On the Verrazano Bridge

It costs twenty-five dollars in tolls to cross onto Long Island and back by the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge.

I may not have believed it if I hadn’t made the journey myself. The twelve dollars I paid on my way to Long Island was the highest toll I had ever encountered—of course, that was before I paid thirteen dollars to head back toward New Jersey.

I approached the bridge fresh off the New Jersey Turnpike, with my notebook open to handwritten directions I tried to skim in quick glances as I proceeded through the “no-stopping zone,” the portion of my trip that involved skirting New York City via a succession of different roads. I had crossed one bridge already and was squinting at my directions (“What was the name of that other bridge?”) when I saw the massive structure looming up ahead of me.

The Verrazano Bridge has more than one level, and so did the course of my thoughts.

Why, I wondered on some level, do I let trips swallow me up like this? Why do I let this loneliness set in? I could feel my identity blurring, the edges of my self-image dissolving like the Wicked Witch in a rainstorm. But the parts that fell out the holes or evaporated into mist were the best parts, and all the bad, the fears, doubts, the bad habits, remained and grew concentrated.

Why, I wondered. And I knew it was because I couldn’t see my reflection. Because I rely too much on external reinforcements. Because there were no familiar sights or faces to reaffirm to me, “Yes, Roo, you know who you are.”

I grew stern with myself. You have to be present here, now, I thought. Embrace this moment, hurtling over an unfamiliar road under a bank of angry-looking clouds.

On a level above this muddy brooding, I listened to an NPR broadcast. A “Science Friday” feature that day came from a university in Idaho, my home state.

On yet another level, I stewed about tolls. I had just paid a so-far record-setting amount to exit the New Jersey Turnpike. My cash reserves now struck me as inadequate. I gulped as I read the sign announcing the twelve-dollar price to cross the bridge. The “no-stopping zone” might have to be amended to the “look frantically for an ATM zone,” I worried. And then I remembered that I’d stashed some additional cash and forgotten about it, until now.

I began to drive up.

Up toward the crest of the bridge. All the levels of thought flowed into wordless awe. Something about grandiose bridges takes my breath away. I don’t know if it’s the contrast in size, as the structure towers above me while my car and I shrink into specks, or if it’s the beauty that I never expect to find in steel and concrete. I felt myself being swallowed up again, but not into emptiness this time. My stomach fluttered with the kind of butterflies I felt when my mom would drive fast over a certain hill in the countryside of southeastern Idaho. The thrill zinged out toward my fingers and down to my toes.

And then I noticed the signs: “Life is worth living.” One, and another and another. “Life is worth living.” Space. Next sign. “Life is worth living.”

To discourage suicides, I realized. Because this is a big bridge, and people would come here to jump.

“Life is worth living.” Under the prominent message, the signs offered a phone number. A hotline.

I felt solemn again, and happy because the bridge was so beautiful, and relieved because I had more cash than I’d thought, and still peeved because twelve dollars is simply outrageous.

Split into all these emotions, I was nevertheless present, there and then, when I came off the bridge and read “Welcome to Brooklyn.”

On the way home, I wondered if some of the would-be jumpers were just shocked at having paid out the two biggest tolls of their lives. The thought made me smile a few days later, when I was back from my trip and deep in my usual postmarathon slump. I was casting about for reasons why “life is worth living.”

There, I mused. A memory, a smile. A gift from the Verrazano Bridge. So I got something for my twenty-five dollars, after all.

Life is worth living

Brief Tour of the Hamptons on a Cloudy Day

For the race ...

Elementary school hosting packet pickup and race start and finish, East Hampton. Bathrooms inside had toilets for small people.



At the beach ...

Not open for snacks after the race? (Maybe the Beach Hut opens on days NOT requiring outerwear.)

 

Family at the beach with black SUV: a moment where all is right with the world.

In the neighborhoods ...

Required elements include greenery,

a few hedges,

flowers in red, pink, and/or purple,

dashes of blue or yellow siding,

liberal doses of House of the Seven Gables gray,

and throw in some history.

Around town ...

Painted M&M sculptures, a Body Tech club, and an American flag--why not?

This way for some Ayurvedic treatments.



The line of carts suggests you are going to want A LOT of fresh produce.

Presbyterian church, in yellow with blue trim.

Inviting shop entrance or portal to a witch's lair? Come in and find out.



Main Street, Amagansett

 

Winter rentals available ... ah, yes, to stay a little longer!

Weekend To-Do List

To Do

1. Run Hamptons Marathon (drive to Long Island, find packet pickup site to get race number and timing chip, locate shuttle pickup point for race morning, find dinner, find the hotel, check in, get some rest, wake up on time, drive back to shuttle pickup site, ride to race start, run marathon [take a moment, take a breath, take in the scenery, keep moving{DO NOT stop, DO NOT cry}], cross finish line, collect medal, ride shuttle back to parking lot, clean up, take ibuprofen, take pictures, start home, find lunch, stay awake, stay alert, pay the tolls, fill up the gas tank, stop at the grocery store, unload the car, unpack, do laundry, take a shower, eat dinner, take ibuprofen …)—done!

Parking by the "No Parking" sign at packet pickup

I'm in, I'm in, I'm in!

In what, you ask? In trouble? In deep? Ah, but no!

I'm in the 2013 Boston Marathon! I received the official notification from the Boston Athletic Association that my registration has been accepted. (Now I can watch for the hard-copy acceptance certificate the BAA will send by mail.)

I like the pattern of 13's: a stress fracture immediately after my 13th marathon took me out of the running of the 2009 Boston Marathon, the first I qualified and registered for. Now in 2013, I get another chance (to stay healthy through the race!).

WOOHOO!!

The True Story of My Breakup with Under Armour

Sometimes you end up with a few items in your closet you know you can count on. I still think about a really awesome pair of jeans endowed with the magical quality of always looking good. I know this trait was specific to the jeans because other items in my wardrobe didn’t work like that. I wish I could have owned those pants longer—I wish I had them now! Unfortunately, clothing is subject to its own mortality, unable to last forever. My capri running pants from Under Armour served me for an era as some of the most essential items I owned. I’ve been through four pairs of them: not that many, given the years, the washings, the miles run.

I bought my first two pairs, one black and one gray, at an outlet store in Park City after my first-ever (beloved) running pants became too flashy for polite company. The day I went shopping at Park City, I was, say, on the thin end of my weight spectrum; still, I remember worrying that I had chosen the wrong size, too small for ultimate comfort. I had no need to be concerned. Those two pairs proved loyal and forgiving, with their drawstring waists and flowing cut; they lasted through years of daily use, through weight changes up and weight changes back down, never seeming to change themselves. Until, eventually, they too displayed their inevitable mortality by developing holes in unfortunate places.

I wore them even after I had begun to worry about their flashiness because I couldn’t see my way into a new era of running attire. If I had to let those pants go, how could I find others to take their place? I didn’t know what Under Armour was selling that year, and anyway, I didn’t know how to find out where Under Armour was selling it. Returning to the store in Park City from my present home on the east coast seemed impractical—although potentially worth it, I couldn’t help musing! Happily, I discovered an Under Armour outlet I could visit without buying a plane ticket. And oh, so happily, I found another two pairs of capri running pants almost exactly the same as my original set. Ah, life (where life is running) could go on.

My second two pairs of Under Armour running pants seemed to seal my identity as an Under Armour athlete. I would have done endorsements for a 10%-off coupon. (OK, I would have done them for free.) When the time came to transition to yet another set of clothing, I approached the prospect with much more optimism than before. I knew exactly where to go—it was only a matter of driving to the store and plunking down my money.

Not so fast. I skipped enthusiastically into the Under Armour outlet this spring and began searching through the tightly packed racks. At first, the inventory seemed dense; I didn’t worry when my initial pass through the women’s section didn’t turn up the items I sought. I made my way back through, looking more carefully, pulling what seemed like every dark-colored capri bottom off the rack to examine it in case it should turn out to be what I was after. Hmm. Nothing.

           

“Can I help you find something?” an employee asked at one point. I usually fend off all sales associates as a rule, but my quest drove me. I described the items I was looking for. “And they have to have a drawstring,” I emphasized. I wished every pair of pants I ever wore had a drawstring. Anyway, for months now, it had been the drawstring alone holding up my running pants, the original elasticity in the waist having surrendered to too many washings. I knew how essential a drawstring could be.

The employee’s response dismayed me. What I wanted no longer existed in the Under Armour universe. Well, he didn’t admit that exactly, not right away. He steered me toward some capris I had already considered and then disregarded. Wrong fabric. Wrong cut. Wrong something. And then he told me the trends were against me. Activewear is all about compression now. And shorts. (Sigh, that part is nothing new—but I’m no longer dressing for high school PE!) Compression, he said again. That’s what people want now.

But what about me? What about what I want? He couldn’t have known the darkly brooding mood I had plunged into by the time I fled to the sidewalk outside the store. I thought of my college French professor’s joke to me when he handed back the first grammar quiz I’d failed to ace: “Where do we look for truth now?” Where, indeed? Suddenly, the future of running appeared very dark.

I began strolling aimlessly down the sidewalk between the outlets, toward the other end of the mall. I’d passed a few other sporting goods stores, glancing at them disdainfully, on my way to Under Armour. Now my mind clutched at them as possible solutions to my problem. Come on, I chided myself, Under Armour is not the only brand of activewear in the universe. Never mind that I’ve worn Under Armour for five years and twenty-some-odd marathons. There’s other stuff out there! (I didn’t really believe my pep talk, but I couldn’t think of any better options than checking out the other sporting goods stores in the area.)

So I tried to keep an open mind as I browsed through the outlets of some big-name brands. After the initial shock of disappointment, I even considered that compression might not be too horrible. I couldn’t imagine tight pants feeling good after miles of sweaty running, and of course I’d look hideous in them—but if other people embraced them, and other people looked all right in them (they did, I knew from observation), maybe they could be worth a try. Here, in my opening up to new possibilities, I smashed into another barrier: price. I remembered what I paid for my last set of running pants, and I was prepared to pay about that much again. I was not prepared to pay twice as much for an item that could only substitute for what I really wanted. I rushed from store to store, hoping for something better, for, OK, a miracle, a hidden gem of drawstring comfort, or at least some compression pants that might squeeze my legs but not my budget. I was nearing the other end of the outlet mall and the end of my shopping options when I ventured into the Champion store.

I had owned some Champion shoes once, and I liked them. Still, I didn’t think of Champion gear as serious sportswear; it was more like play clothes. I did remember the shoes having an important quality going for them, and that was a good price.

The inventory in the Champion outlet didn’t immediately lift my spirits. At least now I knew what kind of market I was shopping in, where the “trends” had abandoned people like me who shrunk from presenting the lower body in detailed outline—heck, who shrunk from even acknowledging that the lower body had a detailed outline. I cast myself as a brave realist when I selected a few possibilities from the rack and went to face my reflection in the dressing room. Here the wished-for miracle asserted itself. The different styles of running wear—one a pair of knee-length shorts, the type of thing I’d shunned since before junior high, the other a capri-length pant that was touted as something like loose compression, if such a thing is possible—they looked … not horrible on me. And they felt … not horrible. Like I might be able to run in them. For a long time.

I think I gulped and sighed a few times on my way to the register and again when I handed over my plastic payment. The true test would come with my next long run, Monday morning. It was late Saturday afternoon. I let the idea of the new clothes settle into my mind. Monday, I chose the knee-length shorts. I ran 13 miles. I felt the air against my legs. A few inches seemed to let in a lot more breeze. And I liked that.

After my run, I walked over to the grocery store without changing, and I caught my reflection in the glass front doors. I cringed, but only a little. I wasn’t used to seeing my legs poking out like that. But they looked … not horrible. And they basked in the caress of air against my skin.

I tried out the tight-to-me capri pants on a shorter run because I harbored more skepticism about their performance under pressure, that is, sweat. Amazingly, they felt as comfortable as my old Under Armour gear. I ended up wearing them in the freezing cold of the Stockholm Marathon, and they carried me through. Yeah, they’ve won me over. I don’t even cringe anymore at my reflection in the shorts; I’m used to it, resigned. The capri pants have proven themselves in heat and cold. What more could I ask for?

It’s a new era now. Under Armour pants? Who needs them! (Insert wistful sigh, for the sake of all the memories.) I love my new running gear: I’m a Champion girl for now. That is, uh, at least until my next foray into sportswear shopping. Which I can only hope won’t be necessary for a long, long time.

Now, if they ever seriously change my Mizuno shoes … !!

Clothing: Classic (with Coverage, without Compression)

Under Armour gear, R.I.P.

A Sweet, Searing Pain

Countdown time for the Hamptons Marathon: it is now less than two weeks away. To get in the mood, I’ve been watching the “Barefoot Contessa,” Ina Garten, on the Food Network, as she visits farms, markets, and beaches around East Hampton (that’s where I’m headed!). She searches for fresh cheese or produce, or in the beach episode, she joins Elmo on a play date for a cooking-with-children theme, and she wears a windbreaker while she unpacks frozen fruit smoothies she whipped up for the Muppet. Fortunately, Muppets never get cold. All that fur, you know.

So it’s the Hamptons, but I can’t really see anything. I’m not going to remember that shop where Ina’s husband, Jeffrey, stopped to pick up wine and bread, or the name of the farm where they make cheese. And anyway, perhaps there’s not much in common between a cooking show and a marathon, in spite of the location. And then again, perhaps there’s a reason they are playing on the same channel in my mind.

It’s not just Ina—there’s also Giada, dicing up green apples and goat cheese and tossing around cinnamon and dried cranberries, and Paula and Ree and plenty of others with their skillets and food processors and zucchini and cumin. It’s words (“crostini,” “tartelette,” “pancetta”—never mind that I wouldn’t eat the meat … or touch it); it’s colors (green, red, purple, orange, green, did I mention lush, lush green?); it’s impressions (beauty, life, sun, friends, art, playing and then resting, feeling happy-tired). It’s memories. One of my grandmas used to serve me apple slices topped with cheddar cheese as a snack. I haven’t had that combination since I was a child. But suddenly I could taste it, and I knew for a moment it was the only food in the world I wanted. I could see her kitchen again, and the family room that opened right off it, where I’d sit in the rocker with the footstool and watch TV.

It’s a sweet, searing pain: a fleeting image, a moment of beauty you can’t capture or hold onto. You can’t close your fist around it and press it against your heart for later.

Last year, when the pumpkins came out for Halloween and the fall harvest spilled into grocery stores and roadside markets and the high school fundraiser down the street, I whirled into my usual tizzy of excitement, wanting … wanting … I don’t know, to rush out and purchase school supplies (ah, how I loved the fresh clean notebooks in the old days). Acting purely on my whims, I could have bought up a carload of pumpkins and various fall-themed decorations, not to mention jars of preserves with fetching labels, so quaint and so, frankly, un-useful to me. My practical side reigned. “Buy a pumpkin?” I scoffed at myself. “For what?”

“Well,” I might have answered myself, staring at the ground and poking a toe at the pavement, “I could carve a jack-o-lantern.”

 “Hah!” Guffaw.

“Well …”

“Come on.”

“Well, I could.” Only I wouldn’t. And I knew it. I sighed, but I left the parking lot at the pumpkin patch with my wallet unopened. Ultimately, I felt relieved at the ability of my common sense to adhere to the budget, but I was filled too with something like … like a sweet, searing pain.

Finally I realized I couldn’t “have” all the beauties and wonders of fall around me, but I could photograph them. That helped. I didn’t buy up produce that wasted away while I contemplated what to do with it. Still, maybe because I was paying more attention to the world around me, I kept seeing beautiful things that pricked at me even as I enjoyed them. They were ephemeral. I couldn’t bottle them up or take them home. I wanted to fill myself up with them, but I knew their moment would pass and leave me empty again.

Passing moments: that’s all a marathon is. I remember the glimmer of water during the Richmond Marathon. Running through a cheering crowd in Dublin and seeing the one spectator pointing out the mile marker in the midst of the chaos. Catching my breath—from exertion and awe—as I crested a hill and burst into a field lit with the rising sun outside Charlottesville. Passing a boy wearing a giant red claw at a water station in the Haunted Hustle Marathon in Wisconsin. Hearing the rhythm of my feet on the slats of a wooden bridge in a forest … somewhere. Huddling inside a port-a-potty while the wind howled outside, summoning me back to the course in Stockholm, Sweden.

You run for a long time in a marathon, but it’s just a series of moments. Some of them are brutal. Some of them make me shudder to relive them. Some are amazing. All seem to be elevated by the sense of an epic undertaking. To succeed in that undertaking brings a thrill that can’t be strung onto a ribbon or emblazoned on a T-shirt. You can’t touch it or hold it. Time passes, carrying your moment away. Leaving perhaps a sweet, searing pain.

Here it is autumn again, and the pumpkins are appearing. The light is shifting, taking on its golden tinge that strikes me as poignant, because winter is coming. I look forward to the joys of sweaters and candles, chilly mornings, maybe even a jack-o-lantern this year. Beautiful moments to store up in my memory against the darker season that follows.

Because all those moments we remember aren’t really gone—they’ve become part of us. When I think about past marathons and past trips, the moments that stay with me always seem inevitable, as if I can’t imagine not having been to Norway or Dublin, I can’t imagine the Stockholm Marathon of 2012 working out any other way (than bitterly cold and grueling and triumphant).

Sometimes I wish I could freeze time, or I wish I could string all my good memories onto ribbons and hang them with my marathon medals; I wish in looking at pictures I could recreate rather than merely remember, and knowing that I can’t—that I can never again sit in my grandma’s family room eating apple slices with cheese while she dances around in the kitchen, that I am never again going to stand on a stool at my other grandma’s kitchen sink to help her wash dishes while her bread dough rises—it lends sweetness, I think, as well as pain.

If I could have the past with me, could I look to the future? Last year’s autumn is gone, and this one is just arriving. Moments have floated away, and new ones have yet to be lived. I am craving that marathon feeling. It’s time to do more than remember what it’s like to cross the finish line. It is time to go out and cross one again.

Whatever happens on September 29th, I expect I’ll find myself watching the “Barefoot Contessa” again in the future, and it may occur to me that once upon a time I had never been to the Hamptons. What?! I had never been to the Hamptons? (Just as I had never been to Iceland or the Netherlands, way back when.) How odd. How almost unimaginable. I may not recognize any of the places Ina goes, and if I want to experience her food, I don’t think I will find it among the postrace refreshments. But I do think her art gives me other moments to look forward to … and future moments, perhaps, of sweet, searing pain.

Some charmers to admire, if not to possess:

Looking Forward

I am excited to add a new marathon to my calendar, the Kiawah Island Marathon in South Carolina on December 8.

Not so far away, I have the Hamptons Marathon coming at the end of September, and it is the season to look ahead to next year. I hope to register for the 2013 Boston Marathon, and more than that, I hope to run it! I registered for the 2009 Boston Marathon but had to miss it because of a stress fracture. This time I don't want a certificate from the Boston Athletic Association informing me that I did not finish the race!

But for now, it looks as though I will be taking a brief time out. Sometimes circumstances invite a period of reassessment. I generally prefer to assess things on the treadmill or on the pavement. When that doesn't fix everything, I've got a problem. It's time to allow in some outside perspective.

Several years ago, in a similar situation, I found the phrase "I'll Keep Running" in a magazine ad, and I cut it out and pasted it onto the notebook I was using daily. It was more a dream than a certainty, but it came true: I had many races in my future, along beautiful courses in interesting locations, moments of feeling like I was flying, finish times I hadn't believed were possible for me. So I will look forward again and dream of races to come—some already scheduled and some not yet thought of. I can't always see what's ahead on the course. I'll take a few more steps and watch as the view opens up.