Saint Patrick's race day memories

Happy runner, 1980

The Saint Patrick's Road Race, held yesterday, brings back intense memories.

One of my parents took the photo at right as I finished the race in 1980. I don't look much worse for the wear after running the course when it was longer, about eight miles, going up and down the hills at Holyoke Community College. A bunch of us at the Transcript-Telegram would run up and down those hills after work. I didn't have many cares except for starting my career in journalism and catching the eye of the editor who I would later marry.

My time was pretty good, I think about 54 minutes when the course was reduced to a 10K. By that time I was at the Sunday Republican, talking to my runner friends the next day about how I could have run faster if I tried. They said that if I ran speed intervals I really could do it. One of them said jokingly (I think) that I was a wuss. Or something friendly like that. I did occasionally pick it up between trees or other markers on the road and sometimes on the treadmill got to eight minute miles, but that was about it for me.  Now if you ran or even walked with me you probably could not believe I was ever that fast.

 Here is the link to the essay that I wrote for the New York Times magazine's Lives page after my fatigue and slower time during the 2003 race led to my leukemia diagnosis. The other photo is of me at the Quabbin Reservoir when I got out on a break from chemotherapy and just wanted to be near the water. My mother took the photo. I must have been cold because I had two sweatshirts on. I look at both of those photos and can't believe either of them was me. After the little outing at home, it was back to the hospital and on to the rest of the story.

Showing off my bald head, 2003

As people who know me know, I have run the race many times since. I have the energy to run it again. I know because I played two hours of tennis Friday night and could have played more except for my toe starting to hurt and the sight of the pizza calling to me.

Just as I was incredibly frustrated by plantar fasciitis, now I am frustrated by one big toe that hurts after I run. People who know me also know that I never complained about leukemia but complained, and continue to complain, about my feet. I think I could ease back into it in my new Hokas, but as of yesterday I was not ready to try it.

I was sorry when I went down to watch Ben that I wasn't doing it. I have mixed feelings about being there. But I wanted to see Ben and be in the mix of it. Well, I parked my car so far away that I walked about a mile to get to the start. When I walked to the finish I was on the wrong side and had to walk all the way around to get to the side where I could see the finishers. I stood there with my camera ready, stood there for about half an hour, and then realized I had missed him. With thousands of people milling around, I decided I would never find him or Joe.

So I walked down to Canal Street. And realized that a nightmare of mine had come true. In my nightmare, I'm walking, usually around New York, and am unable to find my car. There I was in Holyoke and I couldn't remember where I parked my car. I thought I might have to flag down a police cruiser to drive me around. I didn't write it down because I thought I would remember it.

Then I played a memory game. I remembered it was the last name of a woman with whom I had recently connected on Facebook. And then it came to me. Wendy Bower. It was Bower Street.

I was sad that I couldn't run the race, but happy that I found the car.

I treated myself to a Coke to wash down the hotdog that I had bought, drove home, and thought about something else. I was glad to talk to Ben later and find out that he had a good run.

Working at home, to a chorus of hammering

There are two white vans in my driveway this morning as I write this, one belonging to the painter, Bert, and the other to the electrician, Ralph.

Bert is outside hammering on the shutters after painting them and the back of the house, and Ralph is upstairs banging on something while he installs a new bathroom fan. Bert, a politics junkie like I am, is listening to NPR while I have on "The Daily Rundown" at the same time as I am getting the day organized.

Things fall apart, and it is expensive to put them back together, but I like the sounds and activity even as I miss the camaraderie and commotion (when it was full) of the newsroom.

Bert, a history major at UMass, became a painter because it was something he loved. He also loves to discuss life and politics, which we do one snippet at a time when he is here.

The pine needles drift from the trees outside my kitchen, where I write. If a combination of leukemia and the decrease in the newsroom staff hadn't cost me my job, I would still probably be working. But I can't complain about being at home, because when I looked across the room to the window nearest my desk in the newsroom, I saw Route 91.

I am lucky to have interesting and varied work now, but with the unpredictable nature of freelance writing, you never know what's around the corner.

I just finished a story for Mount Holyoke on a fascinating trip that students took to Sicily, complementing a class that they had taken on the island's culture, history and literature. This afternoon I am going to Chef Rufus's Full of Flavor Diner in Springfield to write a profile of the owner for Holyoke Community College because the owner went there.

Tomorrow I need to go to Boston for another medical appointment. I don't need permission from anyone but myself to take the day off.

Staying on my feet

I am behaving myself and staying off the rutty, muddy path around the lake, unless I am walking the dog, when I go slowly enough to stay out of trouble.

Yesterday, after lollygagging around the house and lying on the couch talking on the phone, I went to the gym. Getting there is the problem; once I'm there I am fine. I rode a bike and did the Arc machine, which is really quite strenuous and actually gives me a better workout than I get running at this point.

Then I did sit-ups, stretching and exercises on a mat, and best of all, got my Tootsie Rolls on the way out.

I did an interview yesterday at Holyoke Community College for one of their upcoming publications. It was about the supports offered through the Office for Students with Disabilities and Deaf Services. The acronym is a tongue-twister: OSDDS.

The more I write about all the services offered by this community college – most recently the Co-op program through which students get internships that often turn into jobs – the more impressed I am.

I think that support services have improved at four-year-colleges now, but back in the day when I went to Vassar, there was not much. You were basically plunged into this new life and left to fend for yourself. In the scheme of things, of course, there is nothing at all wrong with having the opportunity to be in a beautiful place with nothing to do but play and learn, but if you are shy and homesick like I was, you don't appreciate it as much as you should.

Looking forward to writing the story for HCC and going to tennis tonight.

Not looking forward to filling out my last FAFSA. When I was going to the office where I was doing my interview yesterday, I passed an office with a sign offering help for filling out the dreaded form. I wanted to drop right in. I better do it before the last minute in case I come across a problem.

Tomorrow is another day.