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 I lost control of my first blog in December of 2020 because, well, suddenly I couldn't get into it with my Google username and password.  For years my computer had just brought up my blog and I could just click into it but all of a sudden, no more.   I have no idea what my Google name is much less my  password.  

For awhile I published an adjacent blog that no one could see (except for one sibling) because, well, it was insecure or something. I have no idea.

Anyway, suddenly in a corner of my computer ,I found a link to DC Spinster so I'm back for how long I don't know.  My adjacent blog, with a few dozen posts, seems to have gone off to somewhere from a few months' disuse, maybe I'll find it again also.  So I'm baaack, for now anyway.

I 'm heavy into pickleball now. It's taken me 11 months, since when I first picked up a paddle in Sugust last year till now, to get anywhere near decent. 

Friends

Friends are people who run with you more than once.  I'm blessed with some of those.

Persons who provide the motivation to be somewhere at a certain time to put in 5 or 6 miles.  It's a commitment that friends make and keep.

I view running as a five times a week adventure that I like to share with friends.  That's why I like to run different routes all the time.

It's okay to get lost occasionally and have to backtrack or go out of your way a long way.  You're a runner after all.

Happy Hanukkah.

Miss you.

Don't it always seem to go

That you don't know what you've got

Til it's gone. Joni Mitchell

(Photo credit K)

The Lost Runner

"Hey Ellen, have you seen Joyce?"

"No," Ellen called out, looking up at me. "Isn't she with you?"

I was leaning on the railing of a trail overpass by National Airport on the Mount Vernon Trail, where a secondary footpath winds around underneath it heading back under the GW Parkway into Crystal City. Ellen was directly below me.

She was leading the main body of the leisurely runners in the half-marathon training program I direct. I had been vainly scrutinizing the tops of the heads of the runners passing by below me to see if Joyce was with them. She had vanished.

This was my responsibility. We were on an eighty minute run this Saturday morning, while the rest of the runners in the Program were doing nine or ten miles elsewhere with the rest of the coaches.

I had actually started out with the runners who were doing nine miles, happily leading that group while clipping along at a nine-minute-per-mile pace, talking with the two lead runners in it while two more coaches accompanied the rest of the strung out group. Half an hour later, Ellen had run past us going the other direction, having taken a different route with the slowest group of runners. I counted them as they went by. There were ten in her group, and she was the only coach.

I told the two runners with me where the turnaround point for them was and turned to pursue Ellen's group, telling the other two coaches that I was leaving them as I ran by. I soon overtook "Joyce," who was the caboose in Ellen's group. I ran with her for awhile and then ran up ahead to where H and N were running together doing twelve-minute miles. Soon Ellen came back down the trail towards us with the main group, having already reached their turnaround point.

The three of us turned and fell in with the main group. I ran with Ellen for awhile. We passed by Joyce, who was still outbound, and I called out to her and signalled for her to turn around and fall in with the main group right behind us. I thought I saw her turning. I ran on, chatting with Ellen.

After half a mile, I could see that the group was getting strung out again behind us so I trotted back looking for the end runner. I passed by the compact main group but didn't particularly scrutinize them. I passed by H and N, and said I'd catch up with them. I kept going back, looking for Joyce, whom I presumed would be in the back.

I reached the turnaround point. No Joyce. There were no runners anywhere. I could see pretty far down the trail, maybe a quarter mile. Where was she? I was stumped.

So my logic went like this. Maybe when she turned, she fell in with the main group and unexpectedly kept up with them. Then when I went back looking for the most far back runner, expecting it to be her, I didn't notice her within the main group when I went by it.

Yeah, that had to be it, I thought. I couldn't keep on running outbound on the notion that not only hadn't she turned when I signalled her to, but she had also run past the turnaround point. There were other possibilities, of course, but the Mount Vernon Trail is a well-used, patrolled recreational pathway, very open in this part, and I didn't think Joyce had stashed a car down here for a secret getaway.

So I ran back to catch up with the group. It was a long hard run because I had fallen very far behind it. It was many long minutes before I saw H and N again, far ahead.

But now from atop my vantage point on the overpass, I could see that Joyce had indeed gotten away. I was both annoyed and anxious. I emphasize repeatedly to trainees that it is protocol for slower runners in a group to turn around when the main body comes by them on the return, and not to continue on to the turnaround point. That way the coach doesn't have to hang around for a long time after the run, waiting for the slowest runner to return. Sometimes I think no one is listening.

There was nothing to do but return to the finish and wait for Joyce to show up. Or not to show up. In my experience, they always come back eventually. But I was majorly annoyed with myself for not continuing to look back to carefully observe her actions when I told her to turn around when we last went by her. I had made an assumption. My bad. My very bad.

Joyce wasn't magically back when we returned. We waited. Her boyfriend, who had run with another group, confirmed that she didn't have her cell phone with her. It was a little early to start driving around looking for her but I could tell that Ellen was uncomfortable with the situation.

Twenty five minutes later, here she came. She had proceeded on when the main group came back upon her, and then proceeded to go even further out when she missed the turnaround. She got lost.

But she got back eventually, as I thought she would. A coach's nightmare in the meantime.

The perfect gift

There it lay abandoned in the street, a small leather case. I went by it and tapped it with my foot, just to make sure that it didn't encase something. But it did. Inside was a cellphone/palm pilot.

No one was around so I picked it up. I thereby assumed responsibility over it, albeit temporarily.

I confirmed to myself how little I knew about modern gadgetry. I think the keypad was locked, because I couldn't make the menu work. I couldn't call anyone listed on a speed dial on the device, and ask them if they knew anyone who might have lost a cellphone. Then I started worrying that the phone would lose power and become forever silent. I would never find out who it belonged to. I showed it to a friend, who noted that the phone used Sprint service.

"How do you know that?" I asked.

"Because it's a Sprint phone," she said.

"Oh." I decided I could take it to a Sprint Store, if I could find one, and they could locate the owner.

A little bit later this friend said, "I think the trunk of my car has been ringing. There it is again."

She pulled over and I hurriedly dug the cellphone out of my bag in the rear of her car. After pushing a green button on it, I said, "Hello?"

Talk about an awkward beginning to a conversation! It was worse than any fumbling pickup line I have ever tried. But soon we established our identities and respective interests in the dialogue.

He was Paul from McLean, the cellphone's owner, and he had been calling his phone over and over. I told him who I was, and said that he could pick it up the next day at my work.

He seemed relieved. He rang off saying, "That phone has all of my phone numbers and schedules on it. You have the frontal and rear lobes of my brain in your hand."

Then I started worrying about a potential reward. I certainly didn't want nor expect one. I had merely picked up something off the street, is all. But I knew the anxious owner would be very grateful, and I hoped that in his relief at getting his phone back, he wouldn't try to compensate me for my troubles, which were none.

What if he offered me money? Should I tell him to donate it to charity? Should I take a nominal amount and thank him? What was the etiquette here?

Paul turned out to be a pleasant man about my age with a full white beard, bearing gifts. Or a gift, to be more accurate. Paul was indeed very grateful to get his cellphone back, and he pressed upon me a bag containing a small, heavy parcel. Not money, I was relieved to note. It struck me that he might have been in a quandary himself about what to do for a "reward" for me.

In my embarrassment, after giving him the phone I took the bag, exchanged a casual pleasantry and hurried back to my office. I hope my actions didn't seem brusque, and that he didn't take offense at my abruptness.

Back in my office I unwrapped the parcel. Paul had given me the perfect gift to express his thanks. Inside was an 8-ounce bottle of liquefied amber gel with a label proclaiming it, "Paul's Honey--2008 Harvest, McLean, Virginia." The label even contained a Shakespeare quote from Henry V about the ordered work of honey-bees. This especially delighted me, an English major.

Thanks, Paul! I can't wait to try your honey.