White Holiday Mixup

One morning this week an anchor on CNN’s “American Morning” had a special request for the meteorologist: he wanted a map showing the areas of the United States and Canada that could expect a white Christmas. The final days before the holiday brought some crazy storms in parts of the country, but on the east coast the precipitation has come as rain, which didn’t seem to be what this anchor was dreaming of. He was headed for Toronto for part of the holiday, but farther south the weather suggests spring. How to take Christmas seriously when it’s 60 degrees outside?

I have some dreams of a white Christmas, too; it’s the kind of holiday I grew up with. I couldn’t get in the mood to buy a Christmas tree or poinsettias when it felt like the dying days of summer. The warmth this year is unusual, but I couldn’t really expect snow for the holiday. I’m far from my childhood home now, and it rarely snows at Christmas here.



Nice but not Christmas

We often get snow, though, before the winter is over. The biggest snowmakers come our way late in the season, after the festive holiday lights are taken down and put away, after the darkness of winter has worn on a bit long and only dreams of spring alleviate the bleakness of the nights. A couple of years ago, two storms walloped the region in quick succession, leading to massive snowball fights, a run on shovels, and extended vacation from work for many.



It looks peaceful enough ...



“Snowmageddon” was sure to be historic, and the storms brought a charge of excitement as the power of nature bore down. The metro region looked beautiful and quiet under the new snow. And then came the digging out. For days, the roads stayed treacherous. A trip to the grocery store a few blocks away felt like a trek through the wilderness. By the end of the week, the whole experience had lost some its poetry. I turned my attention southward with a sense of relief and escape.



Might there be a car under there?



It happened to be February, and I had my first marathon of the season coming up in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. This time, it wasn’t just the kickoff of my racing calendar. It was my first marathon after almost a year, as a series of injuries had kept me out of consistent training for months. I was nervous and excited and glad to be driving south, away from the snow. During the first few hours of my car trip, I watched white-laced forests and fields give way to soft browns and greens unmuted by snow. Both my car and I began to breathe more freely, and my little green Neon picked up speed.

When we reached the outskirts of Myrtle Beach, I scanned through radio stations in search of some new music, but a spoken word caught my attention: “snow.” I stopped scanning and listened incredulously to a weather forecast. I was driving in South Carolina, a few miles now from the coast, and the meteorologist on the radio was predicting snow. But just a little snow, like frosting on a cake.

I drove on to the marathon expo to pick up my number. Signs posted at the entrance informed runners of a change to the schedule: a half-hour delay in the race start time. Good, I thought. The race started too early for February anyway, in my opinion. It’s still dark at 6:30. A 7:00 a.m. start would keep us out of the precipitation and in the daylight.

On the way to my hotel, I stopped at a bookstore and bought a book, something a friend had recommended. I felt so antsy. I was afraid I couldn’t take the waiting. It was almost like being back at the start of my very first marathon, unsure whether I was truly up to the challenge. The certainty of finishing was not there.

I tried to read but couldn’t get interested. I put the TV on and listened to the updates on the weather that came throughout the evening. Yes, it was unusual, yes, it was practically unheard of, and yes, it was going to snow. The city didn’t have snow plows. Why would they? But they were getting prepared with pickups rigged to do the job. The storm would come in late and be out early, before dawn.

As alone as I felt in my hotel room, I wasn’t the only runner watching the updates come in. The Myrtle Beach Marathon is popular, enough to rate coverage on the news. A reporter stationed on location somewhere talked about the decision facing race officials. Would the marathon be disrupted? No, no, no, I thought. Even in the worst case scenario, it’s a thin coating of snow! We can run through that. Look, the pickups with their plows mounted up front are all ready to go!

But sometime after 10 p.m., the official word came in: the marathon was off.

The waiting was over. Except that it wasn’t. I’d waited nearly a year to be in marathon shape again and to prove to myself that I could still go the distance. I’d come all the way to the brink. I’d made the car trip. I’d suffered through the dragging hours of the Day Before. I’d navigated the expo without spending any money or getting lost among the vendors in the cavernous convention center. And now it was over.

I slept fitfully. I was booked at the hotel for two nights. In the morning, I got up and repacked my things. I took my camera outside for historical documentation. I went to the front desk of the hotel and checked out.

Beach vacation

I guess it was obvious why I was leaving a day early, but it bothered me that the hotel staff member didn’t ask, didn’t wonder if my stay had been OK, didn’t commiserate or offer any words of consolation.

I drove as fast as I could go back home. I could drive pretty fast since the roads were clear. I came back to Snowmageddon. I realized somewhere along the way that I’d left my new book behind. And you know, I stayed at that hotel again the next year, and they didn’t give it back to me!

Am I taking a chance writing this? My marathon calendar in 2012 begins in Myrtle Beach. Here I am dreaming of a white Christmas, but for Valentine’s Day … well, you know what I mean.

Chantal's Blue Twin

Everyone has their fantasies, right? I don’t subscribe to Car and Driver, but I like to look around. Sometimes when I’m stuck in backed up traffic on the freeway, I pass the time by noticing the makes and models—and colors and styles—of the vehicles around me. I’ve long considered my dream (read “expensive” and “impractical”) vehicle to be a pickup. Probably a Ford, because that’s how I was raised. But I like smaller cars, too, and behind the wheel of a cherry red compact with music blaring and the speedometer pushing 80, I feel zippy and fast and alive. A few years ago I traveled by air to attend to a family event, and as I sped down the freeway in my rental car, I found a radio station playing a song I liked. I took in the city skyline as it flowed around me, and I started to sing along. The realization hit me with surprise: I am having fun.

Since then, I always look forward to heading out into the airport garage to get my first glimpse of my rental car, my pal, my toy for the next few days. What color will it be, what novel gadgets will it feature (I love, love, love remote controls on key rings). Will it make me feel as though I could swerve back and forth across several lanes while holding an open bottle of soda and never spilling a drop? Not that I’d ever do that … but I can appreciate a smooth ride.

Back home, my own car for the past many years had been a spunky little Plymouth Neon named Gilly. Gilly was awesome; she had been with me through so many life experiences: cross-country moves, my first trip to New England, and of course, marathons. She was waiting for me in the parking lot at the University of Utah stadium when I walked from the finish line of my first marathon. I could climb in through her driver’s side door and feel embraced. Her air-conditioning system was the roll-down-the-windows-and-drive model, she had manual locks and windows, and her little green body sported a few dents and scrapes, some she’d had since I’d known her and a few more inflicted by poles and walls when I failed to steer her precisely enough in and out of my reserved carport and, later, garage parking spots. But I didn’t worry about her. I knew she was tough. I knew she could take it.

And then, finally, I knew it was time to move on. She had lived a good life. Still, I felt a sense of loss surrendering her at the Carmax store. Would she feel abandoned? For months after I got my new Hyundai, which I named Chantal, I had trouble recognizing her in the parking lot. Sometimes I’d take a second look and wonder, “Is that my car? Really? Is that my car?” I’d catch myself thinking about Chantal and calling her Gilly … and since I’ve always shared a mental telepathy connection with my cars, I worried that Chantal might hear me!

But Chantal, who is sleekly silver and has air-conditioning that works with the windows rolled up, has taken her own place in my heart. The proof is in the rental car.

Chantal at a favorite weekend spot

This March, I traveled to Utah for a half-marathon in Moab and was initially excited to try out the blue Nissan the customer service rep offered me. He promised a novel experience: no-key ignition. The car had a start button, he explained, and I would love it. I eyed him skeptically. Would I be able to figure out how to turn the car on? He assured me it was very intuitive. “Very intuitive”—aren’t those code words for something? Aren’t they a sort of euphemism? I don’t know. But I do know I sat in the car in the garage for several minutes trying to get in touch with my intuition. That whole trip, I felt like the car was smarter than I was. I had such a hard time getting it to do what I wanted, and yet I could tell I was barely scratching the surface of its capabilities. If I’d had more time, I could have studied the owner’s manual and at least gotten really, truly sure that I was working the headlights correctly. At least I could see the road, so that was something. But I could almost hear that Nissan sighing at me. “Fine, go and do it the hard way,” it seemed to say. I was used to having to roll down my window by hand; remote controlled locks I liked, but too many automated features offend my control-freak tendencies.

So when I flew to Indianapolis in June for the Carmel Marathon and the service rep gave me the choice between a Grinch-green Ford and what looked like Chantal’s twin painted blue, I practically dove for the Hyundai. The service rep didn’t approve. She thought I’d have a lot more fun with the Ford. I peeked in it’s windows and saw a console that brought back memories of the Nissan in Utah. Uh uh. I wasn’t taking that voluntarily.

Blue Chantal

The service rep and I were still standing around by the two cars when another guy walked up. He asked me which car I had chosen and explained that he was taking whichever was left. I spoke up for the Hyundai. But then I asked if he had a preference. I was more curious than anything. The service rep definitely preferred the Ford, so I wondered what this other guy would go for.

He said he didn’t care; he was in town for a funeral. I think it was his grandmother’s funeral. Ugh. At that point I would have let him have whatever he wanted. If I’d been one of the sales reps, I would have set him up with something higher end. But I didn’t have that power, and he really didn’t seem to care. So he took the Nissan, and I took the Hyundai, Chantal’s blue twin.

And, ah, I loved it. There were no remote controls, to be sure, but I knew how to turn on the headlights, and if I’d wanted to, I could have swerved all over an empty road while holding an open bottle of soda without spilling a drop. In a city that appreciates cars, I appreciated finding the closest thing possible to my own car. So here’s to Chantal and her blue Indianapolis twin.

Forget the marathon medal, I'm just happy I didn't get stuck with the Grinch-mobile!