Day 2: Bicycling from Smithfield, NC to Fayetteville, NC
70ish miles — and who invited Hurricane Matthew to the Carolina coast?
The second day of the East Coast Greenway WAY (Week-A-Year) tour began with new routines and new grooves setting in. The pre-ride routine included two trips (maybe more) to drag your luggage and bicycle from your room to the lobby. Bonus points were earned for not spilling your cup of Joe. If you made it to the lobby without losing Joe, you treated yourself to a sit-down in the lobby lounge, chatting with bike mates, and planning your departure time for the day’s ride. Minutes are ticking, and it’s time to keep moving, so you find your way to the luggage truck to hoist your bag onboard — a bag that has mysteriously doubled in weight — and discover there is still time for more socializing. You then grab a tire pump, one that puts more than 40 pounds of air pressure in your tires, and quickly realize you’ll be riding a lot faster today with air in your tires. A long glare at your bicycle seat followed by a quick request of the saddle gods to be kind, and your group-du-jour of riders — with bright visibility lights flashing — are ready to cycle on. Continue reading Hogs, Logs and Miles
Day 1: Bicycling from Raleigh, NC to Smithfield, NC
42.5ish miles — or more depending on bonus miles & wrong turns
The first day of the East Coast Greenway WAY (Week-A-Year) tour began in downtown Raleigh with nearly 40 cyclists jones’n to get on their bicycle legs. Many drove double-digit hour-long car rides, tipping the scales of 70 mph speed limits for the right to transition to a pace that resembled something much slower. Cycling at touring speeds, with the winds at your back if you were lucky. A pace that averaged 10-12 miles per hour once you factored in the stops – that were many, especially on day one. Continue reading Transitions
Piseco Lake…in the south west corner of the Adirondacks is a place where time stands still, where technology doesn’t matter, where face time means in-person, where base-camp overlooks one end of Piseco Lake, and dozens of mountains, and you never get tired of staring at the view….
Continue reading Piseco
Signs of an aging runner…
Doris drove the oversized van — a rehabbed ambulance — into the lot designated for runners taking four parking spaces while Lois tended to other matters. Outside, runners no older than 40 congregated, wearing singlets and shorts in 45-degree weather, not growing goosebumps, waiting for the half marathon to start. Inside the van, the temperature a balmy 78.
Sporting an age category far right of the runners bell curve, Lois and Doris broke a sweat with two layers of pants and a full contingent of long sleeve shirts, Goretex vest, and a winter jacket. Behind the driver’s seat a long hallway – presumed once used for stretchers – flanked a private bathroom, a closet with two fold out chairs, a coffee station and a large sofa covered with knee braces, ankle supports, bandages and four pairs of running shoes.
Continue reading The warmup
As their AmTrak train arrived in New York City, the screeching sounds of brakes grinding to a stop gave way to a sense that something special was about to unfold. Doris and Lois, dragged their carefully packed bags, backpacks actually, that were only easy to carry during the departure from Baltimore. Somehow, during the train ride these bags transformed into cement blocks, becoming heavier and wider, and any plans to walk the distance from mid-town to Battery Park seemed less likely. It was New York City at 9AM and the hum of the city, the tall buildings that on some blocks shut down the sky, had that unique smell of humanity that the shop owners did their best to hose back onto the streets, for a city that claimed to never sleep.
Continue reading The Code
It was A.J.’s own voice that taunted her while watching Kato swim effortless laps in the pool. How could she plan to live on a sailboat, so terrified of the water? Sure it would be fine to swim fearless the way Kato does with his head dipped low in the water, barely coming up for air, or so it seemed. His arms moved in perfect cadence, with each stroke timed like a metronome. Even the way he kicked those small splashes propelling him great distances across the surface didn’t seem to tire him one bit, and the water barely rippled from behind. The other swimmers in their individual lanes, kicking and splashing, some with too much effort creating miniature tsunamis, at least they looked that way to her, and not one swimmer seeming to care that the pool water raged like rapids.
Continue reading Fighting words
The nearest concrete wall was three miles away which wasn’t far by my standards. It was 1969 and mom didn’t like the idea that I would ride my bicycle to the wall at the local university to hit tennis balls probably because I was ten years old and a girl, and too independent for my own good as she would say, so she insisted that I take the back roads and avoid the busy parkway.
Continue reading 10s
The milkman arrived at 6:45 am every tuesday and friday for a new delivery. He brought the usual milk and cream and there were other items to choose that included chocolate milk, eggs and orange juice. Mom would greet mister milkman as we called him, wearing her pink robe, and slippers, and her grey matted hair was just as it were when she woke. Primming and pruning could be done after the family was on their way – dad off to work, and my brother and I off to school. Her pink robe, worn and tattered, should have been tossed, but there was nothing wrong with it as far as she was concerned. Mom would discover by accident a hole she hadn’t noticed and then find fabric for a patch with a color that was close but never exact sew it back together and was good enough to continue to wear for another 30 years, just as she did. Mister milkman didn’t seem to notice the holes or the tattered patched robe, and in the rare case where mom had overslept, he would leave the ‘usual’ order and she could pay him the next week for six bottles of milk, if you please with a half gallon of orange juice along with those dozen eggs. On special occasions there would be an order for chocolate milk in a bottle half the size, and so rare we couldn’t wait to have a taste on sunday afternoons, after church and good behavior. Good behavior didn’t happen very often.
Continue reading 1965
continued from Lydia’s Pie…
Lydia’s first look at the pie kitchen inside the Piled High Diner shocked the air out of her lungs so fast she felt her lips backfire. A kitchen with a blur of unsuitable utensils begged her to make sense of irregularly sized pie pans, aluminum foil tins – unworthy stock in any kitchen – broken spatulas, and plastic bowls – none of which fit the outdated mixers. Sure, there were pie tins to choose from if she didn’t mind erratic diameters and heights. Staring through a stash of bake-ware, not one brand name stepped forward.
Turning toward the pantry she swung open the doors to an afterlife of generic foods, the 2 for $5 peanut butters not even smooth but crunchy, slabs of lard definitely not dairy, chocolate nibs missing their cacao, and key lime from a bottle. Struggling for air, she felt her chest fill with concrete. How could she bake 100 pies with substandard tools and ingredients? How could she keep her promise to Maggie?
Continue reading Juan