went out and clocked the total mileage in my car: 10.7 miles! Part of me could've gone on for another six or seven miles, but in the interest of productivity, I figured I'd call it a day and just be thankful for a great, substantial run! Happy V-Day!



*Thank you, Dana Mitchell, for assisting me in loading some songs from my computer onto this device. I'm decidedly incompetent when it comes to making sense out of technological contraptions. And thank you, Boot, for suggesting this ingenious and invaluable gadget; I don't know how I made it so long before this...

Derailed

Last night I should've come prepared to run at the gym after school, but I was unsure of the evening's plans and opted to go home, clean, and bide my time. I ended up playing guitar and fiddle, working on some harmonies for a sweet li'l murder ballad we're doing in the folk group, and watering all my plants (a bigger chore than one may imagine). No time for a run tonight, and a morning run was, as usual, out of the question. A friend has been trying to coerce me into participating in tomorrow's "Hearts Warming Hearts Bikini/Speedo Run" in Eastport. Never going to happen. Last thing I was going to do this week was canvas around town getting peoples' pledges so I could run down Water Street to the Happy Crab in my bathing suit. Sometimes I can be a sensible gal, and I know that mid-February in downeast Maine is not the time (nor is downtown Eastport the place) to be breaking out the two-piece. In any event, according to weather.com (which I've found to be possibly the most unreliable source of weather predictions; I'd be wise to save myself the trouble poking around on the internet and just consult my ailing cat), it's going to be a balmy 29 degrees tomorrow, so I do plan on running outdoors. Just going to keep my clothes on.

Full Day!

As tired as I was all day, I still willed myself (happily) to put in another 4 miles on the treadmill tonight. Long day at school, a too-quick guitar lesson (but learned a lot of good technical stuff that will serve me well with folk-picking), two productive piano lessons in Jonesport, and sitting in my old professor Gene's coffee house performance (complete with ukulele and musical saw cameos) while getting to talk shop about folk group happenings with some of my classmates. Feeling completely elevated, I took advantage of the surge of energy and hit the gym till it closed. Not as many miles as I'd have liked, but it was fine. I'm in a really good place in my life now and am finding running is a perfect accompaniment for transferring and balancing all of the areas of my life. Just perfect.

Reemergence!

I put in a cool 4.11 miles immediately after school today. Didn't even make it home; instead I tried out for the first time the fitness center on the reservation by my school. Not too bad. Better than the gym at the college in that there were no annoying college girls yammering away about when they're going tanning, and the heavy metal playing was EXPONENTIALLY more appealing than Border 102.9. And the convenience was a big plus. Can't do it tomorrow as I've got to meet a friend for dinner before our folk band class tomorrow night, though I'll see if I have time after class to hit the gym before it closes at nine. I'll come prepared...

Feels great to be back. Just got home, took a shower, and I'm heading to the boys' basketball game.