My Mother, The Runner

My mom came up over the weekend to visit. Friday night, she said those dangerous four words..."I've thought about running." There is little more that sparks an interest in me than a conversation about running. If you are a new runner considering the sport, I see you as a "project", a person I can dump all my life-lessons onto and mold and train to grow to love running as much as I do. If you are a seasoned runner, I see you as my Yoda, my Mr. Miyagi...someone I can learn from and strive to be like. Either way, I usually leave the conversation thinking "That was Great! How inspirational!" and the other lucky person leaves, thinking "God Almighty, I thought she'd never stop".

As soon as the word left her mouth, I had shoved my favorite running book into my mother's hands, pointing out my favorite sections...how to start running, what to wear, what shoes do you need. Turns out, she needed a good pair of shoes. We decided on cross-trainers, as she wasn't exactly sure if she would enjoy running that much, and would then opt for walking. I instructed her on the different between walking shoes, running shoes, and cross-trainers, and Saturday morning, we were up and out the door headed to buy my mother shoes.

And 24 hours later, there we were...following the running book's advise. It advises new runners to start out running 2 minutes, walking 2 minutes, and doing that 7 times in a session, and do four sessions throughout Week 1. Week 2 increases the running minutes to 3 minutes, Week 3 moves it up to 4 minutes, and so on. So we were doing the first session of Week 1...run 2 minutes, walk 2 minutes.

Despite jokes about insurance card locations and how my route took us by a cemetery, she did really good! We completed the workout, she pushed herself, and I think she impressed herself with how she did. After a quick talk about the importance of rest days, we rewarded ourselves with a jump in the pool.

So if you have a spare moment (this does not include you, Mother), please leave a comment of encouragement for her. She reads this regularly, so if someone else runs across this, let her know you are behind her and she can do this!

However, if she starts beating my time, we'll have to have a discussion about who's the teacher and who's the student...

The Neighbors Must Be Crazy

Man's greatest invention? The swimming pool.

This week has not been a very runner-friendly week, due to life sort of getting in the way. Between thunderstorms, loan-closing appointments, and family members with no power staying over, getting up at 5:30 hasn't been my priority.

Because of this, I had to get up and do something this morning. However, I knew it would be rough to get a good run in when I broke a sweat walking from the bedroom to the bathroom. So I opted for my favorite running-alternative--the pool!

Our little suburbia home came with the backyard, above-ground swimming pool, which we discussed taking down our first fall there (it takes up half the yard, and isn't exactly the prettiest thing to look at). We decided to give it a season and see how much we use it, and I will never, ever not have a pool again. There are some summer mornings when it's easier to stay in the air-conditioned bedroom, and I'm not very good friends with the humidity (AKA It hates me). While the round pool does not lend itself to very effective lap swimming, I have had some great workouts by running in the pool.

Last year, a family moved out of the rented townhouse two doors down from us, and this spring, the new neighbors moved in. He is a full-blown Metreosexual, and they (yes, they) are two Polynesian women. The women spend all day talking on the phone in a foreign language on the porch. I don't know what he does during the day, but at 5:00 in the morning, he's out with his morning smoke, all nice and preppy-looking in freshly-pressed outfit and shirt (but he doesn't leave for work, I don't think he does work). Anyway, the dressing habits of my neighbors are pointless right now--the point is that he is out at 5:00 in the morning. And the point is that I have spoken maybe a full 20 words of him (including "Hi my name is Maggie, welcome to the neighborhood, let me know if you ever need anything").

I don't care what he thought about me jumping in the pool at 5:30 in the morning and running in circles (being sure to switch directions every two laps so as not to be aided or hindered by the current). I don't care that he probably doesn't remember my name. And I don't care how it looked, since I'm sure one would not look at me running in circles and think "Good for her, she's getting a workout in!" but something more along the lines of "She got up to splash around?" No, I don't care what he thought. But I can imagine what he thought...probably the same thing I think about him being all dressed and ironed at 5 AM!

Living in a Small Town

And every road here looks the same

This ol' town won't ever change

And that's what I love the most

And it's the reason I must go

--Sugarland, Small Town Jericho

I've mentioned before I grew up in a small town in Western PA. Everyone knew everyone else, and if you weren't related to almost everyone, you were either married to someone who was, or best friends with someone who was. My mother has two best friends--one is my best friend's mother, the other is another close friend's mother. And my brother's best friend is my best friend's brother. My graduating class had maybe 110 people in it--and it was large. Our little town had one light, and to get to another town you drove through 5-10 miles of highway and trees. And the enrollment number at Temple University was more than in my entire county. It's the kind of town you love to hate while growing up, count the hours until you can leave, then once you leave, you realize just what you had and how lucky you were to grow up in such a town.

My cousin Kristin got married Saturday--to the boy who sat beside me in pretty much every class throughout high school. It's the boy whose cousin married my best friend, and in the wedding, my math teacher was an usher. Another friend (who was another cousin of the groom) was present, as well as friends and parents of friends and on and on.

Where we live now outside Philadelphia, Ted likes to comment about how all the picnics and parties have "worlds colliding". Meaning that parties and picnics we attend are held for the hosts' friends and family, regardless of if friends and family have ever met. Often times we are the only ones there we know, and spend most of the time talking to each other, or at least a little mingling, but nothing quite like was is expected. It wasn't until I moved here where "worlds colliding" even met anything. Where I grew up, worlds didn't collide...it was just one big world where everyone knew everyone.

However, going back "home" today is bittersweet. So many aspects about that little town are still the exact same as I remember them. The roads have not changed. The car wash is still the hang-out, and I still see the same people from high school hanging out there. Sheetz is still the place to go for sandwiches, and the wagon-wheel-shaped town center where the Doughboy statue stands still has to be the most dangerous intersection within 10 miles. But at the same time, so much is different. People I used to know I don't recognize. When I tell them I live near Philadelphia, they look at me like I told them I now live in China. My grandparents house still looks like it did, but they don't live there. The house I grew up in still looks so much the same, but so different. Part of me wants to run away, screaming. The other half never wants to leave again.

It's sad when small towns have no where to go. For that reason alone, I was thrilled when Ted and I bought our first house and moved out of the confines of Ben Franklin Parkway to a small town in Montgomery County. The town has one red light. It's not unusual to go to the supermarket and run into someone you know. We have, on occasion, left the back door open for Curly to look out the screen door all night. On some summer nights, cow pasture fertilizer fills the air. I'm not afraid to raise my children here. But while it has the charm of the town I grew up in, it has the growth of every other town in the Philadelphia region and Lehigh Valley. The city is a 45-minute train ride. And I love it so much, I try to talk all my family and friends into moving here, I just know they'd love it, too.

So while half of me loves where I live, the other half will always be in the town I grew up in. And while it hurts me to go back, the memories I carry of living there and growing up there are alive and well and fondly held, so much that part of me still dreams of living in my grandparents' farmhouse and raising kids on the farm. However, as alive as those dreams are, so is the realiziation that it just wouldn't be me to stay there.

Cotton Shorts and Humid Nights

Last evening on my way home from work, I stopped by the local establishment sponsoring tomorrow night's 5K race. My plan was to pick up the race packets, as Ted and I had discussed walking to the start as a warm-up. Race packets and me are like a kid and Christmas...as soon as I got in the car, I admired the 'free' T-shirt and tore open my packet, looking for the goodies stowed inside.

What I did find inside that was different was a print-out of the course map. I ran this race last year, and being in the town where I live, one would think I would know the course, and remember it. One would be wrong. The course starts out in a minor downhill slope, only to continue into the 2nd mile on a gradual incline. This incline I like to compare to wine--you don't realize you've hit it too hard until it's too late. This is the part of the race I began to block out from last year--from coming up 4th Street, I didn't remember it we turned on 2nd...or School Road...or continued straight.

Ted was also excited to see the course map, and eagerly suggested we do a test run and walk up to the park to run the race. We timed our run the same time the run tomorrow night will be (gun time 7:00) and started out.

(The following conversation takes place at previously mentioned Mile 2)
Ted: &*#$ this hill!
Maggie: Excuse me?
Ted: (silent)

(Skip ahead a minute or two)
Ted: &*#$ this hill!
Maggie: I told you...
Ted: (silent)

This continued, and despite the course map we had studied and brought along, we still turned too soon and had to cut over another road to make the route and distance as similar to tomorrow night's race as possible. Upon entering the 2.5 mile mark, we passed a poor, innocent woman watering her flowers with a spray nozzle and hose.

Ted: Spray me.
Lady: Ok...
Ted: No, I'm serious. Spray me.
Lady: Ok...
Ted: Spray me. I want sprayed.

Ms. Lady sprayed him, not quite the drencher he had been hoping for, but for awhile it seemed to help. (Please keep in mind this is a 5K run we are doing...one would have thought we were in the depth of a long endurance event).

Upon completion of the run, I turned, happy to have finished and proud of our results. I smiled, only to find a miserable boy next to me.

Ted: I can't wear these shorts. I want to take them off. Ow.
Maggie: Why?

Morale of the story (on behalf of Ted): Don't wear thick cotton gym shorts for a run in 85-degree soupy weather. All conclusions can be made on your own imagination (or experience).

The Truth Behind Fireworks

Come June 30th of any given year, you can find me in front of any local section of the paper, hunting for the nearest town with fireworks actually held on the 4th of July. The true trick to this annual task? Ted hates crowds. While he enjoys fireworks, he doesn't enjoy them enough to sit in traffic, battle crowds, sit on the ground for 45-60 minutes, battle crowds, and sit in traffic.

Our first year in our new house, or tiny town had it's own 4th of July celebration, complete with one of the better fireworks displays at the local library, convienently located blocks from our house. We walked there and walked back and everyone was happy. That hasn't occured since, and each year I have typically settle for watching them on TV.

This year, my cousin Cassie was visiting for the weekend. She was due to arrive the same day Peddler's Village was holding it's July celebration (okay, so it was on Saturday the first, more of Oh Canada! Day than July 4th, but my one shot for fireworks). Cassie arrived, I hugged her, threw her luggage inside, and tossed her into our car. I love Peddler's Village, even though many of the stores are typically too rich for my blood (with the exception of the occasional deal, such as the semi-circular cherry wood table Ted spied at a store this past weekend, and which found its way in the back of the car). So I was hoping for a beautiful fireworks display, which, much to my dismay, was mediocure at best.

The highlight of the evening was the little boy on the blanket next to us. While watching the display, the little boy and a few younger girls were talking about the fireworks. Aren't they pretty, one commented. I wonder what fireworks are made of, another speculated.

I know what they are. The little boy did not hesitate to speak up, so certain of himself that Ted, Cassie, and myself all leaned a bit closer to the blanket to listen to the explanation.

You do!? The little girls looked at him, mesmorized.

After a deep breath, and lengthy suspense from two little girls and three innocent bystanders, the boy continued with his explanation, one full of Britannica worthiness.

Fireworks are just giants tooting in the sky. And they are tooting so strongly that they are bouncing off the ground.

I'm sure the British would have been proud.

Happy Independence Day to all! I hope and pray the patriotic spirit felt on this day continues throughout the year.