This month has been horrid, just like the year has been so far. Over 1,000 Trumpvirus deaths in America for the fourth day in a row yesterday, with no end in sight thanks to NO national leadership from the Republicans with a stranglehold on the country even though, in the Senate as a representation, they represent about 20% of the population. Two days ago the Pacific rim of countries like Australia and South Korea, with a conglomerate population of 325 million, recorded four such deaths, the US with a population of 330 million had over twelve hundred deaths.
Woodrow Wilson was a racist president, it turns out (he segregated the Federal bureaucracy which till his first term had been integrated), and he presided over the 1918-19 Spanish Flu pandemic (it actually arose in America and was given to the world by us) with 640,000 American deaths due to Wilson's absolute hands-off what-are-you-talking-about role. Trump is on track to produce an even greater death count if Americans turn out to be so ignorant or blindly cult-driven (addictive personalities, you know, like druggies, or alcoholics, or gambling-addicted wrecks who lay down their last chip to turn their luck around to start winning back the thousands they've lost) to return him to power in 100 days. Meanwhile, the red hinterland is now burning up, just as the blue states did months ago with much Fox News condescending clucking about the "radical left" controlled states.
The country is burning up, not the Democratic cities as Trump falsely claims in his bid via the secret and anonymous DHS Palace Guard to give him the mantle of authoritarianism, but the country's Covid-19 infection rate (we lead the world in confirmed infections, with over four million). My region's rate of positivity is climbing again. And the weather where I live has seen a record-breaking string of 90-plus temperature days, made to feel like over 100 degree days due to the humidity.
These months I hang out in my bedroom with its twenty-year old dilapidated window AC unit that cools the room a little (the rest of my non-airconditioned house feels like 100 degrees at all times) and read The Liberation Trilogy by Pulitzer Prize winner Rick Atkinson, having enjoyed volume one on the American war in Africa, and plowed through the penultimate volume covering the excruciatingly interminable Italian campaign, and now in the final volume the Allies, having broken out of Normandy, have sprinted to the German border where their armies have been rebuffed, having smacked headlong into stout resistance at the West Wall (the Siegfried Line) while suffering from an acute lack of critical daily combat supplies and munitions like winter clothing and artillery shells. The spring flowers I planted are all dying or gone, I shirk from any human contact closer than twelve feet, and I wish I had more than two or three people I could call who will answer their phones. The month of July has been horrid, as has been the year, and I can't wait for the opening of early voting in Virginia, on which day I will don my mask, drive or walk down to City Hall and cast my vote for a return to a formerly great America.
Showing posts with label hot. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hot. Show all posts
Sunday, July 26, 2020
Wednesday, August 14, 2019
Bring me a ball...
The reason doesn't matter, but when I went with a friend on a Sunday afternoon this month to a minor league baseball game in Maryland at a lovely baseball park in Waldorf, the Regency Furniture Stadium, I was presented with a request by my friend for us to get her an actual baseball that had been used in play. This request was repeated several times, practically every inning as the game progressed, so I paid attention to it, for sure.
I have never in my life captured a ball in the stands that came off the field of play, and I have been attending baseball games for over sixty years at almost every major league and many minor league parks. This was going to be challenging.
I studied the stadium with an eye towards how the ball might come off a hitter's bat and make it out of the field of play. We were in assigned seats that weren't going to work because we were on the third base side behind the safety netting that keeps foul balls out of the stands.
We had to get beyond the netting for sure; and also most foul balls that go into the stands past the netting slice off the bat of late swinging hitters to his front side, and most hitters are right-handed so they typically send a curving foul ball into the stands on the first base side which is the side they face when they assume their batting stance.
The park looked like it could seat about 3,000 spectators, with plenty of room on a grassy stretch with park benches past the outfield walls for standing-room-only people. There were less than 300 people present, including ball players and stadium staff, so there were tons of empty seats and no one was in the outfield area.
First we tried sitting out past the outfield walls all by ourselves in the broiling sun, hoping a home run ball would come our way. After a few innings it seemed to me that no hitter present had the power to put a ball over the outfield wall so we drifted over to the first base side of the stands, checking out the scarcely used fenced kiddie park out there past the seats. The children's playground had one adult attendant and only a couple of children present but was full of cool looking structures like a climbing wall, a playhouse, a row of seesaws and a carousel.
There were several young children in the stands over on the first base side, and the few times a ball landed in the stands it looked like a horde of locusts on the move as they swarmed up the aisles to the area where the ball landed and jumped over the seats in a mad dash to get to the ball first. I took note of the narrowness of the lines of stepped concrete walkways between the rows of empty seats, watched the nimble agility of the children jumping over seats, considered my age, closer to seventy than sixty, and decided that I could not outrace that horde.
I would have to get to any foul ball in the stands first without being amongst the children, which dictated sitting in a mostly vacant spot in the largely empty stadium. We returned to the more desolate third base side and sat further out towards the foul pole, past the netting, down near the field by the home team bullpen who all had seats along the wall in foul territory in the field of play.
The game itself was entertaining, high scoring with a sparkling defensive play or two. At my age and with my diminished vision, it was hard to track balls, they just disappeared into the haze that was the sky. My friend noticed, as did I, that three or four balls had gone over the grandstand behind home plate to land either on its roof or soar over it into the parking lot.
My friend came up with a strategy. "If a ball comes over here," she said, "you block any kid running for it and I'll go get the ball."
"Oh," I said, "and then I can fight the father when he shows up in support of his child."
"Okay," my friend replied, "I'll block any kid and you go get the ball."
I could foresee an adult fight in either instance but fortunately, no ball came our way.
It was so hot that we retired from our seats without shade and sat at a table in the causeway with a view of the game. We bought a bottle of water for $4 to cool off and slake our thirst and once we had guzzled it, I filled it up again at a water fountain, which was not refrigerated so the water was tepid. We asked the counter person where everybody was if they weren't at this wonderful park on such a beautiful day. "Church," was the laconic reply. At 2:30 on a Sunday afternoon.
The last inning arrived as we sat at our table. My head was down and I didn't see it but an opponent hit a home run out of the park. I heard the crack of the bat and looked up but couldn't pick up the ball but I recognized the batter's slow home run trot and knew that the ball had traveled over the outfield wall somewhere. There was no one out there.
I got up and walked down the causeway into the grassy area beyond the outfield fences. My friend remained behind. There was an attendant in the closed lounge out there, and another one at the pool beyond left field. Perhaps one of them retrieved the ball before I got out there, or perhaps the ball was hidden somewhere in the grass, but I circumvented the outer area past the fences and without seeing any ball.
Now it was the bottom of the ninth and, barring a huge comeback given the 11-5 score, I had only three more outs to work with to try to secure a ball used in the field of play. I paused on the causeway by the right field foul pole beside the kiddie park with its blue split rail fence, beyond the arc of seats by first base and beyond. The playground was now closed. There were several children along the first row of seats down there, perhaps two hundred feet away. A right-hander was up. I closely watched his at bat.
Crack! A foul ball twisted off his bat and sliced towards the right field foul pole. It stuck the cement walkway 40 feet behind me and bounded into the kiddie park. I intently watched it crazily spin around in there, sluicing wildly until it finally came to rest under a kiddie structure with short legs.
I looked back towards the seats. The horde of locusts appearing as children was boiling upwards towards me, now 150 feet away. I didn't have time to run towards them to reach the kiddie park entranceway and then backtrack to the ball.
I ran over to the 4-foot tall split rail fence surrounding the kiddie park and tried to slither through the split rails. The rails were too close together for me to squeeze through, after all the purpose of the fence was to keep small children in. I had to go over it, and quickly as the kids were nearby by now. I threw a leg over the top rail, hefted my torso onto the rail, heard and felt an ominous crack beneath me, threw myself over it intending to land on my leading foot and gain the ground, but instead I just fell off the fence and landed flat on my back in the kiddie park. Fortunately the ground was soft with straw and wood chips, appropriate for a children's playground, covering the surface.
Still, I lay there stunned and helpless for a second, feeling like an overturned turtle. But I was on a mission, and its conclusion lay nearby in the form of a baseball that mere dozens of feet away.
I scrambled up and went to the structure I thought the ball was under. Several predatory children, all seeming to be aged six to eleven years old, were in the park already, running towards me. They all seemed to have navigated the fence much better than me.
I looked, and there was no ball! I was at the wrong structure. The kids swept by me fanning out throughout the kiddie park. I went to the nearest adjacent structure and scanned under it but no ball. I looked at the further structure, on the other side of the first structure I'd looked under, and there it was, pretty much in plain sight. Trying to look dignified, I went over to the plaything, reached under it and snatched my treasure.
An eleven year old boy immediately appeared beside me. "Are you going to keep that ball?" he asked.
Burning with shame I said apologetically, "I'm sorry, but I have a friend who wants it so I'm going to keep it."
The boy shrugged and said, "That's cool."
Next appearing magically beside me was a six year old girl. "Are you going to keep that ball?" she asked.
My faced flushed a deeper crimson as I said, "I'm sorry, but I have a friend who wants it so I'm going to keep it."
The little girl took it harder than the boy and gave me a look that combined incredulity and impetuosity before she skipped away without a further word. I palmed the ball as I emerged from the kiddie park, hoping the whole stadium wasn't watching me, an adult, denying a ball souvenir to cute small kids. I determined at that moment that the only way I could feel worse was if I had been so close to getting a ball-used-in-play, without impeding any child trying to get there first, and I hadn't gotten it. I slunk through the back concourse behind home plate without looking anyone in the face.
My friend was on the third base concourse where I'd left her. Since the game was over, she said forlornly that it looked like her wish for a ball wasn't going to happen after all. She had spent the last twenty minutes out in the parking lot, watching the stadium's superstructure hoping for a ball to come over. No luck.
I pressed the ball into her hand and said, "Here's your game ball."
She looked down, turned the ball over in her hand and exclaimed, "You bought this!"
"No, no," I said, "the stadium baseball store doesn't even sell used baseballs," and launched into a long description/explanation of how I'd acquired the ball, showing her the muddy stain on the back of my tee shirt and the small scrapes on my elbow from where I'd fallen off the fence.
I pointed out the abrasions on the ball where it had hit the concrete causeway, the brown stain where it had struck the muddy kiddie park surface after the first bounce, and another stain that might have been from the bat striking the ball.
I told her of my struggle to get into the kiddie park to get the ball, telling how I came within a hairsbreadth of crashing through the top rail of the fence, which would have provided the spectacle of an adult not only denying children a baseball but tearing down the kiddie park fence to get it.
It was incredible, to me, that I had been presented in a tongue in cheek way with this impossible task and incredibly, I had fulfilled it. On the very last foul ball of the game. I felt really good about it.
My friend loves the ball. She offered to let me keep it, given how hard I'd worked for it but I said, "No, no, it's yours, believe me, if you hadn't wanted a ball so badly I would never have gotten it in the first place." Ask, and I'll do my best.
I have never in my life captured a ball in the stands that came off the field of play, and I have been attending baseball games for over sixty years at almost every major league and many minor league parks. This was going to be challenging.
I studied the stadium with an eye towards how the ball might come off a hitter's bat and make it out of the field of play. We were in assigned seats that weren't going to work because we were on the third base side behind the safety netting that keeps foul balls out of the stands.
We had to get beyond the netting for sure; and also most foul balls that go into the stands past the netting slice off the bat of late swinging hitters to his front side, and most hitters are right-handed so they typically send a curving foul ball into the stands on the first base side which is the side they face when they assume their batting stance.
The park looked like it could seat about 3,000 spectators, with plenty of room on a grassy stretch with park benches past the outfield walls for standing-room-only people. There were less than 300 people present, including ball players and stadium staff, so there were tons of empty seats and no one was in the outfield area.
First we tried sitting out past the outfield walls all by ourselves in the broiling sun, hoping a home run ball would come our way. After a few innings it seemed to me that no hitter present had the power to put a ball over the outfield wall so we drifted over to the first base side of the stands, checking out the scarcely used fenced kiddie park out there past the seats. The children's playground had one adult attendant and only a couple of children present but was full of cool looking structures like a climbing wall, a playhouse, a row of seesaws and a carousel.
There were several young children in the stands over on the first base side, and the few times a ball landed in the stands it looked like a horde of locusts on the move as they swarmed up the aisles to the area where the ball landed and jumped over the seats in a mad dash to get to the ball first. I took note of the narrowness of the lines of stepped concrete walkways between the rows of empty seats, watched the nimble agility of the children jumping over seats, considered my age, closer to seventy than sixty, and decided that I could not outrace that horde.
I would have to get to any foul ball in the stands first without being amongst the children, which dictated sitting in a mostly vacant spot in the largely empty stadium. We returned to the more desolate third base side and sat further out towards the foul pole, past the netting, down near the field by the home team bullpen who all had seats along the wall in foul territory in the field of play.
The game itself was entertaining, high scoring with a sparkling defensive play or two. At my age and with my diminished vision, it was hard to track balls, they just disappeared into the haze that was the sky. My friend noticed, as did I, that three or four balls had gone over the grandstand behind home plate to land either on its roof or soar over it into the parking lot.
My friend came up with a strategy. "If a ball comes over here," she said, "you block any kid running for it and I'll go get the ball."
"Oh," I said, "and then I can fight the father when he shows up in support of his child."
"Okay," my friend replied, "I'll block any kid and you go get the ball."
I could foresee an adult fight in either instance but fortunately, no ball came our way.
It was so hot that we retired from our seats without shade and sat at a table in the causeway with a view of the game. We bought a bottle of water for $4 to cool off and slake our thirst and once we had guzzled it, I filled it up again at a water fountain, which was not refrigerated so the water was tepid. We asked the counter person where everybody was if they weren't at this wonderful park on such a beautiful day. "Church," was the laconic reply. At 2:30 on a Sunday afternoon.
The last inning arrived as we sat at our table. My head was down and I didn't see it but an opponent hit a home run out of the park. I heard the crack of the bat and looked up but couldn't pick up the ball but I recognized the batter's slow home run trot and knew that the ball had traveled over the outfield wall somewhere. There was no one out there.
I got up and walked down the causeway into the grassy area beyond the outfield fences. My friend remained behind. There was an attendant in the closed lounge out there, and another one at the pool beyond left field. Perhaps one of them retrieved the ball before I got out there, or perhaps the ball was hidden somewhere in the grass, but I circumvented the outer area past the fences and without seeing any ball.
Now it was the bottom of the ninth and, barring a huge comeback given the 11-5 score, I had only three more outs to work with to try to secure a ball used in the field of play. I paused on the causeway by the right field foul pole beside the kiddie park with its blue split rail fence, beyond the arc of seats by first base and beyond. The playground was now closed. There were several children along the first row of seats down there, perhaps two hundred feet away. A right-hander was up. I closely watched his at bat.
Crack! A foul ball twisted off his bat and sliced towards the right field foul pole. It stuck the cement walkway 40 feet behind me and bounded into the kiddie park. I intently watched it crazily spin around in there, sluicing wildly until it finally came to rest under a kiddie structure with short legs.
I looked back towards the seats. The horde of locusts appearing as children was boiling upwards towards me, now 150 feet away. I didn't have time to run towards them to reach the kiddie park entranceway and then backtrack to the ball.
I ran over to the 4-foot tall split rail fence surrounding the kiddie park and tried to slither through the split rails. The rails were too close together for me to squeeze through, after all the purpose of the fence was to keep small children in. I had to go over it, and quickly as the kids were nearby by now. I threw a leg over the top rail, hefted my torso onto the rail, heard and felt an ominous crack beneath me, threw myself over it intending to land on my leading foot and gain the ground, but instead I just fell off the fence and landed flat on my back in the kiddie park. Fortunately the ground was soft with straw and wood chips, appropriate for a children's playground, covering the surface.
Still, I lay there stunned and helpless for a second, feeling like an overturned turtle. But I was on a mission, and its conclusion lay nearby in the form of a baseball that mere dozens of feet away.
I scrambled up and went to the structure I thought the ball was under. Several predatory children, all seeming to be aged six to eleven years old, were in the park already, running towards me. They all seemed to have navigated the fence much better than me.
I looked, and there was no ball! I was at the wrong structure. The kids swept by me fanning out throughout the kiddie park. I went to the nearest adjacent structure and scanned under it but no ball. I looked at the further structure, on the other side of the first structure I'd looked under, and there it was, pretty much in plain sight. Trying to look dignified, I went over to the plaything, reached under it and snatched my treasure.
An eleven year old boy immediately appeared beside me. "Are you going to keep that ball?" he asked.
Burning with shame I said apologetically, "I'm sorry, but I have a friend who wants it so I'm going to keep it."
The boy shrugged and said, "That's cool."
Next appearing magically beside me was a six year old girl. "Are you going to keep that ball?" she asked.
My faced flushed a deeper crimson as I said, "I'm sorry, but I have a friend who wants it so I'm going to keep it."
The little girl took it harder than the boy and gave me a look that combined incredulity and impetuosity before she skipped away without a further word. I palmed the ball as I emerged from the kiddie park, hoping the whole stadium wasn't watching me, an adult, denying a ball souvenir to cute small kids. I determined at that moment that the only way I could feel worse was if I had been so close to getting a ball-used-in-play, without impeding any child trying to get there first, and I hadn't gotten it. I slunk through the back concourse behind home plate without looking anyone in the face.
My friend was on the third base concourse where I'd left her. Since the game was over, she said forlornly that it looked like her wish for a ball wasn't going to happen after all. She had spent the last twenty minutes out in the parking lot, watching the stadium's superstructure hoping for a ball to come over. No luck.
I pressed the ball into her hand and said, "Here's your game ball."
She looked down, turned the ball over in her hand and exclaimed, "You bought this!"
"No, no," I said, "the stadium baseball store doesn't even sell used baseballs," and launched into a long description/explanation of how I'd acquired the ball, showing her the muddy stain on the back of my tee shirt and the small scrapes on my elbow from where I'd fallen off the fence.
I pointed out the abrasions on the ball where it had hit the concrete causeway, the brown stain where it had struck the muddy kiddie park surface after the first bounce, and another stain that might have been from the bat striking the ball.
I told her of my struggle to get into the kiddie park to get the ball, telling how I came within a hairsbreadth of crashing through the top rail of the fence, which would have provided the spectacle of an adult not only denying children a baseball but tearing down the kiddie park fence to get it.
It was incredible, to me, that I had been presented in a tongue in cheek way with this impossible task and incredibly, I had fulfilled it. On the very last foul ball of the game. I felt really good about it.
My friend loves the ball. She offered to let me keep it, given how hard I'd worked for it but I said, "No, no, it's yours, believe me, if you hadn't wanted a ball so badly I would never have gotten it in the first place." Ask, and I'll do my best.
Sunday, July 21, 2019
Climate change, anyone?
June was the hottest month on record. July is on pace to be the hottest month yet again.
This week it has, with the heat index, seemed like 110 degrees outside. My bedroom has become my living cocoon in the house because it has a window air-conditioning unit.. Using the rest of the house, I sit at the dining room table as much as possible, next to a cooling fan.
To go outside is to instantly break out in a sweat. I took a 3-mile walk the other day on the Mt. Vernon Trail instead of running that afternoon.
I go out with friends for lunch in restaurants which, obviously, have air-conditioning. Pastrami sandwiches, chili, mussels, it's all good.
This week it has, with the heat index, seemed like 110 degrees outside. My bedroom has become my living cocoon in the house because it has a window air-conditioning unit.. Using the rest of the house, I sit at the dining room table as much as possible, next to a cooling fan.
To go outside is to instantly break out in a sweat. I took a 3-mile walk the other day on the Mt. Vernon Trail instead of running that afternoon.
I go out with friends for lunch in restaurants which, obviously, have air-conditioning. Pastrami sandwiches, chili, mussels, it's all good.
Friday, July 19, 2019
Call the Zombie Patrol for a Pickup
Like a zombie lurching through a heat-stifled town, as if apocalyptic fires were burning everywhere adding to the heat, I plodded four miles this morning as the heat of the day built up rapidly. The hottest June on record last month, and July is headed for another heat record. With high temperature and excessive humidity, it's slated to feel like 110 degrees later today here in DC.
I went 3.2 miles early on Wednesday, another scorching day where it felt like 100 degrees when the heat built up. I finished my run then totally drenched and feeling lightheaded and slightly sick, just like today, and I spent the rest of that day in my house recovering from the enervating effort. I feel better today, so maybe I'm becoming acclimated to the sapping heat.
I feel good about my running right now. I was out of running for the last two years while I recovered from an achilles strain and then was felled by a retina tear which required four surgeries to heal and nearly took my sight in that eye. My last surgery was in early April and on May 1st I started running as I was fully healed. Coming back was (is) slow and hard; my first day I targeted running a mere half a mile, slowly, and I had to walk the second half of that "run."
But I have been keeping at it, running three times a week, stretching my calfs and achilles before and after each run assiduously, which I never used to do, and slowly building up the mileage, first a half mile, then three quarters of a mile, then a mile, now I'm up to three-mile runs each time, albeit very slow and plodding, with today's long run for the week of four miles. Whoot, I cracked double digits after two and a half months with ten miles for the week. It's paltry progress but I'm keeping at it, taking it slow and steady, and I no longer feel like I'm going to die each run.
I went 3.2 miles early on Wednesday, another scorching day where it felt like 100 degrees when the heat built up. I finished my run then totally drenched and feeling lightheaded and slightly sick, just like today, and I spent the rest of that day in my house recovering from the enervating effort. I feel better today, so maybe I'm becoming acclimated to the sapping heat.
I feel good about my running right now. I was out of running for the last two years while I recovered from an achilles strain and then was felled by a retina tear which required four surgeries to heal and nearly took my sight in that eye. My last surgery was in early April and on May 1st I started running as I was fully healed. Coming back was (is) slow and hard; my first day I targeted running a mere half a mile, slowly, and I had to walk the second half of that "run."
But I have been keeping at it, running three times a week, stretching my calfs and achilles before and after each run assiduously, which I never used to do, and slowly building up the mileage, first a half mile, then three quarters of a mile, then a mile, now I'm up to three-mile runs each time, albeit very slow and plodding, with today's long run for the week of four miles. Whoot, I cracked double digits after two and a half months with ten miles for the week. It's paltry progress but I'm keeping at it, taking it slow and steady, and I no longer feel like I'm going to die each run.
Sunday, August 6, 2017
In the dentist chair again
On July 4th, a hot, sultry day, I thought it'd be a grand idea to cool off by having a chilled Snicker's bar, purchased from the cooler at the drugstore across the street from where I had a holiday lunch. By my second bite into the hard, cloying mass, I was thinking it might not be a good idea to keep eating it because lesser things have pulled crowns out of my mouth before.
One more bite, a totally ill-advised one obviously, a tentative bite spurred on mostly by the thought that I'd just spent $2 on this confection, and a crown that was installed over a root-canaled tooth in 1988 was now in my hand, metal post at its base and all. But it was intact, and maybe it could simply be cemented back in.
I didn't know it, but I was destined to be in the dentist's chair three times over the next fortnight on this emergency dental condition. But now I had dental insurance, so I'd get to discover how effective it would prove to be because having a crown come out, or having a new, necessary crown put in, was surely a procedure that dental insurance would cover.
Two days later, I was in the chair with a new dentist, because my former dentist retired after 20 years of inspired dentistry in service of me, and forty years of service to the underserved public. The new dentist was recommended by her, about 8 years from dental school, very personable, apparently concerned about me and very knowledgeable about mouth matters, and I was going to get the opportunity in the coming two weeks to get to know him much better.
One more bite, a totally ill-advised one obviously, a tentative bite spurred on mostly by the thought that I'd just spent $2 on this confection, and a crown that was installed over a root-canaled tooth in 1988 was now in my hand, metal post at its base and all. But it was intact, and maybe it could simply be cemented back in.
I didn't know it, but I was destined to be in the dentist's chair three times over the next fortnight on this emergency dental condition. But now I had dental insurance, so I'd get to discover how effective it would prove to be because having a crown come out, or having a new, necessary crown put in, was surely a procedure that dental insurance would cover.
Two days later, I was in the chair with a new dentist, because my former dentist retired after 20 years of inspired dentistry in service of me, and forty years of service to the underserved public. The new dentist was recommended by her, about 8 years from dental school, very personable, apparently concerned about me and very knowledgeable about mouth matters, and I was going to get the opportunity in the coming two weeks to get to know him much better.
Wednesday, July 13, 2016
A morning run
Last week I did a five mile loop around my greater neighborhood, after a preliminary mile in the 'hood, at 6:30 am to avoid the heat build-up. The sky was really active, I love the diffusion of early morning sunlight that the cloud cover sometimes creates.
Not many people were about, except for commuters driving by in their cars. I saw some wildlife, this bunny thought I wouldn't see it if it remained stock still.
I ran by some flowering weeds which were pretty. My favorite is the Queen Anne's Lace which is abundant in the meadows currently.
With six miles in the books I ran up and over the last tall hill and headed to McDonalds to get my morning coffee and perhaps a fruit cup. It's interesting there; half the time I get the senior discount on coffee (I never ask for it but I'm qualified to get it) unbidden and half the time I don't.
Not many people were about, except for commuters driving by in their cars. I saw some wildlife, this bunny thought I wouldn't see it if it remained stock still.
I ran by some flowering weeds which were pretty. My favorite is the Queen Anne's Lace which is abundant in the meadows currently.
With six miles in the books I ran up and over the last tall hill and headed to McDonalds to get my morning coffee and perhaps a fruit cup. It's interesting there; half the time I get the senior discount on coffee (I never ask for it but I'm qualified to get it) unbidden and half the time I don't.
Tuesday, July 12, 2016
A workweek of running
I got in 31 miles of running last week, the most in quite awhile; since I came back in 2011 from my lengthy injury layoff and reduced my running a little, I've only hit thirty miles in a week once or twice before. As usual, I ran five days out of the seven but these were all six mile runs at least, with some being slightly longer, five days in a row, the last four were solitary runs and they all incorporated at least half a mile of significant hills, usually during the last mile.
These runs were in the heat of the summer, July in DC, some with the dew point over 70 so it felt like 100 degrees on several days. At the end of the week my feet hurt, I had to discard a pair of size 12 1/2 running shoes which size has become too small for me anymore, and I was the lightest I have been since a few years before my forced layoff.
In other words, I got 'er done, just like in the days of old last decade. The week got underway with a two and a half mile run with John on the W&OD Trail at Bluemont, except that John was late or I was early so I ran four miles of hills waiting for John because I went for a preliminary run to kill time, went off the trail in an exploratory mode, got lost and ran up and down several hills working my way back to where I was supposed to meet John, who was there waiting for me by then.
The next four runs were all variations on my longer (5-6 mile) runs around my house, two runs around the 5-mile loop embracing my greater neighborhood, after a preliminary neighborhood mile each day, during which I ran by a local Fourth of July parade, and two out and backs three miles each way on the W&OD, first a run east on the trail and on the fifth day a run west on the trail. I finished the last four runs running over the extended hill north of MP 7.5 on the trail, finishing at the local McDonalds each morning where, dripping sweat in large drops all over their floor and handing the cashier soaked currency, I ordered my morning coffee and walked the last few blocks home.
These runs were in the heat of the summer, July in DC, some with the dew point over 70 so it felt like 100 degrees on several days. At the end of the week my feet hurt, I had to discard a pair of size 12 1/2 running shoes which size has become too small for me anymore, and I was the lightest I have been since a few years before my forced layoff.
In other words, I got 'er done, just like in the days of old last decade. The week got underway with a two and a half mile run with John on the W&OD Trail at Bluemont, except that John was late or I was early so I ran four miles of hills waiting for John because I went for a preliminary run to kill time, went off the trail in an exploratory mode, got lost and ran up and down several hills working my way back to where I was supposed to meet John, who was there waiting for me by then.
The next four runs were all variations on my longer (5-6 mile) runs around my house, two runs around the 5-mile loop embracing my greater neighborhood, after a preliminary neighborhood mile each day, during which I ran by a local Fourth of July parade, and two out and backs three miles each way on the W&OD, first a run east on the trail and on the fifth day a run west on the trail. I finished the last four runs running over the extended hill north of MP 7.5 on the trail, finishing at the local McDonalds each morning where, dripping sweat in large drops all over their floor and handing the cashier soaked currency, I ordered my morning coffee and walked the last few blocks home.
Thursday, July 7, 2016
Falling In
I've been falling in with runners and chatting them up, even if they're wearing earbuds, like today with Kat on the W&OD. I had six miles to go on a six mile run, the morning was already hot and getting hotter and I needed diversion. Down the trail a couple hundred yards was a solitary female runner and I practiced my racing technique for overtaking the next runner ahead, slow and steady if they're a ways up there. After a short while I caught her, fell in and asked, "How far you going?" I couldn't tell how old she was, the younger they are, the less likely they are to talk to you, or even acknowledge that you're speaking to them.
"I'm just going down there," she said, vaguely pointing ahead. I tried a different tack. "How far have you gone?" I asked. She removed her ear bud closest to me and said, "Oh, a mile." She smiled, gave a short wave and put the piece back in.
I wasn't so easily deterred. Pointing at her shoes, which contained tiny Mercury's wings sewn on each outside edge by the laces, I said, "I been watching those wings on your shoes as I came up behind you and I thought they might give you a boost but I haven't seen them flap yet so I wonder if they're not an aerodynamic drag instead." She said, "Oh I like them just fine!"
"What's your name?" "Kat," she said, without asking mine. "I'm Peter," I offered, at which point she figuratively sighed, removed both her ear buds and we had a nice conversation for the next mile and a half till her turnaround. In a nutshell, she is the Breaking News editor for USA Today, we talked about the tragic shooting of an armed suspect by police in Baton Rouge yesterday, I gave her my perspective as a former state trooper (the two arresting officers in the videos weren't communicating calmly and clearly with each other) and then we talked about her upcoming marathon in Chicago. I don't know how it went for Kat, I believe she found the conversation interesting enough, but for me it made at least the first quarter of my extremely hard six mile run (I dropped four pounds and felt exhausted by the end) go by quickly and easily.
"I'm just going down there," she said, vaguely pointing ahead. I tried a different tack. "How far have you gone?" I asked. She removed her ear bud closest to me and said, "Oh, a mile." She smiled, gave a short wave and put the piece back in.
I wasn't so easily deterred. Pointing at her shoes, which contained tiny Mercury's wings sewn on each outside edge by the laces, I said, "I been watching those wings on your shoes as I came up behind you and I thought they might give you a boost but I haven't seen them flap yet so I wonder if they're not an aerodynamic drag instead." She said, "Oh I like them just fine!"
"What's your name?" "Kat," she said, without asking mine. "I'm Peter," I offered, at which point she figuratively sighed, removed both her ear buds and we had a nice conversation for the next mile and a half till her turnaround. In a nutshell, she is the Breaking News editor for USA Today, we talked about the tragic shooting of an armed suspect by police in Baton Rouge yesterday, I gave her my perspective as a former state trooper (the two arresting officers in the videos weren't communicating calmly and clearly with each other) and then we talked about her upcoming marathon in Chicago. I don't know how it went for Kat, I believe she found the conversation interesting enough, but for me it made at least the first quarter of my extremely hard six mile run (I dropped four pounds and felt exhausted by the end) go by quickly and easily.
Saturday, July 2, 2016
Billy Goat 2016
In the 17 years that I've been walking the moderately difficult Billy Goat Trail, I used to be able to perch atop pointed rocks and advance considerable distances by scrambling in precarious balance during the 3-mile trek. Now that I'm approaching what has been traditionally thought to be typical retirement age, not so much.
I also used to scamper over a downed tree over a brook, but now I no longer do so. I take the sedate bridge over the babbling brook that has a handrail instead.
Today I completed the annual trek. Next year, who knows, in my mid-60's, I might give it up.
I think my balance is off. I know that my usual companion in the yearly passage, near my age, struggles now to complete it too.
I also used to scamper over a downed tree over a brook, but now I no longer do so. I take the sedate bridge over the babbling brook that has a handrail instead.
Today I completed the annual trek. Next year, who knows, in my mid-60's, I might give it up.
I think my balance is off. I know that my usual companion in the yearly passage, near my age, struggles now to complete it too.
Friday, June 10, 2011
You Can Start Next Week
A Memorial Day twenty-minute 3K race time while in recovery mode after surgery is fine, but I want to get back to running! I laid off any further running til the following Monday when I ran 2 1/2 miles around the Capitol at noon with a co-worker L, at a sedentary 12-minute pace. Still in recovery mode, you know?
Tuesday we went 3 miles around Capitol Hill at a 10-minute pace with a brief pause to listen to comments Senator Barbara Boxer made to a professional nursing association assembled in a nearby park, about keeping the government's hands off our Medicare as we know it (think Paul Ryan's impoverishing Vouchercare). Only in DC can a casual noontime jog be so elucidating.
Oppressive heat enveloped DC on Wednesday when 99 degree heat settled in accompanied by humidity. I just had to run in such a challenging environment so at noon I ran 2 1/2 miles around the Capitol at a 9-minute pace before I left work early to keep a 2-week post-op appointment with the operating surgeon. That run felt great!
The doc examined the incision on my stomach, said it was healing nicely and gave me the okay to start running again in another week. I celebrated my imminent return to running by running 5K in 102 degree heat with L the next day and 3.2 miles in 99 degree humidity at lunchtime today. I gotta be honest though, I had to walk in the last mile each day because, apparently, I'm not enough used to such brutal running conditions yet. But I hope I'll get there real soon.
Tuesday we went 3 miles around Capitol Hill at a 10-minute pace with a brief pause to listen to comments Senator Barbara Boxer made to a professional nursing association assembled in a nearby park, about keeping the government's hands off our Medicare as we know it (think Paul Ryan's impoverishing Vouchercare). Only in DC can a casual noontime jog be so elucidating.
Oppressive heat enveloped DC on Wednesday when 99 degree heat settled in accompanied by humidity. I just had to run in such a challenging environment so at noon I ran 2 1/2 miles around the Capitol at a 9-minute pace before I left work early to keep a 2-week post-op appointment with the operating surgeon. That run felt great!
The doc examined the incision on my stomach, said it was healing nicely and gave me the okay to start running again in another week. I celebrated my imminent return to running by running 5K in 102 degree heat with L the next day and 3.2 miles in 99 degree humidity at lunchtime today. I gotta be honest though, I had to walk in the last mile each day because, apparently, I'm not enough used to such brutal running conditions yet. But I hope I'll get there real soon.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Noontime Weekday Race
A week ago I ran in the monthly free noontime Tidal Basin 3K race, my 24th consecutive one. It’s my monthly speedwork, running this short furious race around the Jefferson Memorial Tidal Basin with scores of other dedicated runners. I always finish in the bottom half, usually in the lowest quartile. This month I was 37/67, 55%. Among men I was 34/48, 71%. My time was 13:24 (7:11). The only other relevant number was the temperature, 92 degrees.
But there are other interesting numb
ers, at least to me. Someone made marks on the course to indicate 1K, one mile and 2K.
ers, at least to me. Someone made marks on the course to indicate 1K, one mile and 2K. I passed 1K at 4:16 (6:52). I passed one mile at 7:01. That meant from 0.6 mile to one mile my pace was 7:14. I forgot to note 2K. I ran the last 0.86 miles from the mile marker to the finish line at a 7:25 pace.
I was obviously running myself straight into the ground. No negative splits for this guy. (Above: The "hill" on the 3K course, around the 1K mark. The Tidal Basin is 200M to the right.)
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Tomorrow Never Knows
On the afternoon of the seventh day of our eight-day motorized raft trip down the Grand Canyon on the Colorado River, Travis cut the motor and said that we could all jump overboard if we wanted to. The last rapid had been run and only tomorrow's journey into placid Lake Mead, created by the Hoover Dam, remained. 
(Left: The very last rapids boils over our boat.) Since it was 110 degrees, we all elected to go into the water. We hadn’t been allowed to jump off the boats before this due to the danger the many rapids pose to swimmers and the menace spinning propellers create for people in the water.
I swam around for a short bit, then climbed back into the boat under my own power. It took awhile as I pulled and pushed, vaulted and jumped, and finally flopped into the raft like a beached whale.
Then I saw that Andy, our musical prodigy and the youngest member of our group by some thirty years, was bobbing along in his lifejacket downstream, going with the current. He was
moving! Boy, that looked like fun.
(Left: The river stretched out before us, finally tranquil.) Back into the water I jumped. Andy and I went sailing along down the middle of the Colorado River in the swift current for about 25 minutes. We put a good 50 yards on the trailing boat. For a full mile, the towering rocky walls, the little side canyons and the silted beaches went by us in practically a blur as we got a water-bug’s view of the Grand Canyon from a mere eight inches above the surface. Little eddies would catch us and spin us around in full 360s befo
re throwing us out, still heading downstream.
(Right: Guy in the river.) Travis was keeping a tolerant but watchful eye on us. Then we started to get cold, so we swam towards the shore to get out of the current and when the boat caught up and went by us, we swam back into the current and allowed it to sweep us by the boat. We reached out to our mates on the boat and strong hands grabbed our life jackets and hauled us back into the boat. There was no getti
ng into the boat on my own this time because I was exhausted from my stay in the swift, deep river.
(Left: Grand Canyon flora.) It was the coolest mile that I ever traversed in my life, scudding downriver in the cool water amidst all that towering beauty shimmering above us in the heat, a riotous multitude of soaring reddish-brown hues. That mile floating downstream was the best little moment I had on our incredible trip down the Grand Canyon.
Turn off your mind, relax and float downstream
(Left: The very last rapids boils over our boat.) Since it was 110 degrees, we all elected to go into the water. We hadn’t been allowed to jump off the boats before this due to the danger the many rapids pose to swimmers and the menace spinning propellers create for people in the water.
I swam around for a short bit, then climbed back into the boat under my own power. It took awhile as I pulled and pushed, vaulted and jumped, and finally flopped into the raft like a beached whale.
Then I saw that Andy, our musical prodigy and the youngest member of our group by some thirty years, was bobbing along in his lifejacket downstream, going with the current. He was
moving! Boy, that looked like fun.(Left: The river stretched out before us, finally tranquil.) Back into the water I jumped. Andy and I went sailing along down the middle of the Colorado River in the swift current for about 25 minutes. We put a good 50 yards on the trailing boat. For a full mile, the towering rocky walls, the little side canyons and the silted beaches went by us in practically a blur as we got a water-bug’s view of the Grand Canyon from a mere eight inches above the surface. Little eddies would catch us and spin us around in full 360s befo
re throwing us out, still heading downstream.(Right: Guy in the river.) Travis was keeping a tolerant but watchful eye on us. Then we started to get cold, so we swam towards the shore to get out of the current and when the boat caught up and went by us, we swam back into the current and allowed it to sweep us by the boat. We reached out to our mates on the boat and strong hands grabbed our life jackets and hauled us back into the boat. There was no getti
ng into the boat on my own this time because I was exhausted from my stay in the swift, deep river.(Left: Grand Canyon flora.) It was the coolest mile that I ever traversed in my life, scudding downriver in the cool water amidst all that towering beauty shimmering above us in the heat, a riotous multitude of soaring reddish-brown hues. That mile floating downstream was the best little moment I had on our incredible trip down the Grand Canyon.
Turn off your mind, relax and float downstream
Monday, October 8, 2007
A 26.2 mile fun run.
My 2007 Chicago Marathon. The Down & Dirty: 4:34:06.
No place, because it was a Fun Run by the time I finished.
At least I finished. Many runners were swept off the course when race officials cancelled the race during its fourth hour due to record heat. It was 88 degrees and humid (and sunny) two and a half hours into the race. One runner tragically died and over three hundred were sent to the hospital during the race.
My running buddy A, who wasn't running due to injury, picked me up two miles out and ran me in. Otherwise my time would have been a lot worse. It was bad. I was glad to finish. Chicago is flat but the last hill right at MP 26 is an ass-kicker. Heck, Chicago kicked my ass. But I finished and I'm safe.
There's lots more that I can tell you later about my trip to Chicago.
Thanks to all of you who were concerned and checked afterwards on my status.
No place, because it was a Fun Run by the time I finished.
At least I finished. Many runners were swept off the course when race officials cancelled the race during its fourth hour due to record heat. It was 88 degrees and humid (and sunny) two and a half hours into the race. One runner tragically died and over three hundred were sent to the hospital during the race.
My running buddy A, who wasn't running due to injury, picked me up two miles out and ran me in. Otherwise my time would have been a lot worse. It was bad. I was glad to finish. Chicago is flat but the last hill right at MP 26 is an ass-kicker. Heck, Chicago kicked my ass. But I finished and I'm safe.
There's lots more that I can tell you later about my trip to Chicago.
Thanks to all of you who were concerned and checked afterwards on my status.
Thursday, October 4, 2007
Chicago
I was feelin' so bad, I asked my family doctor just what I had,
I said, Doctor, (Doctor) Mr. M.D., (Doctor)
Now can you tell me, tell me, tell me, what's ailin' me?" (Doctor)
He said, Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, (Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah)
Yes, indeed, all you really need...
...is 250MG Zithromax for five days.
I feel better already.
This website details what you should avoid while taking Zithromax, including exposure to sunlight. I sure hope Sunday, when I run the Chicago Marathon, is a cloudy day.
The forecast for Sunday in Chicago is continued unseasonably warm and humid. Highs may reach or exceed the record of 86 (1947). Incoming clouds late. High of 86, low of 67.
Uh-oh. I don't do so well in hot.
But my friend Dori dispensed some wisdom in her last post. A positive outlook results in a positive outcome. Well stated!
I've had plenty of support as I've gotten ready to run Chicago for a worthy cause. Through the largess of supporters (thanks Not Born To Run!) of my effort, I have met my goal of raising money to hopefully make a difference in the lives of some persons in East Africa who are less fortunate then me.
I will be running this race in appreciation of the contributions of Ashley, Beth, David, Hallie, Jack, Jeanne, Rhea, Rich and Susie to this worthy cause. My friend Ashley is injured and I am running the race in appreciation of all the generous people who contributed to her fund-raising effort as well.
See you at the finish line in Chicago!
I said, Doctor, (Doctor) Mr. M.D., (Doctor)
Now can you tell me, tell me, tell me, what's ailin' me?" (Doctor)
He said, Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, (Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah)
Yes, indeed, all you really need...
...is 250MG Zithromax for five days.
I feel better already.
This website details what you should avoid while taking Zithromax, including exposure to sunlight. I sure hope Sunday, when I run the Chicago Marathon, is a cloudy day.
The forecast for Sunday in Chicago is continued unseasonably warm and humid. Highs may reach or exceed the record of 86 (1947). Incoming clouds late. High of 86, low of 67.
Uh-oh. I don't do so well in hot.
But my friend Dori dispensed some wisdom in her last post. A positive outlook results in a positive outcome. Well stated!
I've had plenty of support as I've gotten ready to run Chicago for a worthy cause. Through the largess of supporters (thanks Not Born To Run!) of my effort, I have met my goal of raising money to hopefully make a difference in the lives of some persons in East Africa who are less fortunate then me.
I will be running this race in appreciation of the contributions of Ashley, Beth, David, Hallie, Jack, Jeanne, Rhea, Rich and Susie to this worthy cause. My friend Ashley is injured and I am running the race in appreciation of all the generous people who contributed to her fund-raising effort as well.
See you at the finish line in Chicago!
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
A Precautionary Summer's Tale
A is leaving town for good so last Sunday morning I was going to do a last LSD with her, 16 miles, as we both get ready for Chicago in twelve weeks. I recently did 14 with A, and also a 15. A hasn’t done a 16 yet, ever.
I was late, showing up at 7:40 am for our 7:30 run. All I had to eat or drink that morning was two cups of diced fruit in heavy syrup. We got underway at 7:50 after stretching. I carried a half liter of water.
Two weeks earlier I had run 15 miles at a steady 9:00 pace that deteriorated to a 9:15 pace the last few miles. A kept us locked on 9:30s for this run.
We went southbound through Alexandria on the Mt. Vernon Trail for 8 miles and turned around. By now it was after 9 am and the day was heating up fast. My technical shirt was saturated and hanging heavily off me.
Going back I started getting really tired. I finished my water. I was also hungry. I hadn’t brought anything to eat.
A stopped in the comfort station at 12 miles and I gratefully walked a quarter mile til she caught up again.
Going through Old Town, I felt terrible. I couldn’t keep up with A anymore and I couldn’t talk to her through my heavy breathing. I couldn’t catch my breath and my jaw and shoulders ached. My heart was racing and I was really sweating. It was 92 degrees by now and humid. Shit, I thought, there are only two miles to go. Some recess of my mind said, there are two miles to go.
I didn't think I could make two more miles. Two more miles? How could this be? I stopped and started walking. A stopped also and walked besides me. She offered me her water which I waved off. She apologized for having ingested her one Gu a few miles back and not offering me half, not knowing I hadn’t brought any. I said that was ridiculous, I could have brought Gu.
I took off my hat and shrugged out of my shirt. Sweat was pouring off me. I felt like I might fall down so I went over to the grass and sat down. A urged me not to sit down but I said I felt "black spotty." The grass had turned from green to sepia toned. A sat down beside me, watching me carefully.
I drank all of A’s water. I sucked in long breaths. I kept apologizing to A for "ruining" her 16 miler. (Her first 16 miler.) She said that was ridiculous.
After awhile, I got up and walked it in. I couldn’t run anymore, although I tried. A walked with me for most of the way and then ran ahead to her car when we were close. She brought back some fluids, Gatorade and water. I sucked the warm Gatorade down and it made me feel much better.
We went out for a post-run brunch. I uncharacteristically ordered a steak and a soda. Afterwards I spent several hours in my bedroom with the A/C unit going full blast.
I am a veteran runner. I can do sixteen miles easily, if not well. Sure it makes me tired and sore but it shouldn’t make me quit. But this shows what a fool I had been.
This is a precautionary tale. The admonition pride goeth before the fall springs to mind.
A summer morning might seem benign but can be dreadfully enervating because of rapidly rising temperature and humidity. It’s potentially dangerous. Lessons for long runs in the heat are:
A was a real sweetheart about it, a veritable lifesaver. I’m gonna miss her! So is the DC running community.
(Three perfectly lovely ladies. Not Born To Run and Bex say goodbye to A. We'll see you on the trails!)
I was late, showing up at 7:40 am for our 7:30 run. All I had to eat or drink that morning was two cups of diced fruit in heavy syrup. We got underway at 7:50 after stretching. I carried a half liter of water.
Two weeks earlier I had run 15 miles at a steady 9:00 pace that deteriorated to a 9:15 pace the last few miles. A kept us locked on 9:30s for this run.
We went southbound through Alexandria on the Mt. Vernon Trail for 8 miles and turned around. By now it was after 9 am and the day was heating up fast. My technical shirt was saturated and hanging heavily off me.
Going back I started getting really tired. I finished my water. I was also hungry. I hadn’t brought anything to eat.
A stopped in the comfort station at 12 miles and I gratefully walked a quarter mile til she caught up again.
Going through Old Town, I felt terrible. I couldn’t keep up with A anymore and I couldn’t talk to her through my heavy breathing. I couldn’t catch my breath and my jaw and shoulders ached. My heart was racing and I was really sweating. It was 92 degrees by now and humid. Shit, I thought, there are only two miles to go. Some recess of my mind said, there are two miles to go.
I didn't think I could make two more miles. Two more miles? How could this be? I stopped and started walking. A stopped also and walked besides me. She offered me her water which I waved off. She apologized for having ingested her one Gu a few miles back and not offering me half, not knowing I hadn’t brought any. I said that was ridiculous, I could have brought Gu.
I took off my hat and shrugged out of my shirt. Sweat was pouring off me. I felt like I might fall down so I went over to the grass and sat down. A urged me not to sit down but I said I felt "black spotty." The grass had turned from green to sepia toned. A sat down beside me, watching me carefully.
I drank all of A’s water. I sucked in long breaths. I kept apologizing to A for "ruining" her 16 miler. (Her first 16 miler.) She said that was ridiculous.
After awhile, I got up and walked it in. I couldn’t run anymore, although I tried. A walked with me for most of the way and then ran ahead to her car when we were close. She brought back some fluids, Gatorade and water. I sucked the warm Gatorade down and it made me feel much better.
We went out for a post-run brunch. I uncharacteristically ordered a steak and a soda. Afterwards I spent several hours in my bedroom with the A/C unit going full blast.
I am a veteran runner. I can do sixteen miles easily, if not well. Sure it makes me tired and sore but it shouldn’t make me quit. But this shows what a fool I had been.
This is a precautionary tale. The admonition pride goeth before the fall springs to mind.
A summer morning might seem benign but can be dreadfully enervating because of rapidly rising temperature and humidity. It’s potentially dangerous. Lessons for long runs in the heat are:
- Respect the weather, always.
- Hydrate before the run.
- Hydrate during the run (16 ounces wasn’t enough). (But don’t go crazy and over-hydrate.)
- Fuel your body (eat enough before the run, and bring some energy replenishment, if only as a precaution).
- Bring money (to buy water or for a transit ride or to use a pay phone).
- Run with someone.
- Stop when you aren’t feeling right and make sure people around you know that you’re feeling distressed.
- Wear some ID, maybe affixed to your shoe.
A was a real sweetheart about it, a veritable lifesaver. I’m gonna miss her! So is the DC running community.
(Three perfectly lovely ladies. Not Born To Run and Bex say goodbye to A. We'll see you on the trails!)
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