My Son

My wonderful son who drives me crazy with his forgetfulness and lack of impulse control but is brilliant and sweet and kind will be 13 in one month and one week.  That little pale baby we brought home without knowing how long he'd be ours.  That funny little fellow I dared to call mine before I should have and who came back to us full of smiles and brought us joy.  He will be a wonderful man someday.  In him, we're giving the world something good and important.  I love you Patrick.

"For (the sake of) Old Times"

I love New Year's Eve.  I don't know what people mean when they say it's overrated.  I think it's wonderful.  For years now we've made a tradition of always getting together with our oldest group of friends.  That's what it's all about, right?  Auld Lang Syne, after all! In these busy, hectic times, it is reassuring to have a tradition that brings us all together, no matter what.  And a time to be completely ridiculous and wear hats and wigs.  This is me:

Can you hear Benjie laughing?  Because we are having so much friggin' fun wearing hats!

The kids stayed up until midnight this year (well, all but Nina and Shea, who are still too little).  They have Noelle to thank as she lobbied hard for them last year, making it a sure thing for this year.

Look at these women!   I love them and I love KJs serious face.  She looks like her daughters here, when they just stare you down.  Nina, in particular.  That stare intimidated me a little in 7th grade, but now I love it. This was during the dance party.

 When the event is at Jen's there is always fondue with just a little too much kirsch.  It's delicious though, and Benjie makes the best, homemade bread to dip.  Bryan loves all the late night snacks.  Sometimes it is a wonder there is any food left in the house the next day.

Jen's mixing a drink for Peter.  His one drink of the year. I love her smile.

Me and Maria McGee...So grateful that Maria and Peter drove all the way from Pennsylvania once again to be with us.  Such commitment to the friendships!  Such good kinship work!

(I'm waiting with baited breath for a picture of Peter in the band leader hat.  As soon as someone sends me one, I'll post it here!)

Ah, earlier in the night there was arm wrestling and then leg wrestling.  I can't beat anyone at arm wrestling.  But I beat Harper and Maria at leg wrestling.  Here Noelle and Harper are at a standoff.

 Patrick and Nina, ringing it in!

The ubiquitous picture of a crowd around the fire.  This could be any year, really.  We write things we want to be done with on shims and throw them in the fire.

These here are some super awesome kids as midnight.  They've grown up together and we wonder how much longer they'll be celebrating NYE with us.  My theory is that they will venture out on their own for a few years in their 20s, but then they'll realize there's no party more fun than this one and come hang with us again.  Eventually they'll be in charge of building the fire and making breakfast the next day. This is my fantasy.

Bryan met his traditional obligation of throwing the dried tree on the fire at midnight and Baxter helped keep things under control.

The next morning after eggs and "just one meat!" we enjoyed head scratching...

 


and book reading.  (Look closely and you can see Noelle's husband Pete still crashed out on the futon! What a nice, easy-going fella.)

The nineteen of us gathered for less than twenty four hours, but man, did we pack in some fun.  Peter says, "If every day had even a smidgin of that much laughter, I'd be doing good."  Being with these folks, especially for this particular celebration, is the kind of easy going, good time that really feeds your soul.  I love you all so very, very much.  

 **all of these pictures were taken by Mr. Peter Ammirati.

I LOVE YOU MOMMA!

And you read my blog.  Not sure anyone else does, but who cares.  You're the best and I miss you.

What I Really Love About Marathoning

As my regular peeps know, last Sunday's MDI Marathon turned out to be a big disappointment thanks to a left knee that blew out at around mile 12.  I dragged along and finished in my slowest time ever: :4 hours and 45 minutes.  At the time, I was frustrated and had a few moments where I wanted to cry.  But overall, I really don't give a damn.  There will be more marathons and I made an appointment with the highly esteemed local physical therapist who is a runner.  I feel confident the knee will get stronger and I will kick some marathon ass in the spring.  I'm planning on the Vermont City Marathon, 2012.

So I got up early Sunday morning and got ready.  Neil and Pat drove me to Bar Harbor, where the race began.  It was about 20 minutes away from where we were staying in Southwest Harbor, close to the finish line. I was pretty psyched about getting to the municipal bathroom in Bar Harbor because my tummy had gotten a bit nervous.  The bathroom was warm and occupied just enough so that flushing toilets and hand dryers let me relax.  After that I sat in the car with Neil and Patrick.  We saw a sister and her younger brother, close to Harper and Pat's age.  The sister was holding the brother in her lap, hugging him.  Pat said, "I wish Harper would do that with me."  It was so forlorn and sweet.  We continued to chat in the car until Pat burst out, "Now she's playing Patty-cake with him!!"  Sure enough, the siblings were engaged in one of those hand-clapping games.  My little son could hardly believe this other boy's luck; to have a sister that loving, fun and playful!

That's Patrick.  He's dear and sweet and kind and loves when people pay attention to him.  Later we told Harper about what we'd seen and she worked to be that big sister, though in a rougher way.  She loves her brother.  I'm lucky they still want to come to my races, cheer me on and be together.  The four of us took a sweet hike up Flying Mountain the next day.  Here are my favorite folks, not quite playing patty-cake.

What's the Plan, Zo?

I'm not going for a PR Sunday because of the hills.  I figure 4 hours and 20 minutes is a reasonably challenging goal.  I might write the splits on my arm with a sharpie.  Well, not every mile but every other or so, to stay on pace.  I am so PUMPED!!!

1 mile:	2 miles:	3 miles:
4 miles:	5 miles:	6 miles:
7 miles:	8 miles:	9 miles:
10 miles:	11 miles:	12 miles:
13 miles:	14 miles:	15 miles:
16 miles:	17 miles:	18 miles:
19 miles:	20 miles:	21 miles:
22 miles:	23 miles:	24 miles:

25 miles:

26 miles:

Half-marathon split:

Calculated overall time:

A Rare and Precious Moment

Neil's foray into mountain bike racing

I thought I'd write a little story about my first mountain bike race. I'm writing in order to deal with the self induced trauma that has resulted from it. I've ridden many century rides or rides of 100 miles on the road bike, but never really done any mountain bike thing of prolonged duration. So it was I found myself in Ascutney, Vermont with Fritz Fay, the only other person I know who would think that what we were about to do was a “good idea” or a “fun time.” At least think it enough to actually follow through with it. 

The race was the Vermont 50, a 50 mile mountain bike race through central/eastern Vermont. You know, that part of the state particularly water logged compliments of Hurricane Irene and just general lots of rain. I thought this would be a good race for me as I'd heard it wasn't too technical and it was a “roadie's” mountain bike race. Furthermore some of the course descriptions I'd read made it seem doable, for me.

All racers had to arrive at 5:15 am. for a pre race meeting. There was no meeting, but that was fine with me. The temperature was a balmy 60 degrees at the start. Quite comfortable. My first trial of the day happened before the race started. I had to take a dump (wearing bib shorts) in a pitch black port-o-potty at 5:45 am. This scared me more than the spectre of 50 miles of mud and fatigue. I survived and did quite well actually. There was enough light to allow the white toilet paper to glow a little. 

Then the race started. It was still a little dark when we entered the wooded areas, but not too too bad. I did not bring a head lamp as I did not want to carry the extra weight. And in hindsight it was the right choice. Within 30 minutes of riding daylight was in full swing. The race started on the road then turned right and headed up a steep hill. You'da thought some of the riders had never seen a hill before. A complete traffic jam replete with the snapping, creaking, grinding sound of gears downshifting under load. I saw on guy's chain snap. I went around this nonsense and passed a lot of people and headed into the woods. The trail was good for a while until I came to the first ominous mud hole. This would become a theme of the day. I actually had to get off my bike and push it. This would become another theme of the day. Many others had to do the same. A lot of these little hills were so steep or slick with mud that walking the bike was necessary.

Mile 10. “Wow,” I begin to think, “there's a lot of mud.” The travelling is hard, but good. I come to a nice big, wide, dry dirt road. It's a downhill so I reach for my sunglasses and put them on. They fog up immediately. No good, stick them back in the helmet. I accelerate and my front tire unloads a pound of mud straight into my face. One entire half pound gobs right into my left eyeball coating my contact lense. It feels bad and is all blurry and I'm going fast and more mud is getting in my face! Blah. My eye is irritated. I don't like it. For the rest of the day I will deal with a blurry left eye. It continued to produce goo long after getting the contact out, right up until I went to bed that night. 

Mile 15 or so - I'm going down a bumpy hill. PANG. What was that? 

Mile 16 or so – I look at my rear wheel and notice it's bent. PANG was a spoke breaking. I'm worried now that the wheel won't make it to the end of the race. This fear just stayed with me for the rest of the day, a lingering little annoyance that caused stress and took fun out of the race. Worry.

Around the same time I come to a long hillclimb on a firm dirt road. A lot of riders had been passing me just before this in the woods so I was getting a little concerned. Once I hit the bottom of the climb, I locked out my shocks and just climbed. I must've passed 70 people. I didn't just pass them, but I dropped them like hot potatoes. It was awesome. Had I known then this was to be my highlight, I'm not sure I would have kept going.

Mile 25 or so. “My God, the mud. This is so slippery.” I've only gone 25 miles. I look at my odometer after what seems like 15 minutes and it reads 25.02 miles. I stop looking at it after that. 

Mile 30. I still can't see right. My wheel's bent. There are runners all over the place. To them I say, “thanks” or “sorry” when we get in each other's way. What I really think though is, “I want to punch you in the face.” My mood was deteriorating. 

Mile 31-44. This was a bad idea, I still have 20 miles to go. This “roadie friendly” trail is a death trap. It's all wet roots and moss covered ledge that is so treacherous, I'd die trying to ride it. Some guy crashes into a stand of sapplings, another guy is rubbing his grime encrusted face as he walks his bike. Another guy is leaning on his bike saying “Fuuuuuuck, fuuuuuuuuck.” I pass him and say, “cramps?” He just looks at me and grunts, “yeah -uhhh.” An angry silence has descended on the woods. People are looking very focused. The hillside roots are starting to throw my wheel and I'm too tired to even try and deal with them. I'd kill for a 5 mile long paved hill with a 10% gradient right now. Anything so I could just stop having to maneuver these horrible roots. Walk the bike, ride the bike. Yow, that's what a cramp feels like. Every road I come to I get excited, but the trail just crosses it and heads back into the wet, muddy, slippery woods. Another rider passes me and says, “Roots.” I keep going.

Mile 45. God I'm tired. These roots. Oh, another runner. No more trees. So tir -BAM!!! Oh Jesus! Oh that hurts! Oh I havent felt pain like this since I was a little hellion kid doing something Mom told me not to. Roots. Big, big roots. I'm lying on the ground. My left foot still clipped in, My right leg over the top of my left. The bike is somehow behind me. I can't unclip. I'm a pretzel. A rider goes by and miraculously bunny hops my sunglasses (I love him for doing that) as I lie there like and idiot. Pain. Pain. Pain. I get back up and ride on. I come to a pretty field. This looks easy. No. It's all wet and slippery. No more fun. I'm done. A beaten man. I somehow finish. My bike computer says I've been riding for 6 hours and 36 minutes. My time spent out on the trail will be a little longer. I'm covered with mud. I'm very tired. I paid $125 for this. I have a lovely tattoo of a beet on the side of my butt to show for my troubles. You should see it.