At any rate, it should all be done by next week Wednesay. But don't start showing up with your floaties just yet...
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
The pool that almost is
Saturday, May 4, 2013
Over koningen, stilzitten, en klompen
Natuurlijk ging ik iets diepzinnigs zeggen over de inhuldiging van Willem Alexander. Ik had zelfs het geweldige plan om dat op 30 April zelf te doen. Maar ja, net als mijn verjaardag valt Konningedag de laatste jaren tijdens de drukste periode van het jaar en dus kwam het er niet van.
Vandaag is het commencement, de voornamelijk lange afstudeer ceremonie, en dus de eerste keer in pak en beet drie weken dat ik niks anders doe dan zitten. Drie uur lang. En aangezien ik eindelijk ontdekt heb dat er een app is voor bloggen, heb ik nu eindelijk iets te doen. In plaats van zenuwachtig wiebelen en elke vijf minuten mijn 'hood' rechttrekken, kan ik nu gewoon bloggen. Wat een ontdekking. Straks ga ik commencement nog leuk vinden.
Dus. Koninginnedag. Of heette het deze keer al Koningsdag? Ik heb eigenlijk geen idee. En daarmee ben ik meteen aangekomen op wat ik eigenlijk wilde zeggen: Zo'n nieuwe koning is natuurlijk helemaal geweldig, maar nu hoor ik er weer een beetje minder bij daar in Nederland.
De inhuldiging was geweldig, de prinsesjes uber-schattig, Beatrix waardig maar ook lief, de voorstellingen tijdens de boottocht hadden me soms in tranen, en ik kan zelfs prima leven met "De dag die je wist dat zou komen". Desondanks weet ik nu al dat ik een van die irritante mensen ga zijn die maar niet kan wennen aan het woord Koningsdag, en die het over tien jaar nog steeds heeft over Koninging Beatrix, in plaats van prinses. Net als mijn oma dat vroeger deed met Juliana. Alleen doe ik het dan niet uit ouderdom en gewoontje, maar omdat in mijn dagelijks leven Nederland alleen maar in mijn hoofd aanwezig is, en mijn hoofd ondertussen een aantal jaren achterloopt. Ik hou de Nederlandse samenleving gewoon te weinig bij (en ben dus elke keer als ik hoor dat Rutte premier is verbaasd, ik bedoel, ik was net gewend aan Balkenende) om aan dit hele nieuwe koningsgebeuren net zo snel te wennen als alle andere Nederlanders. En dat is gewoon een beetje vreemd. Want if it walks like a duck, dan zou je verwachten dat het ook talks als een duck, en sja, dat wordt dus steeds minder. Ik tel de jaren af totdat ik een wereld-, of in ieder geval Nederland-vreemde expat ben. Of een halve duck zo u wilt.
Nu we het toch over watervogels hebben, laten we het eens over ons zwembad hebben. Dat echt steeds minder op een grote kuil lijkt, en steeds meer op een zwembad. Het beton is gestort, de leidingen zijn gelegd, en afgezien van het feit dat de leidingen voor ons sproei systeem geheel tegen de planning in zijn meebegraven, en dus weer opgegraven moeten worden, liggen we goed op schema. Klein nadeel is alleen dat onze tuin nu echt een grote rode klei rommel is, en je dus met geen mogelijkheid de tuin in kan zonder ontzettend vies te worden. De honden, en voornamelijk Shelby, zijn absoluut niet gecharmeerd van deze ontwikkeling. Niet alleen is de voortuin lang niet zo spannend als de achteruin met al haar puppy vrienden in aangrenzende tuinen, als ze een keer de achtertuin in mag, moet ze zich daarna onderwerpen aan een genante wasbeurt waar mevrouw niet van gediend is.
Gisteren wilde ik zelf de vooruitgang zelf eens van dichtbij zien, en stond ook voor de vraag wat ik in hemelsnaam aan kon dat niet een kilo klei mee naar binnen zou slepen. Alles met zolen is in feite uit den
boze, en om nou op blote voeten door de kletsnatte klei te struinen vond ik een beetje ver gaan. Wat dragen mensen die naar buiten moeten in de modder zoal? In een keer had ik het: klompen! Natuurlijk!
En zo kwam het dat mijn oude klompen, die al jaren ter decoratie in de woonlamer staan, in een keer weer aan het werk moesten. Ik zal u vertellen: ze werken perfect. Ik zakte niet weg, en er bleef geen spikkel klei aan de onderkant hangen. Die oude Nederlanders waren zo gek nog niet. Maar goed, ik heb ons 'zwembad in wording' dus goed kunnen inspecteren, en het wordt echt geweldig. Nou moet het alleen even ophouden met regenen.
Als u zich trouwens afvraagt waarom het merendeel van de foto's van mij op dit blog mij laten zien in pyjama, in mijn achtertuin, dat weet ik ook niet.
Vandaag is het commencement, de voornamelijk lange afstudeer ceremonie, en dus de eerste keer in pak en beet drie weken dat ik niks anders doe dan zitten. Drie uur lang. En aangezien ik eindelijk ontdekt heb dat er een app is voor bloggen, heb ik nu eindelijk iets te doen. In plaats van zenuwachtig wiebelen en elke vijf minuten mijn 'hood' rechttrekken, kan ik nu gewoon bloggen. Wat een ontdekking. Straks ga ik commencement nog leuk vinden.
Dus. Koninginnedag. Of heette het deze keer al Koningsdag? Ik heb eigenlijk geen idee. En daarmee ben ik meteen aangekomen op wat ik eigenlijk wilde zeggen: Zo'n nieuwe koning is natuurlijk helemaal geweldig, maar nu hoor ik er weer een beetje minder bij daar in Nederland.
De inhuldiging was geweldig, de prinsesjes uber-schattig, Beatrix waardig maar ook lief, de voorstellingen tijdens de boottocht hadden me soms in tranen, en ik kan zelfs prima leven met "De dag die je wist dat zou komen". Desondanks weet ik nu al dat ik een van die irritante mensen ga zijn die maar niet kan wennen aan het woord Koningsdag, en die het over tien jaar nog steeds heeft over Koninging Beatrix, in plaats van prinses. Net als mijn oma dat vroeger deed met Juliana. Alleen doe ik het dan niet uit ouderdom en gewoontje, maar omdat in mijn dagelijks leven Nederland alleen maar in mijn hoofd aanwezig is, en mijn hoofd ondertussen een aantal jaren achterloopt. Ik hou de Nederlandse samenleving gewoon te weinig bij (en ben dus elke keer als ik hoor dat Rutte premier is verbaasd, ik bedoel, ik was net gewend aan Balkenende) om aan dit hele nieuwe koningsgebeuren net zo snel te wennen als alle andere Nederlanders. En dat is gewoon een beetje vreemd. Want if it walks like a duck, dan zou je verwachten dat het ook talks als een duck, en sja, dat wordt dus steeds minder. Ik tel de jaren af totdat ik een wereld-, of in ieder geval Nederland-vreemde expat ben. Of een halve duck zo u wilt.
Nu we het toch over watervogels hebben, laten we het eens over ons zwembad hebben. Dat echt steeds minder op een grote kuil lijkt, en steeds meer op een zwembad. Het beton is gestort, de leidingen zijn gelegd, en afgezien van het feit dat de leidingen voor ons sproei systeem geheel tegen de planning in zijn meebegraven, en dus weer opgegraven moeten worden, liggen we goed op schema. Klein nadeel is alleen dat onze tuin nu echt een grote rode klei rommel is, en je dus met geen mogelijkheid de tuin in kan zonder ontzettend vies te worden. De honden, en voornamelijk Shelby, zijn absoluut niet gecharmeerd van deze ontwikkeling. Niet alleen is de voortuin lang niet zo spannend als de achteruin met al haar puppy vrienden in aangrenzende tuinen, als ze een keer de achtertuin in mag, moet ze zich daarna onderwerpen aan een genante wasbeurt waar mevrouw niet van gediend is.
Gisteren wilde ik zelf de vooruitgang zelf eens van dichtbij zien, en stond ook voor de vraag wat ik in hemelsnaam aan kon dat niet een kilo klei mee naar binnen zou slepen. Alles met zolen is in feite uit den
boze, en om nou op blote voeten door de kletsnatte klei te struinen vond ik een beetje ver gaan. Wat dragen mensen die naar buiten moeten in de modder zoal? In een keer had ik het: klompen! Natuurlijk!
En zo kwam het dat mijn oude klompen, die al jaren ter decoratie in de woonlamer staan, in een keer weer aan het werk moesten. Ik zal u vertellen: ze werken perfect. Ik zakte niet weg, en er bleef geen spikkel klei aan de onderkant hangen. Die oude Nederlanders waren zo gek nog niet. Maar goed, ik heb ons 'zwembad in wording' dus goed kunnen inspecteren, en het wordt echt geweldig. Nou moet het alleen even ophouden met regenen.
Als u zich trouwens afvraagt waarom het merendeel van de foto's van mij op dit blog mij laten zien in pyjama, in mijn achtertuin, dat weet ik ook niet.
Monday, April 29, 2013
Here's your sign...
...that you spend too much time in your car (courtesy of husband-dear):
10. You can hum the theme song to almost every single NPR show, and imitate the "you are listening to.." call perfectly, intonation and all.
9. You exceed the manufacturer's warranty in the first year.
8. You realize that on M-F, you spend more time in your care than you do with your husband (while awake anyway).
7. You jokingly call your car your mobile office, but when you're not sure where your laptop, latest batch of ungraded papers, or your thumb drive is, you know the best place to look is your car.
6. Scheduling car maintenance takes precedence over scheduling your dental cleanings.
5. You've noticed that you buy new tires at the same interval that you get your hair cut.
4. You schedule conference calls on your drive home.
3. You select your weekly meals based on what you can eat while driving (hint: black bean quesadillas are the bomb, anything on a bun with lettuce is a no-go).
And a related 3a. You ask your husband to make the quesadilla a little thinner so the cheese won't leak out
2. Your right calf is significantly larger than your left calf.
And your most obvious sign that you spend way too much commuting to and from work:
1. When your husband composes lists like these while waiting for you to come home!
10. You can hum the theme song to almost every single NPR show, and imitate the "you are listening to.." call perfectly, intonation and all.
9. You exceed the manufacturer's warranty in the first year.
8. You realize that on M-F, you spend more time in your care than you do with your husband (while awake anyway).
7. You jokingly call your car your mobile office, but when you're not sure where your laptop, latest batch of ungraded papers, or your thumb drive is, you know the best place to look is your car.
6. Scheduling car maintenance takes precedence over scheduling your dental cleanings.
5. You've noticed that you buy new tires at the same interval that you get your hair cut.
4. You schedule conference calls on your drive home.
3. You select your weekly meals based on what you can eat while driving (hint: black bean quesadillas are the bomb, anything on a bun with lettuce is a no-go).
And a related 3a. You ask your husband to make the quesadilla a little thinner so the cheese won't leak out
2. Your right calf is significantly larger than your left calf.
And your most obvious sign that you spend way too much commuting to and from work:
1. When your husband composes lists like these while waiting for you to come home!
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
Reduce pee
When you drive about 4,000 miles each month, 1,000 miles per week, and spend well over three hours in your car every day, you get bored. Really bored. You also quickly become really creative in alleviating that boredom. You not only know the frequency for every single NPR station between your house and your office, you have the programming memorized too ("Ooh, I'm in time to catch 'On the media!'"). You have an iPod full of songs, a list of friends and family on speed dial, and you have no qualms about practicing for Sunday's worship team by singing into you iPhone's voice memo app and then critically reviewing your performance. Out loud.
But at the end of the day, it is just you in your car. By yourself. Surrounded by lots of semis and drivers from Florida who obviously got their licenses from a box of Crackerjacks. And some days are good, and some are not so good.
If there is one thing that rains on my commuting parade, it's road construction. I have a thing with road construction ever since we lived in Germany, and the 61 (one of the major interstates in our neck of the woods) was under construction the entire time we were there. We'retalking years people, years. It wasn't a few miles of construction either, oh no, it went on and on and on, past Konlenz, Cologne, and God only knows where it ended. If it ever did. As someone who used on the 61 on a regular basis, it was close to traumatizing. Seriously. Imagine a three-lane interstate reduced to two tiny lanes, walls on either side, semis and vehicles with seriously poorly balanced RVs trailing behind them rumbling by, the speed limit set to 60km/h (a whopping 35 mph), and German speed cameras lurking everywhere. As my southern friends would say: It was a mess.
So moving to Georgia was a relief. No road construction, no ridiculous speed limits, and speed cameras are, at least in all the counties I drive through, illegal. Life was good.
And then last year, GDoT decided that things had been quiet long enough, and it was high time to repave a large section of the interstate. Having, at that point, become a veritable expert at hydroplaning and driving without any sort of visibility thanks to all the spray engulfing my apparently ridiculously small vehicle, I couldn't agree more. Bring on the Dutch 'super open asphalt'! But for a reason I have yet to understand, the Georgia Department of Transportation decided to start with 27 miles. Not three, not five, no, 27. Oh wait, they haven't actually repaved more than six miles since they started last summer. Oh no. But they did reduce 27 miles of interstate (and yes, it is 27 miles, I counted. Several times) to two teeny tiny lanes with a wall on one side and a vey soft shoulder on the other. Add the sixteen wheelers and the inattentive Florida drivers in the mix, and you can imagine I have witnessed some pretty devastating accidents in the past year. Thanks to the ensuing roadblocks, I have also finally been able to tour all the small towns whose names I used to only know from the signposts I would fly by. And although there are no speed cameras, I swear that the main reason Georgia's revenue has gone up this year is thanks to the State Patrol troopers who are on that road like crows on roadkill. I suppose I should be grateful that at least the speed limit is a fairly decent 60mph.
Anyway, to say I'm done with the construction is an understatement. It's hard to focus on Steve Innskeep, that high C I need to hit, or finding the right playlist when you're trying to not get squashed into the wall by a semi flying by, or hit that uneven ledge where the pavement meets the old shoulder (which is now roadway) which will most definitely send your car (or at least my travel-size one) flying, probably into the muddy shoulder. There's a speed limit to maintain, lane shifts to pay attention to, and more importantly, other drivers, who might not have noticed that lane shift, to look out for.
So every morning and evening when I see the orange cones, the large signs indicating an upcoming construction zone, and the overhead jumbotron signs warning you to ahift right and reduce your speed, I sigh. Except this morning. I'm not sure if the sign was broken, or if a joker had gotten a hold of the remote control, but instead of its usual "Reduced speed ahead!", the sign read: "Reduce pee ahead!"
And I giggled. And life was good.
But at the end of the day, it is just you in your car. By yourself. Surrounded by lots of semis and drivers from Florida who obviously got their licenses from a box of Crackerjacks. And some days are good, and some are not so good.
If there is one thing that rains on my commuting parade, it's road construction. I have a thing with road construction ever since we lived in Germany, and the 61 (one of the major interstates in our neck of the woods) was under construction the entire time we were there. We'retalking years people, years. It wasn't a few miles of construction either, oh no, it went on and on and on, past Konlenz, Cologne, and God only knows where it ended. If it ever did. As someone who used on the 61 on a regular basis, it was close to traumatizing. Seriously. Imagine a three-lane interstate reduced to two tiny lanes, walls on either side, semis and vehicles with seriously poorly balanced RVs trailing behind them rumbling by, the speed limit set to 60km/h (a whopping 35 mph), and German speed cameras lurking everywhere. As my southern friends would say: It was a mess.
So moving to Georgia was a relief. No road construction, no ridiculous speed limits, and speed cameras are, at least in all the counties I drive through, illegal. Life was good.
And then last year, GDoT decided that things had been quiet long enough, and it was high time to repave a large section of the interstate. Having, at that point, become a veritable expert at hydroplaning and driving without any sort of visibility thanks to all the spray engulfing my apparently ridiculously small vehicle, I couldn't agree more. Bring on the Dutch 'super open asphalt'! But for a reason I have yet to understand, the Georgia Department of Transportation decided to start with 27 miles. Not three, not five, no, 27. Oh wait, they haven't actually repaved more than six miles since they started last summer. Oh no. But they did reduce 27 miles of interstate (and yes, it is 27 miles, I counted. Several times) to two teeny tiny lanes with a wall on one side and a vey soft shoulder on the other. Add the sixteen wheelers and the inattentive Florida drivers in the mix, and you can imagine I have witnessed some pretty devastating accidents in the past year. Thanks to the ensuing roadblocks, I have also finally been able to tour all the small towns whose names I used to only know from the signposts I would fly by. And although there are no speed cameras, I swear that the main reason Georgia's revenue has gone up this year is thanks to the State Patrol troopers who are on that road like crows on roadkill. I suppose I should be grateful that at least the speed limit is a fairly decent 60mph.
Anyway, to say I'm done with the construction is an understatement. It's hard to focus on Steve Innskeep, that high C I need to hit, or finding the right playlist when you're trying to not get squashed into the wall by a semi flying by, or hit that uneven ledge where the pavement meets the old shoulder (which is now roadway) which will most definitely send your car (or at least my travel-size one) flying, probably into the muddy shoulder. There's a speed limit to maintain, lane shifts to pay attention to, and more importantly, other drivers, who might not have noticed that lane shift, to look out for.
So every morning and evening when I see the orange cones, the large signs indicating an upcoming construction zone, and the overhead jumbotron signs warning you to ahift right and reduce your speed, I sigh. Except this morning. I'm not sure if the sign was broken, or if a joker had gotten a hold of the remote control, but instead of its usual "Reduced speed ahead!", the sign read: "Reduce pee ahead!"
And I giggled. And life was good.
Saturday, April 20, 2013
Welcome to the desert
So I totally did not mean to leave you all hanging after my last wordless post.
Well, in all reality, I'm sure that none of you actually felt left hanging. I mean, between a very traumatizing attack on the world's most famous marathon, and a crazy, seemingly never-ending manhunt, I'm sure we all had other things on our mind than DC's challenge to figure out the meaning behind her three pictures. And, well, even if this had been the most normal of normal weeks, I highly doubt whether anyone was sitting around thinking to themselves that O Em Gee, DC better get her act together.
Let's just say that I don't like to leave people hanging.
So, to respond to all the comments: Yes! We are getting a pool. And not just any old above-ground pool, no, a bona fide in-ground, concrete vinyl-lined Grecian shaped pool. Yes, it's crazy, and we are possibly completely insane, but there you have it. A pool.
Now when we sat down with the pool designers, we considered every option possible: how much deck, what kind of deck, what kind of lights, how many, a diving board or a jumping rock, what kind of coping, what color, and a whole host of other things I never even thought about when I first thought a pool would be a good idea. I mean, did you know there are three kinds of cleaning robots? And at least four types of pumps? And twenty types of liners? And you have to make decisions about every. Single. One. Of. Them.
Remind me to never build my own home.
Anyway, one thing we definitely did not consider was the incredible mess our yard would turn in to. Obviously, we realized building a pool would involve digging, but somehow, we imagined the dirt would magically disappear. And the dumptrucks and backhoes would just fall from the heavens into our backyard every morning and disappear at the end of each workday. Instead, this past Monday a dumptruck and a backhoe appeared in our backyard and proceeded to not only dig a ridiculously large hole, but also leave mountains of red clay piled several feet high, and create yards and yards of deep, muddy trenches throughout what remains of our backyard, down the yard beside our house, and all the way to the street.
Personally, I don't mind. Every extra mound of clay signifies one step closer to a beautifully finished pool, and thinking about that makes it all OK. Husband-dear, on the other hand, takes a less light view of matters. With each pile of dirt hauled away, he sighs about sprinkler systems, sod, the fence, and a host of other matters that I, in my pool-induced euhoria have completely brushed aside. I mean, who needs sod when you have a pool deck? Or a sprinkler system when you have a pool full of crystal clear water? Clearly, husband-dear is a kill joy. Or, considering the fact that I have never seen a piece of sod or sprinkler pipe up close, while husband-dear turned that into a career prior to joining the military, he is possibly just a realist. I'll let you be the judge and share our current view from our back porch: Is it like the New Mexican desert I keep talking about? Or maybe not?
Well, in all reality, I'm sure that none of you actually felt left hanging. I mean, between a very traumatizing attack on the world's most famous marathon, and a crazy, seemingly never-ending manhunt, I'm sure we all had other things on our mind than DC's challenge to figure out the meaning behind her three pictures. And, well, even if this had been the most normal of normal weeks, I highly doubt whether anyone was sitting around thinking to themselves that O Em Gee, DC better get her act together.
Let's just say that I don't like to leave people hanging.
So, to respond to all the comments: Yes! We are getting a pool. And not just any old above-ground pool, no, a bona fide in-ground, concrete vinyl-lined Grecian shaped pool. Yes, it's crazy, and we are possibly completely insane, but there you have it. A pool.
Now when we sat down with the pool designers, we considered every option possible: how much deck, what kind of deck, what kind of lights, how many, a diving board or a jumping rock, what kind of coping, what color, and a whole host of other things I never even thought about when I first thought a pool would be a good idea. I mean, did you know there are three kinds of cleaning robots? And at least four types of pumps? And twenty types of liners? And you have to make decisions about every. Single. One. Of. Them.
Remind me to never build my own home.
Anyway, one thing we definitely did not consider was the incredible mess our yard would turn in to. Obviously, we realized building a pool would involve digging, but somehow, we imagined the dirt would magically disappear. And the dumptrucks and backhoes would just fall from the heavens into our backyard every morning and disappear at the end of each workday. Instead, this past Monday a dumptruck and a backhoe appeared in our backyard and proceeded to not only dig a ridiculously large hole, but also leave mountains of red clay piled several feet high, and create yards and yards of deep, muddy trenches throughout what remains of our backyard, down the yard beside our house, and all the way to the street.
Personally, I don't mind. Every extra mound of clay signifies one step closer to a beautifully finished pool, and thinking about that makes it all OK. Husband-dear, on the other hand, takes a less light view of matters. With each pile of dirt hauled away, he sighs about sprinkler systems, sod, the fence, and a host of other matters that I, in my pool-induced euhoria have completely brushed aside. I mean, who needs sod when you have a pool deck? Or a sprinkler system when you have a pool full of crystal clear water? Clearly, husband-dear is a kill joy. Or, considering the fact that I have never seen a piece of sod or sprinkler pipe up close, while husband-dear turned that into a career prior to joining the military, he is possibly just a realist. I'll let you be the judge and share our current view from our back porch: Is it like the New Mexican desert I keep talking about? Or maybe not?
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
The day that changed it all
Today I sit at my desk feeling not a whole lot different than I did on September 12, 2001. Uncertain, apprehensive, and defeated. The images from yesterday's bombing seem burned into my mind: the runner blown to the ground by the force of the blast; the girl in the pink running top who crosses the finish line as the explosion blows through the sky, and who first checks her watch and then looks behind her; the woman on the stretcher covered in blood. My ears hear the cheers quickly turn into cries and screams, and I can't seem to stop wondering if finishing a race will ever be the same.
Although many of us runners (and triathletes, cyclists, mountainbikers, swimmers...) who watched the tragedy unfold yesterday have never run Boston, and probably never will, we all know the feeling of euphoria that accompanies the final mile, the sight of the "Finish" sign, the loud cheers from the crowd. We know what it's like to train and train for months, even years, and to see all of that perfectly encapsulated in that final stretch. Yesterday's bombing changed that final stretch, maybe forever. Not only will the concept of the "drop bag" that runners leave at the finish probably be a thing of the past, none of us will be able to easily forget what happened yesterday the next time we cross a finish line.
I know April 15, 2013 will not go down in history the same way 9/11 did. It will never have a two-syllable acronym to capture its horrors. We will not have worldwide commemorations ten years later. And for that I am grateful. "Only" a handful of people perished, "only" a hundred or so were injured. As my mother would say, that is a handful too many, but still, it could have been far, far worse. The fact that it is not, is worth a prayer or two. So, unlike 9/11, it probably won't be long until other, "bigger" stories crowd the Boston Marathon bombing to a second or third place on the evening news. Yet somehow, that doesn't seem right.
The running community is a family. We all share the same pains and joys in training. We complain about rain, sun, winds, high temperatures, low temperatures, and everything else in between. We share stories about crazy dogs chasing us, running at oh-dark-thirty to get that ten miles in before work. We commiserate when someone is injured, we encourage when it is needed, we cheer when it's earned. In our triumphs and our failures, we are brothers and sisters. Put two strange runners in a room, and within minutes, they will be chatting as though they have known each other all their lives. They will exchange tips, race ideas, horror stories, and accomplishments. A runner plus a runner doesn't equal two runners, it equals a team. So yesterday's attack wasn't just an attack on the city of Boston, or the Boston marathon, or even the American people. It feels like an attack on people with whom I share an entire world, an attack on my family.
So today is an off day. While the world slowly picks itself up, searches for those who committed this heinous crime, the running family sits around and wonders about how to move forward. Why they, of all the people out there, were the target of this crime. How this will affect future races. How to move forward from here. We won't sit around for long though. Pretty soon, we'll realize that the best way to recover is to go out and run. Maybe slowly. Maybe not so far, but run we shall.
Although many of us runners (and triathletes, cyclists, mountainbikers, swimmers...) who watched the tragedy unfold yesterday have never run Boston, and probably never will, we all know the feeling of euphoria that accompanies the final mile, the sight of the "Finish" sign, the loud cheers from the crowd. We know what it's like to train and train for months, even years, and to see all of that perfectly encapsulated in that final stretch. Yesterday's bombing changed that final stretch, maybe forever. Not only will the concept of the "drop bag" that runners leave at the finish probably be a thing of the past, none of us will be able to easily forget what happened yesterday the next time we cross a finish line.
I know April 15, 2013 will not go down in history the same way 9/11 did. It will never have a two-syllable acronym to capture its horrors. We will not have worldwide commemorations ten years later. And for that I am grateful. "Only" a handful of people perished, "only" a hundred or so were injured. As my mother would say, that is a handful too many, but still, it could have been far, far worse. The fact that it is not, is worth a prayer or two. So, unlike 9/11, it probably won't be long until other, "bigger" stories crowd the Boston Marathon bombing to a second or third place on the evening news. Yet somehow, that doesn't seem right.
The running community is a family. We all share the same pains and joys in training. We complain about rain, sun, winds, high temperatures, low temperatures, and everything else in between. We share stories about crazy dogs chasing us, running at oh-dark-thirty to get that ten miles in before work. We commiserate when someone is injured, we encourage when it is needed, we cheer when it's earned. In our triumphs and our failures, we are brothers and sisters. Put two strange runners in a room, and within minutes, they will be chatting as though they have known each other all their lives. They will exchange tips, race ideas, horror stories, and accomplishments. A runner plus a runner doesn't equal two runners, it equals a team. So yesterday's attack wasn't just an attack on the city of Boston, or the Boston marathon, or even the American people. It feels like an attack on people with whom I share an entire world, an attack on my family.
So today is an off day. While the world slowly picks itself up, searches for those who committed this heinous crime, the running family sits around and wonders about how to move forward. Why they, of all the people out there, were the target of this crime. How this will affect future races. How to move forward from here. We won't sit around for long though. Pretty soon, we'll realize that the best way to recover is to go out and run. Maybe slowly. Maybe not so far, but run we shall.
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
Another wordless Wednesday
Since no one came even close to guessing the story behind the picture of the flags that I posted two weeks ago, I figured it was time for another wordless Wednesday.
So.
Three more pictures without a story. Knock yourselves out.
So.
Three more pictures without a story. Knock yourselves out.
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