The Morning After ...

The morning dawned clear and Joan and I woke up invigorated.   Downtown Richmond was like Oz glimmering with the sunrise.   We were able to secure the last parking spot at the James center.     Warm bathrooms rather than portable potties!

Joan took off with her half marathon and she was happy.   The waves seemed endless.   The marathon itself was more ho hum, people got in line and at 8 o clock, we simply started.

Andrea and Jay were my companions.   They are strong runners.   I knew that we were going out too fast for my Achilles, but I stayed with them for the the first seven miles.  It seemed like a good idea at the time.

Feeling a part of a unified organism, a part of the whole, we ran down Monument avenue.  It was a glorious morning.    We did not feel pain.    We wondered how fortunate we are to feel this good and be able to run.   The friendly people lining the streets were wonderful.   We almost had an obligation to entertain them, those who brave the cold.

Normally, I can run twenty miles without much discomfort.   Two weeks earlier, running up a steep hill in downtown Richmond, I felt my right Achilles go, and could barely walk for a mile.   Stupidly, I finished the twelve mile run, and have not been able to run since.

I am a lay expert on Achilles tendons, having ruptured my left Achilles playing tennis.  It was my match point, and Mike hit a drop shot.  I remember the thought, "how dare he hit a drop shot on match point"  and then a a sudden collapse.   I fell to the ground, a lancing pain, and a helplessness as I could not stand.  Needless to say, I lost the match.  

After surgery and and a ugly scar, I understood better the the legend of Achilles, and the vulnerability of our bodies to this large tendon.   The Achilles is  so strong but lacking in blood supply and at risk to fatigue and sudden strains.   Once ruptured, we are helpless.  Indians used to cut the Achilles of their vanquished foe so that that could not fight again.  Now we have orthopedic surgeons who can sew them together, but the tendon is still suspect.

As we crossed the Hugenot bridge after mile seven, I began to listen to the dull strain that my virgin right Achilles was singing.  It was mixed with Stevie Wonder and Bob Dylan.   "How many roads ..."  I had hoped that music was my anesthetic, but my body's limbic system was very strong.  The mid calf muscle started to cramp, and it became difficult to keep cadence.  I saw Andrea and Jay recede into the distance as Pink Floyd began to sing Comfortably Numb. 

Running is an unconscious event, and beautiful runs are often effortless.  When we are injured, each foot step requires some instruction, and we are poor taskmasters to automatic functions.    Trying to protect the left leg resulted in straining  the right heel.   The hips go next, as the jarring constrains your stride.   Your posture slumps, the arms hang, and your vision begins to be restricted to the pavement rather than the beautiful vistas ahead.  Back ache ensue, and I am now bent over, octogenarian osteoporotic posture.

I kept reasonable pace until the the half way mark, and as we turned toward downtown and the Lee bridge, people began to pass me.   It is a strange sensation.  There is nothing that I could have done to keep up.   A "bumble bee" passed me quickly along with a 80 year old incredible man, Woody Whitlock, who was running his eight marathon in eight months to celebrate his eightieth birthday (Richmond Times Dispatch, Friday) .   His motto was, "if  I can do it, so can you."    I could only admire the back of his shirt and soon he was absorbed into the haze ahead.  He was running upright!

My thoughts turned inward with pain.    This pain is not the exhausting good pain of prolonged effort, but rather the red light sensors of your body telling you "what is wrong with you " persisting in this activity.    At the fifteen mile marker, Noah and Ben gave me some Tylenol, and I was becoming a traffic impediment to the hoards of runners streaming by me.    I tried to stay to the side.  Simple tasks became difficult.  My stride shortened.  Vision became tunneled. 

The people exhorting, " you can do it" and "one foot after the other" probably looked at me with pity.    I could not think of the task at hand, but had to live in the second to second.   If I knew there were ten miles to go, my intellectual left brain could not stomache it.  Emotion is stronger than intellect.  

So I tried to shut out my left brain, and let my right side take over.   I concentrated on the smells of the road.   Sticky rice restaurant and the frat boys with beer passed by.    My breathing was semi musical.    Joan Armitradin and Lou Reed serenaded my steps.  I felt the sun on my skin and tasted  sweaty salt.   My life compressed into each moment.  There was no past or future, just now.  There was no desire.  Life was bearable because there was no future. 

Janet and her marathon crew gave me a sip of Bud Lite near mile twenty, but I needed my faculties.     I no longer cared about the wonderfully trained soccer moms passing me by.  My tenth Richmond became a test of survival.   I wondered why I was running, and I realized that it was to celebrate life.    It was to mark a date when we can come together to test the hypothesis that we can still run.   Depite busy careers, raising children, being a husband and friend to my Joanie, that I could still run.  It is a selfish act but also setting an example to my kids.  

My frowns turns outward, and I regained my smile that I had for the first seven miles.   Usually, the marathon starts for me at mile 21, but this year it started a little bit sooner at mile seven.    Lucky for me, I thought, get in three times more experience this time.

As I turned the corner toward Pope avenue and the dread Pope avenue arch, my savior Kevin strode up.  He had been the coach for his half marathon teammates earlier and had run with each member to the finish line.   I think he had run more collective miles that morning than I did.

Kevin did not have to meet me, but he did and I was the benefactor.    He essentially saved my life and running yesterday.   We had been teammates on the Navy MTT in 2007 and ran Richmond together in 2008 (see Richmond Magazine Nov 2011, health section).   Kevin brought great cheer and began to regale me stories of his day.   He stayed with me through the Northside despite a blistering 13 mile pace, and only offered encouragement.  It was harder for him to shuffle beside me rather run his normal stride.  

Magically, with Kevin paving the way, the Brook road stretch passed quickly.   The head winds were warm and caressing.     We approached downtown via Lombardy, and I tried to keep pace with a woman from Ft Lauderdale.   As a true enthusiast, Kevin was encouraging all the runners around us!   He was checking on his former teammates, and tried to get a smile out our Florida woman, but she would not be dissuaded.   It made me smile, inwardly.

The last three miles were the longest.    Pain was present, but my mind was numb to it.  My body was hurting, but that was an old story.    I concentrated on keeping my feet moving and not falling.   I was very afraid that my left Achilles would snap just as my right did on the tennis court.    This would be "bad form" and certain to make Joan very angry.  She already thought  I was hard headed and had been worried about me the past two weeks.  

My Navy coaches joined us on the last mile, and they were uplifting.    I heard by the side that I was the last Navy runner, the anchor of the class for 2011!  I hoped that I was the Fortress anchor type rather than the Plow.     Kevin and I were able to pick up our  legs so that we ran in normally through the finish.    The fellow in front of me did a jumping jig.  I did a jumping collapse onto to the crates of Power-aid.

We all gathered at the Tobacco Company, an iconic Richmond institution, for French fries and beer.    Wealth is measured by happiness and a joyful steady outlook for the future.   I felt wealthy surround by my family and friends.    This tenth Richmond was one of my slowest races but my proudest thus far.    When I can no longer run Richmond, I hope to be one of those people on the sidelines, encouraging other runners to the finish. 

 As I look down on my legs, I see a beautiful bruise in the mid calf probably signifying a tendon tear and subsequent bleeding.  I will be looking for you in the doctor's lounge, Chris Young...These days of health care, I probably have to make an appointment and wait weeks.    I did not make the Richmond Forum last night as we have nosebleed seats in the balcony.    I could barely walk to the bathroom.  The day ended with a clear moon shadow casting a magical charm over the lake.      There are several more weekends before we retire Song of the Wind for the season.  The morning after today brings new hope and promise. The morning after today is grand.

The numbers...

	age	Year	Total	Half	20 miles
Skylon Marathon, Buffalo NY	22	1984	3:47:04
Richmond	40	2002	4:51:43	2:14:46	3:35:31
Richmond	41	2003	5:07:32	2:10:56	3:39:17
Richmond	42	2004	4:28:49	2:14:51	3:27:48
Richmond	43	2005	4:22:13	2:05:33	3:15:37
Richmond	44	2006	4:38:27
Richmond	45	2007	4:12:46	2:07:01	3:14:21
Richmond	46	2008	4:27:05	2:03:00	3:13:44
Richmond	47	2009	4:33:06	2:10:51	3:23:12
Richmond	48	2010	4:27:57	2:08:54	3:20:13
Richmond	49	2011	5:00:42	2:11:23	3:38:37

Running

I have run the Richmond Marathon for the last 9 years.  This will be the 10th time that my poor back will be be tested.   I started back in 2002, when I turned 40.   Mid life was an accurate description as the middle of my body was definitely growing.  So I decided to run.

I had inklings of mortality, having ruptured my Achilles tendon several years before.  After driving to Key West in January, I ruptured my L4L5 disc few weeks later.   Dr. Sanhi performed mini-discetomy.  I was out of work for several weeks , and gingerly started to ride my bicycle.  A crystal memory remains.  I  woke from anesthesia and felt reborn.  The constant nagging back pain was gone.  It lasted for a few days, and then with the first walk , the pain returned although not as intense.  My MRI post surgery looked worse,  probably from scar tissue.  My disc herniated and a disc fragment was lodged in a dorsal root ganglion.  This sudden event made my misery so intense that I could not pee or sit,  but only stand.    I could not walk from the entrance of the hospital to the radiology section. I was carted on a stretcher, gamely studying the interesting patterns of lights and shadows on the ceiling.

I was the fortunate beneficiary of an excellent surgeon, and I decided to test his work by running the Richmond Marathon that Fall.  I could not train due to a busy schedule, and I did not trust my running.  I had read the Gallagher walk-run strategy, and so I decided to try the run-walk.  From "men only" mountain bike trip every year, I learned that by day 5 of intense exercise, I was back in reasonable shape.  So the two weeks before Richmond, I started to run my Woodland Pond Loop, 3.24 miles, every night, with a head lamp and bottle water.   I purchased new shoes the week before, so that I did not wear out the shock absorption qualities of the heel.  It seemed to make sense at the time.

My neighbors and friends were excited, and they all signed up for the 8K portion of the race.   I remember the French fries at the Tobacco Company after.  I blamed the intense cramping on low potassium, but it was really deconditioning and muscle fatigue.  I found that Bud lite was an excellent antidote to leg cramps.

I had fun for the 1st 10 miles.  I felt okay for the next 5 miles.  I started to hurt for the next 5 miles.  The next 6.2 miles, where the marathon begins, was essentially a test of endurance.  When I looked around me however, all of the other runners who had actually trained appeared to be in the same boat, running downwind with the “wall” still looming. Because of adrenaline, the race itself was a blurr, and my back held up.  I learned about chaffing around the the nipples, thighs and belly.  Next year, Vaseline.

For the next several years, I ran the Richmond  marathon in similar fashion, running only the Woodland Pond Loop every day, one week before.  I made it a ritual of going to Runner Bills and buying new shoes.  I ate Pop Tarts at every “party zone” that my wonderful sister-in-law, Janet, faithfully provided.   She has made an art form of making it to all three party zones in time to provide these important nutrients.  She has been my best support staff.  This year, I think Bud lite is coming with the chocolate Pop Tarts.

I even made a Richmond Marathon before my twin’s Bat Mitzvah.  Joan made me promise that I would be able to dance and attend the formal party.  My secret weapon that year was Helen, who is wonderful nurse also a certified sport masseuse.   It was an incredibly hot race, but Helen did her magic, and I could be seen smiling in the Bat Mitzvah pictures.  I never could dance anyway, but had a good excuse that year.

For the last four years, I have been running with the Sportsbackers Marathon Training Team (MTT).  They are wonderful committed group of mostly volunteer coaches who sacrifice their weekends to lead a motley crew to run 26.2 miles.  I personally think they run too much, but the formula has stood the test of time.  They are enthusiastic, always encouraging, and never tired or cold regardless of weather.

When Joan and I ran together for her first marathon to celebrate her 50^th birthday, she followed the training schedule, and came within several minutes of making the Boston Marathon cut off.   We had a great time, taking pictures, and talking to family and friends throughout the run.   Being a mother of five, as well as a practicing physician, and of course, a spouse to me,  Joan has mastered multi-tasking and also endurance sports.  Probably, for her, race day was just another ho-hum affair and a reasonable day without the need for cooking dinner.  Miju surprised her by coming home from Williamstown for the weekend, missing the all important Amherst-Williams game.  

Joan and I have run another marathon two years later, and she is correct in deducing that marathons are not good for your health.  The training is important.    Running and being fit is salubrious.  The actual 26.2 miles is a little too long, and studies have shown myocardial enzyme “leak” especially in unfit runners like me.  The first marathon runner, Phillipes, died after reaching Athens from the plains of Marathon.   What we forget, is that Phillipes, ran from Athens to Sparta 140 miles, twice, and then fought a battle with the Persians.  After the battle, he was asked to run back to Athens, a distance around 40,000 meters or 24 miles, to bring news of the Greek victory and also to warn the Athenian that a separate Persian force was headed their way.  He promptly died  from exhaustion after reaching his goal.   Just as modern history is written mostly by the Brits, the real 26.2 miles came from the first Olympics in London, where the added miles was for the benefit of King Edward, that the race could finish in front of his stand.

I am now running for my own King Edward stand but feel more mortal than ever.  I have run some long runs this summer but my right Achilles has been out, and pain ensues any distance run.  I am not quite sure if it is my Achilles tendon or just a pulled muscle, but I cannot do my Woodland Pond Loop  for fear of injury.   So it will be a true taper.  I need to remind myself that I did not have to fight the Persians or run 280 miles the days before.  I simply have to go to work and eat piazza, and be ready for Janet to hand me my pop tarts and beer at party zones.  I think I ll be ready.  We have to have faith.

Going downwind or “running” in  sailing is also an act of faith. You have to believe that the boat will not broach.  You have to believe that you can turn  back upwind.  The gentility of the wind is treacherous.  The wind hits your back kindly but will not let you go back upwind without a fight.  It pushes you into a lee shore.  When you finally face it, the full breadth of your hull and sails are now exposed to weather.  You wonder why the poor blokes coming by you look so haggard and why their sails are reefed when you have your canvas magnificiently full and proud running downwind.  We are running downhill only to pay to price of that upwind leg and Heartbreak Hill to come later.  

It is actually more difficult to steer downwind.  The boat yaws.  Steering become loose.  The waves turn the broad rear of the boat in a  corkscrew action.    We sallow and yaw, and our bearing deviates jealously  with each rolling wave.  If lulled, you can jibe.  The full force of the wind takes your boom and turns it into a lethal force. Silent and swift, without any warning, the boom comes across hard, full force.  Deadly.

Paradoxically, tacking into weather is much easier on the hardware, and not as dangerous.  There is noise, the sails are flapping, but they are relatively impotent.   You need speed to tack.  The bow cleaves the waves well.  There is less yaw.  The heading is true.  Song of the Wind sometimes slams into the waves, but it is more arresting than dangerous.  The boom comes across more like a hestitating suitor while the jib crosses over like a jilted lover.   It is exciting when she pick up speed again, bearing on a new tack, a new object.  

This weekend, the meeting of my running coaches with sailing occurred, and this story is for them.  The MTT coaches have been extremely generous with their time and encouragement.  I want them to know the beauty of sail, and similarities to running.  When the dog days of August arrive, and the hot summer fades, I want to salute the poor runner who is training for his day in November.    I am often sailing rather than running on those hot Saturday mornings.   The MTT coaches are out there regardless of weather, spurring on lost runners and dishing out wisdom.  They are more fun on Song of the Wind than on the streets of Richmond, but that is for another story.

I hope to run another 10 Richmond races, but I will be grateful for just one more  run.  My memory of days when I could only barely sit or walk, suffuses each time that I can run.  There is freedom in movement.  Whether running downwind or going to weather,  just as long as we are outside, sailing or running, is enough. 

Whether one race or twenty races, just having family and friends running together is also enough.   Each healthy day is a blessing once we are reminded of our morbidity and mortality.  Looking backwards at the old marathon pictures, I am astonished how quickly nine years have passed.  Miju has graduated from Williams.  Ben, Mark, and Reuben are now in college.  Noah is a freshman and will be handing out water at the Maggie Walker High School near the 23 mile marker.


I am looking forward to this Saturday with joy and anticipation no matter what my aches are pains might portend.  I still have to contend with an expanding middle.  I did not have to fight the Persians.  I will have Joan and Janet and my MTT coaches spurring me on.  The course closes at 3 o clock, I hope that it will be enough.

Beautiful Blemishes

If you look for it, it is there.  A soft scratch on the starboard hull.  Mixed among the other dings and imperfections, it is hardly noticeable.  Yet my eye is drawn to it every time we visit, and my mind lingers on its birth with a smile.

Hurricane Irene is passed.  The long summer of our twins passage into college is gone.  Noah is at  high school.  Events has moved on with its flurry of self importance.  It is diffcult to capture them.   Photographs leave an indelible print, but also leave questions.

Mark is a loveable carefree soul who is now making his way in the world.  He is open and fair to people he meets which can get him into trouble.  His energy is diffused around many tasks and projects, and it is hard to focus him.  He does poorly in school when he should do better, and yet he knows the subject matter.   He has not turned in his papers even after completion, because he has already understood the subject.  Of course, this does not help his grades and irkes his teachers.

He is irresponsible and charming which is a dangerous combination.  We are so glad that he is close to home this year, and he seems to be happy and thriving but it is only his second month at college.  He is passionate about music, and I hope that his passion is not muted by some terrible structural interactions with his courses.  I am reminded of Mark Twain's "don't let your schooling get in the way of your education," but we also have to pay the bills and taxes.

Mark, Noah and I decided to go for a inner  loop of the lower Chesapeake.  It is a man's trip.  Ben was in Blacksburg and Reuben was an indigenous camp counselor in Vesivius.  We had higher ambitions, to circumnativate Delmarva peninsula, but left this goal for another summer.

We visit the Thai Pot in Kilmarnock as a starting point.  The Thai Pot was recommended by Bill Chapman who has the great job of organizing speakers to the Richmond Forum.  The "Pot" is in trouble of near extinction as it has very few customers.   It is a displaced restaurant that you might find in New York or in some metropolis.  The cook is excellent, the service is divine, and the silverware is polished.  All in mainstreet Kilmarnock.

Noah in his bravado, orders Thai hot curry, and we are regaled with laughter as his face contorts, and he drinks a gallon of water.  Next time, American hot.  We hope that the Thai Pot can endure,  and we try to support this enterprise.  The sticky rice and mango is a sweet apology to the Thai hot, and we leave with our tongues intact.

We are lazy to start the trip and so decide to test our dinghy.  The Liberty is a hard dinghy that we have pulled around when the boys were little.  Noah loved being its captain, and now he captains Song of the Wind.  Not used for several years, the little boat which we almosted named "Rife" is dusty but alive.  Mark and Noah start the motor and venture out Broad Creek.  I suggest that they go to Sting Ray Marina, but instead, they try to go to Stingray Point on the Rappahannock.  They run out of gas, and paddle back.  Almost home, they remember the reserve gas can in the boat, and refuel.  They look like pirates.



Waiting at the dock for them to return, it is a sensation of hope and joy for the upcoming trip, and then worry when they are overdue.  My eye strains for their shape, mixed with shadows, and when I see their forms, my heart lifts.

We go across the Bay to Cape Charles Town Marina.  It is brand new and also very old.  They are trying to compete against the fancy BayCreek Marina which has transformed Kings Creek.  Cape Charles is a working man's "Harbour" and does not like to be called a "Marina."  This fact they really emphasize to recreational boaters like us.  They use channel Six like a Harbour and not a marina.

They are across some old railroad yards that were once used to transport goods and service to the Eastern Shore ferry ships.  It is a beautiful piece of land, but overrun with brush and weeds.  A walk across the yard invites an attack of chiggers.

We brave the infestation, and make it to Kelly's Irish Pub!  A wonderful place that is comfortable and real and inviting.  This is a clean well lighted place after a long voyage.  They serve wonderful libations for the old, and cool hamburgers for the young and old.   We leave with happy hearts.

Cape Charles sunsets are a taste of California.  The red orb sink into the water.  We face West to the continent as we are on the Eastern Shore.  We retire with an episode of Dexter that leaves us with disturbing dreams.

Leaving Cape Charles, we venture out into the Atlantic Ocean through the Fisherman Island Bridge.  They have constructed a new double bridge now, and our old maps just denote bridge under construction.  Optically, we look too tall, our mast 57 ft high.  It is high tide.  We call the Coast Guard station, but they just drily recite the old datum.  The clearance is 75 feet.  There are some fisherman, true to form, near the bridge openning, spectators for a passage or a demasting.




We easily pass through, and Mark finally wakes up, having missed all of our consternations.  It is a good way to a young adult, sleeping through problems...

The Atlantic is peaceful, and we roll through the swells from far away.  We swim behind Song of the Wind, and adopt the bathing practices of Robin Knox-Johnston, who would dive off the bow and swim to the stern to catch a dragging line.  Our harbour was Ruddy Inlet, but they are charging four dollars a foot there, and that is too much for our pockets.   So we turn back into the Bay and make for Hampton.

I forget now where we earned that scratch on the starboard hull.  Our memories are similar to ocean swells that arise from afar but break into waves depending on the topography of the moment.  We are cruising through life's swells, and bracing for the next wave.  It is a joyful ride.  Our trip continued on to more wonderful dinning places, and we returned home intact.   Jack Mable has extorted that we cannot post a picture without a story, and so this story is for you Jack.  This is a story with many smiles raised by waves of imperfection.

Reflections on Hair--after a long overdue haircut

 

Why do we have hair?  It grows after we die.  It defines our face and the lack of hair can  be a source of sorrow in our middle years.  A bald head is actually a sign of virility as excessive testosterone creates male pattern baldness.  The whiteness of our fair locks signals stress and wisdom.  More stress than wisdom to our fairer sex.

Jeff is a hairy guy.   He has been growing his locks every since a family trip to the Grand Canyon in the summer.  Jeff is an iconoclast, a Democratic Republican, a Brooks Brothers man on the outside to a John Gardner’s October Light on the inside.  Growing up in Long Island, he went to medical school, although I never asked him why.  He cared about studies but was not afraid to party.  He did well in college and was a summa cum laude in Chemistry.  This fact, he kept sort of to himself.

I met Jeff my first year in med school.  Coming to medical school is more of a medieval throw back.  From a vantage point of small group of college students talking about the relevance of population genetics to current government funding of different social programs in the A D White Humanities seminars, medical school was didactic and Prussian.  This is the metatarsal bone.  If you don't know it as such, you flunk.   The iliac artery becomes the femoral artery below the inguinal ligament.  There is no discussion.  We learned a new language, a different way of thinking about the body, putting aside a lot of cultural beliefs to tease the mysteries of the flesh. 

The first two years are a blur of large classes and feeling sort of lost in the shuffle.  It is not romantic.  There is palpable competition in the classrooms as most of the students have only been students and haven’t really lived in the real world.  They were great at taking tests, but difficult to know as human beings.  A liberal education has taught me that everything is up for question.  A medical student is expected to digest, incorporate, and then regurgitate the information back in the best style of the attending doctor of the day.

It is a stark contrast to the problem at hand, taking care of ill who are in need of strong medicine but also in need of assuage and compassion.

On the wards, the medical student is actually the lowest of the low as he is not essential. Albert Memmi writes in the “Colonizers and the Colonized, “ that the middle man is the most cruel of all oppressors, as he deals a harsher sentence to the people below him than that he receives.  We are at the whims of the interns and residents, and the floor nurses who used us for messengers and phlebotomists.  It was a time of humility and also a time when we figured out how not be certain doctors as we tried to not to transform ourselves into people we would not recognize.

Jeff’s attitude was brazen meek.  He and I met through a common bond of bicycling.  I had been out in the Bikecentennial trail before  school, and Jeff had wanted to start road biking.  We road out to Niagara Falls on the beautiful Canadian side of the river, and ended up at Horseshoe falls.  We did not need to talk.  The shared experience was enough.  It was a break from the learning oppression.

Over the next four years of indentureship, Jeff and I would escape each summer on our bicycles.  We had a four dollar budget for food and lodging.   We traveled  from Boulder to Albuquerque crossing the Continental Divide four times.  We had a snowball fight on top of Loveland Pass in July.   We toured Europe from Southern England, to France, Switzerland, Italy, Amsterdam, and Belgium.  We had another snowball fight on top of the Great St. Bernard Pass in the Alps.  We ventured to North Bay in Canada and got eaten alive by blackflies.   We slept in our tent, and ate peanut butter and jelly bought from the Wall of Value in various grocery stores.  We were happy poor but experience rich.

A perfect day was climbing up the Alps to descend on the Italian side to a bottle of Asti and several day old bread given up by the local farmer because we looked so hapless.  Coming back home one trip, the great Peoples Express from Heathrow, the stewardess asked for any medical personal on board.   We helped an elderly man who was having chest pain.  I don’t recall what we did, I think we just held his hand gave him oxygen, but we had great drinks and food for the rest of the ride home.  We  looked like ruffian, having bathed in rivers most of the summer, and smelt  like salt, as we used salt to quell our greasy hair.   We learned that knowledge, how little we possessed at the time, republicanized our appearances on some days.  We learned not to feel like imposters.

I don’t know why friendships form and dissipate.  Jeff and I can parallel our lives, and we can meet at some intersections.  He is in Vermont, busy in the Emergency Room and also busy in learning the saxophone.   His wife and children need him, as he needs them.  We can go on for months and then years without contact, and then a chance meeting ignites our friendship to a status that we never left.  It is almost an effortless friendship which is the most difficult kind to maintain.

We have tried to go sailing every other year recently.  After the kids are in school, and after the Fall falls away, we have met in Deltaville for a brief turn around the Southern Bay.  We meet after the Richmond Marathon, and I hobble out the following day to find that we can jump on board and crank the winches.  Joan gives her blessing and we sort of go back in time for a bit.  We do not go far.  We bring a four dollar mug, and travel Cape Charles to Kelly’s restaurant.

It is comforting and comfortable that we do not have to talk.  At the same time, we can validate our strange observations.  Boy I thought that metatarsal bone looked like a duck....Holy cow, those teenagers are a strange lot.  After a few days, we return back to our families, haircuts done, back to the world of adults with short hair.  

Hair grows a little after we die.  I am privileged to have friendships that grow like hair when we are living.

The best mirror is an old friend." – George Herbert 

Leukemia Regattas, Topsiders, and Heart Attacks

Regatta is a misunderstood word.   Brooks Brothers and Tommy Hilfiger ads denote stern blond faces looking seriously in an understated effort.  The smile is just a little short of joy, a little more than a smirk.  We are racing, we are one of the elect (in the Jonathan Edwards sense of the Elect).  How can a doctor from Jamestown, New York  with crooked teeth, compete with these model citizens?

On the water, when we encouter another sailboat, we are racing.  The lazy afternoon turns into a friendly joust.  The winches are adjusted so, the sails are not allowed to luff.  Many comments about the boat, the crew, the tack come to consciousness.  We remain silent as the boats travel towards an imaginary mark.  We marvel as they passes us, and try to readjust.  If the boat is motoring, we feel pity.  Such a sacrifice to time and schedules that they have to use the iron sail.  With a quick wave, we round the mark, allow the sails to gently fill, and broad reach home.  


Deltaville hosts the Southern Chesapeake Bay Leukemia Regatta every summer.  Leukemia and lymphoma are hidden diseases, difficult to diagnose and devastating in impact.  These diseases do not discriminate.  Old and young are equally affected, often robbing people of their vitality in their prime.  Despite the small size of Delataville, the community  raises funds for research that is equivalent of large cities.  We have tried to participate each year to help the cause, but we are not regatta people, we are not racers.

For the Regattas, the unsuspecting guests and crew have two important rules.  They must know how to use the head, and they must wear non marking shoes. Topsiders' only function is to not mark the deck of boats and to maintain some sort of traction.  They are good at not marking the boat, but they are terrible at keeping feet dry.  The modern sailor wears what is functional and seldom cares what is on his feet except that it be somewhat clean and not malodorous.  His feet remains incognito.  Style usually does not play a role.


In high school, when Topsiders were the vogue, I too saved for these special shoes that meant that you were one of the "in" crowd.  In the fridgid Southern Tier winters, they were the worst shoes to  wear.  They were uncomfortable, had no support, and the soles dissappeared with the melting snow.  To wear them without socks was pure stupidity.  The ugly "duck boots" were more practical.  We were not in Newport, this was Jamestown, the unofficial Swedish capital of the New York, with average snowfall of 140 inches.


High school has framed my thoughts recently because of "facebook" and the explosion of the social network among us middle age adolescents. The readership somewhat frames the author.  I think of how far I am removed from high school, but at the same time, the old awkwardness prevails when I think of past relationships.  Perhaps high school becomes hard wired in.


Mitchell Anderson was the quintessential Jamestowner.  He was the golden boy.   Face framed in blonde hair, brothers and sisters at Phillips Exeter, he was the local boy who would go on to Williams College.  He wore Topsiders.  He was the boy we envied and emulated, but would also compete against to be class president.  Much to my surprise, as there were more common blokes like me, I would actually win that contest.  The campaign was "Let there be Coke..." with some expletives thrown in.   These memories are in the back waters of my mind.    A painful understanding how immature and young I was at sixteen sometimes still surfaces.  Never push your kids to go to college early or grow up too fast.

Leukemia Regattas are an odd collection of boats.  We are in the "cruising class" which means pretty much rank amateurs.  Our first race was a crew of four with the most concern revolving around lunch and proper beverages.  We stayed away from the melee at the start, afraid of ramming into another boat.  Starboard tack, barging the line, line honors were foreign concepts.  I tried to read the North U's "racing tactics" the night before.  You cannot sail fast from reading a book.  There is the need for touch and feel and instinctual reflexes that has to be developed as well as to be taught.


We had a great time.  We felt an organic connection to the other boats on the water trying to harness the wind in a fair and foul fashion.  The boats were like schools of fish, turning in unison to an unknown signal.  We limped in near the end, glad to finish.

We have raced for our friends and for our dear neighbor, Susan, who would lose her life to leukemia.  Randy, her husband, has indirectly introduced us to sailing.  Being a lover of water, he organized a boy's outing to Tangiers Island.  We gleefully trailered our powerboats to the Little Wicomico River and made a rhumb line to Tangiers.  While roaming around Tangiers looking for a restaurant that would serve hotdogs, we spotted two sailboats majestically coming into Parks Marina.  Compared to our runabouts, they seemed like  the proper vessel for the Bay.  Once an interest is sparked, middle life obsession can be fueled.  We learned that there are no hotdog stands in Tangiers.  Mama Crockett's Chesapeake House does sell clam fritters that taste remarkably like potato fritters.  You just cannot tell the children.


Sailing in a regatta with a experienced crew is very much like working in the cardiac cath laboratory. Cardiologists are blessed with tools to avert crisis.  The most devasting of maladies, a heart attack, a STEMI, can be treated quickly if the patient can arrive at our hospital within 12 hours of symptoms.  If they arrive within four hour of symptoms, there is usually no damage.  The cardiac cath team is on standby, and called to Code AMI.  Within thirty minutes,  no matter the time of day, the cath lab team goes to work to open the infarct artery.  A critically ill patient, gasping for breath, and having agonizing visceral precordial discomfort, can improve to telling jokes and wondering about the next meal in a matter of minutes.  Of course, every case is different, and there are some very difficult arteries to open.
The poor oncologists had no such easy task, and they are truly the scientist-physicians trying to apply novel clinical trials to new situations.  They have very little fun, I think.


What is remarkable about our cardiac cath team is the mutual coordinated effort.  It is an organized cacophony, a race to open the culprit artery before the dreaded 90 min door to ballon window, and before nasty consequences of an heart attack arise.  The problem is that the 90 minutes starts when the patient arrives at the ER rather than our cath lab door.  Oftentimes, the patient crashes when the artery is opened, as the starved muscle revolts against the fresh blood supply.  It is almost like smoldering embers igniting when oxygen is re-introduced.  The well oiled team is a thing of beauty, anticipating problems before they occur.   Speech is reduced to words, the nurses and technicians handing you the proper instruments before they are requested.  The cases have shape and purpose, and everyone is focused to achieve the best outcomes.  These teams are difficult to train and more difficult to maintain.  They work at the expense of their personal sleep and ease, ready to jump into the fight at a moments notice.  Hospitals should treasure their cardiac cath nurses and techs, hardy people in the true medical regatta.

Every summer regattas have been unique.  There have been races in rain and thunder.  The races in calm are most dangerous as no one can control their boats.  Two summers ago, we had beautiful wind.   Song of the Wind, sprinted around the marks only hampered by her inexperienced captain.   If only it were the cardiac cath lab...

We now look at the beautiful ads depicting sailor models with amusement as there is no authenticity.  We race not to be like anyone in a glossy magazine, but to raise funds to stop a devastating illness.  We race to be part of the sailing community and the local community of a sleepy town.  We race wearing our odd colors and odd shoes with the only stipulation that they leave no traces behind.  We invite you to race with us next summer.  You need only to bring non marking soles.  We 'll teach you how to use the head.

N.B.  some photos by Robin Newland, photographer extraordinare