Iron people

We had our houseful of glowing athletes this past weekend, but all the good pix seem to be in other peoples’ cameras. Almost everyone did well, despite high heat and humidity, on the beautiful but very tough, hilly courses. A and H were pleased to finish the International (Olympic distance) race 20th and 11th in their divisions, though A was a little disappointed in his run and H briefly suffered what she called an “anxiety attack” early in her swim.

 

One of our backyard campers was 3rd in his group in the much longer Half-Ironman. It was his birthday the day before, and sweet B played “Happy Birthday” on her Suzuki violin when it was time to cut the cake. It was her best attempt yet, and of course she received terrific applause from the 14 or 15 grown-ups around the table. Her grin even outdid ours.

Memorial Day Weekend

Woodbury’s little Memorial Day parade (always held on Sunday, not Memorial Day itself) marches along Main Street in front of our house, so we usually have a little front-yard gathering of half of our friends, who chat, sip a little something, and wave to the other half of our friends passing by and waving back. This year, the lady who drives the miniature horses stopped (by secret pre-arrangement) to pick up the amazed B, who was lifted onto the sulky and grinned and waved her way to the South Green. Pretty nice.

A was home in New Hampshire building a fence (looks good, too—I think Jasper the Wonderdog must have helped), so it was just B and H for the weekend. Here’s the B, explaining  about the plantings she and her grandmother started some weeks ago. B helps her daddy with the vegetable garden in Concord, and she seems to really appreciate the magic of seeds becoming leaves, and flowers, and edibles.

On Memorial Day proper, the four of us took the pretty drive through Washington, to New Preston, and down Rt. 202 to Clamps, an old-fashioned roadside hamburger stand. You stand in line to order, then sit in your car or find yourself a table or bench on the grass to wait until they shout your name to come pick up your food. It’s a pretty famous place around here, and we’ve been going there for decades. It’s changed a little, but it’s still great.

 

It was a very warm day,  but where we were sitting under the trees it got pretty chilly, so I brought B the old fleece pullover that lives in my car.

This weekend, all four of them will be here, along with a strong crew from Capital Multisport, their Triathlon club from Concord. They’re all coming to compete in either an Olympic-length tri (Saturday) or a half tri (Sunday) at a nearby lake. So our house will be full of super-fit, enthusiastic, competitive young people. It’s been awhile. Can’t wait.

Peeved am I

Listening to the Maraniss book over the last few days I was thinking, “Boy, he’s leaving a lot of the good stuff out. Probably because he’s making a point that doesn’t require him to cover all the athletic high spots.” At the end this morning, the voice reading the credits announced the name of the person who abridged the book for audio. Abridged? The packaging makes no mention of it. If I’d wanted an abridged account, I’d have consulted my own memory with the occasional Wikipedia touch-up. I don’t feel exactly cheated. I don’t feel as if I’ve completely wasted my time. But I’m pretty sure I feel a moderately grouchy half hour coming on.

On the other hand, the reader—who is also the author—does pronounce “Cerutty” correctly. As the man himself said, “sincerity without the sin.”

Stotan!

Of course, I’m a Lydiard man, myself.

Rafer Reminder

I’ve just started listening to David Maraniss’ book about the 1960 Olympics. It reminded me of what a big fan I was of the great decathlete Rafer Johnson when I was a boy. I followed his battles with UCLA teammate C.K. Yang and with the Russian Vasili Kuznetsov, and had absolute confidence he’d win that Olympic title.

That in turn reminded me that when our 8th Grade class graduated from Woodbury Elementary School in 1961, I was assigned a brief oration based on the class’s favorite things. One was our favorite athlete. Despite my allegiance to baseball as the only thing in the world actually worth doing, I had voted for Rafer, and had lobbied all my friends to do the same, so I was stunned and embarrassed to learn I was going to have to announce Babe Ruth as our collective choice. This, in my mind, displayed the utter ignorance of at least a plurality of the class—probably those dopey girls. The Babe was the great transcendent name of American sports, for sure, but he had played his last baseball game in 1935. Ancient history! Come on!

I entered a dissent with my teacher.

Overruled.

So there I stood in my brand new suit on a set of risers in the Woodbury Elementary School auditorium one late spring evening in 1961, reporting in my brand new unreliable voice this utterly nonsensical result. I tried to roll it out in a tone that I hoped registered as ironic or incredulous or at least not my fault, but nobody noticed (who would...it was an 8th grade graduation speech).

Ah, but we also recited Kipling’s If.  (Yes, it was a long time ago in a world far away.) And I remember that when we got to

If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run (...)

I felt as if I’d personally snuck something over.

Spring in Woodbury and thoughts of Scotland

A soft couple of days on Main Street, with a little of the rain we need. Every May I think, “This is definitely the prettiest time of year.” And then October comes and I say the same thing. It’s certainly true that if you know your back roads and take a ride from here anywhere in, oh, a 20-mile arc swept from west to north, you’d be pardoned during either of these months for thinking you’d taken a detour through paradise. Of course, October has apples.

Tomorrow is the start of the TGO Challenge, the annual walk across Scotland that is responsible for this blog’s existence. Here’s hoping the weather is fine and the midgies continue their winter slumber. Very best wishes for a wonderful two weeks to all participants. I’m still holding out hope I’ll be there next year. Here’s an image of Glen Kingie from near Kinbreak Bothy, from my aborted 2008 attempt.

May looks different there. So does paradise.

Rollin’, rollin’ rollin’.

Yesterday, I pulled my bike out of the garage, where it’s been cringing all winter attempting to avoid chilblains, and hooked it up to the new trainer. So now I can: 1. put the seldom visited parlor and its rather lovely bow window to use, 2. keep tabs on whoever is walking along the sidewalk, 3. appreciate the gradual greening as spring comes on, and, of course, 4. pedal away like a demented gerbil, grouchily trying to make up for not being able to run.

I do believe I’ll sneak out for a short shuffle later this week, for old times’ sake, and I’m thinking the bod should allow a return to the pool so I can renew my battle to learn to swim rather than thrash.

Gotta keep them dogies rollin’.

Though on some days I prefer Sam Cooke’s more existential approach:
   Keep movin’ on, keep movin’ on  
   Life is this way  
   Keep movin’ on, keep movin’ on
   Everyday

Cool Bikings

Now that I’m forced to learn a bit about bikes, I keep running into things that amaze and delight me. I’m wanting a Brompton, for example, even though it doesn't really make sense around here. I just learned about these S&S Couplers from the Bilenky Cycle Works site.

The concept is either supercool or ridiculous, and as all my friends know, for me it would be ridiculous, because with my mechanical ability I'd never get my bike back together again. But for world-traveling you....

My actual bike, as opposed to my mythical Brompton, my non-existent trans-continental tourer, and my utterly fictional Yuba Boda Boda cargo-hauler is a simple Trek FX, soon to be semi-permanently attached to a Kinetic trainer for purposes of an early-morning hour of boredom before my walk. Neither amazement nor delight, but if I get a little unsublime increase in fitness I’ll be content.