Tag Archives: running

Postcards

Following footsteps …

About a month ago I signed me and my daughter up for the Woodruff 5K in Connellsville.

Had never run it before.

Signed us up for a gajillion reasons … most having to do with the race’s roots.

The run/walk honors the legacy of Connellsville native John Woodruff, who won a gold medal in the 1936 Berlin Olympics, the games where Jesse Owens famously won four golds.  

I grew up in Uniontown, which neighbors Connellsville in Fayette County. After college I worked a couple years in the sports department of the local newspaper. My colleague, Jim, was a lifelong Connellsville resident and former history teacher who loved all things track and field. I remember he always made sure the Woodruff results ran in their entirety in the sports section. I appreciated how he always referred to the race’s namesake as “Mr. Woodruff.”

I didn’t take up running until later in life. I can’t remember when or even why I started. 

I’ve come to appreciate running for the same reasons that I write … for the medicine of it. I’m not fast in either endeavor, caring less about finish lines than what I might notice along the way.

Since I had never run the Woodruff, I thought it’d be a cool hometown-y experience, a neat way to honor the legacy of one of Connellsville’s favorite sons … and an even cooler summertime thing to share with my daughter, who recently picked up running. 

While we were both looking forward to the race, we also acknowledged that a mid-week race at 7:30 p.m., an hour’s drive from where we live, in the dead of summer … might present some logistical challenges. 

The day before last week’s race, peeking at the mid-80’s, high-humidity forecast, Emma exercised discretion and opted out (wisely for her). 

I was leaning towards doing the same. I can easily talk myself out of things when I’m by myself. 

Fortunately, my son volunteered to step in for his sister.

I was both glad and grateful he did.

So last Wednesday after work we made the hour’s drive to Connellsville, parking near Falcon Stadium, where we picked up our bibs. I asked the ladies at the race tables if Peter could sub in for his pre-registered sister. No problem, they said, and didn’t even bother switching their names in the system. “If you win a medal, it’ll be as Emma,” one of the ladies told him with a smile. 

We stretched ourselves out after our long drive before walking the couple blocks up the road to the starting point. 

Since it was my first time participating, I had messaged my friend Jamie earlier in the week. Jamie and I met way back in elementary school. She lives in Connellsville and has both run and walked the Woodruff a bunch of times (in addition to running double-digit marathons). 

Jamie let me know that the course was a bit hilly, but that it finished with a lap around the track at Falcon Field. 

Aside from that, I didn’t bother looking up the race route.

Figured I’d just follow behind the fast people.

Kinda’ glad I didn’t look up the course map, as it might have convinced me to follow in Emma’s footsteps and opt out. 

The first half of the race is a lot of uphill through neighborhoods around town.

So I was grateful when I found my pacer just a few minutes after starting. 

She was locked in. 

Professional race drip. 

Ear buds bluetoothed to her watch, at which she stole occasional glances, checking her pace … which was reasonable enough. 

It was my friend Jamie.

Though we trade messages sometimes, we haven’t seen each other in person in probably 15 years. 

I didn’t go out of my way to say hello when I saw her. 

Didn’t quite seem like the time or place to reminisce about, you know, Mrs. Schiffbauer’s second-grade glass. 

Plus I needed all my breath for the frickin’ hills. 

Also, she ran ahead of me pretty much the whole time. 

The only times we changed places was when she geared down into her practiced race-walker stride. 

Which I deduced was an intentional part of her race strategy. 

I didn’t have a strategy … aside from praying the goddamn hills would eventually start sloping the other way.

The heat and the hills can sure humble a person’s stride.  

But there are gifts in the humbling. 

Being in no great hurry gave me a chance to truly appreciate the course’s hometown-y-ness. 

Owing to the high temps and heavy humidity, there weren’t a lot of spectators out.

But a few residents stood in their yards with garden hoses … showering anyone interested in swinging wide to catch some spray. 

Growing up in Uniontown we ran under a lot of summer hoses. 

It was a blessing to be reminded what that feels like.

Eventually, (read: mercifully) the hills did relent, and Falcon Field came into view in front of me. 

I started to pick up speed when I hit the downhill leading to the old stadium, by which I mean I succumbed to physics and gravity. 

However, as my stride got longer and bouncier, it jostled might rear ear bud loose, causing it to tumble to the ground right before I reached the stadium’s gate. 

Since there were no, um, Olympic medals on the line, I decided I’d rather lose a few seconds than an ear bud … so I turned around retrieved it, and turned back around to enter Falcon Field. 

I have to say … it’s a pretty cool thing slow jogging into a stadium, especially after all the hills and heat … and asking your body for whatever it has left. 

Which wasn’t much in my case, but still. 

After crossing the finish line, I sought out my son on the midfield. He asked me if I’d had a popsicle yet, pointing to the concession stand. 

Whereupon the part of my heart that’s still young was reminded how good a grape popsicle tastes in summer. 

After catching my breath, I went looking for the only other two participants I knew: Jamie and Jim. 

Incidentally, they are friends with each other, having coincidentally met years ago, of all places, at the Woodruff’s finish line. 

I learned that Jamie had already gone back home to change. I texted her congratulations. 

“We ran with the hearts of (Areford) Colts,” I wrote, a nod to our old elementary school mascot.  

I spied Jim after he finished the walker’s portion of the race. 

I confessed to him that he was among the reasons I signed up … as I wanted to congratulate him in person on his retirement from the paper a year or so ago. In his farewell column, he actually mentioned me by name, thanking me for training him when he joined. 

Which says as much about him as it does me.

I’ve always said that the sports department should build a statue to Jim. 

Jim loved covering high school track and field. 

Volunteered for every assignment. 

Which made him the MVP of the sports department as far as I was concerned. 

For me covering high school track and field meant standing around for several hours and then flailing in vain trying to make “she ran fast,” and “he threw far” sound interesting.

Jim had a heart for it, which made him great at it. 

I introduced Jim to my son, Peter, mentioning how it was his first Woodruff, too, and how he had written a report on its namesake way back in elementary school. 

“Oh, did you see the tree?” 

“Oh my gosh!” I said out loud. 

I’d forgotten all about The Tree. 

Which coaxed a fresh history lesson on Mr. Woodruff from my former sportswriting colleague.  

Jim recounted how the gold medalists from the Berlin Olympics in 1936 were each gifted an oak tree seedling. 

And how Mr. Woodruff brought his home to Connellsville. How it was originally planted at the high school’s former site. The story goes that one of the teachers at the high school was afraid the site might be too confining for the tree to flourish, and so it was re-planted at a Carnegie Library a block away. 

It was eventually moved to the north end of Falcon stadium, where it currently stands strong, 90 years after Berlin. 

If I ever knew about the tree’s full backstory, I’d forgotten it.

Just like I’d forgotten the backstory of Mr. Woodruff’s gold medal. 

I had to look it up to remind myself that he won gold in the 800 meters.

Whereupon I learned that Mr. Woodruff was one of 18 African American athletes representing the United States in Berlin in 1936. 

And that half of the 18 won gold medals, disproving Hitler’s theory regarding Aryan supremacy.  

In fact, Mr. Woodruff was the first African American to win gold at the 1936 games. 

And he did so in a performance that is still celebrated today as one of the greatest comebacks in track and field history. 

Which I made myself look up (you should too).

In the backstretch of the first lap, he found himself boxed in on all sides, owing to the leader’s somewhat sluggish pace. As he hugged the inside lane, there were runners in front of him, to his side, and behind him.

I read a couple accounts that mentioned that Mr. Woodruff was very mindful of not accidentally bumping any of the other runners.

There was a great deal of controversy at the time about the black athletes’ participation in the games, and it’s been written that Mr. Woodruff did not wish to give the judges any excuse for disqualifying him for incidental contact with other runners. 

So he did the most extraordinary thing an Olympic sprinter running the 800 could do. 

He stopped. 

Actually slowed down to let others pass him … so he could swing to an outside lane. 

So that, with nothing but open ground in front of him, he could hit his legendary stride. 

Legendary.

Standing a bit north of 6’3” he possessed a stride nine feet in length, which earned him the nickname, “Long John Woodruff.”

With the world no longer boxing him in, he zoomed to the front of the field and held on for the gold.  

If I ever knew any of the above, I’d forgotten it. 

Like the oak that bears his name, his performance is still an extraordinary thing to behold 90 years later.

I also learned that, at the time of the Olympics, Mr. Woodruff was a freshman at the University of Pittsburgh, which did not allow black students to live on campus at the time. So he lived at the local YMCA. That he had to run a greater distance — taking the outside lane — than his Olympic competition seems even more poignant in that light. 

After the Olympics he returned home to both a hero’s welcome — celebrated by a parade of over 10,000 — and a still-segregated United States. Before graduating from Pitt, he won NCAA titles in 1937, 1938 and 1939 in the 880-yard run. After graduating he went on to a distinguished military career.

Having grown up in Fayette County, I’m embarrassed that I did not know all of that. 

But I appreciate running for the same reasons that I write. 

I’m more concerned with what I might notice along the way rather than how long it takes me to finish. 

There are gifts in the humbling.

__

At Jim’s post-race suggestion, my son and I walked over to The Tree. 

There’s a poetry to the tree’s story, especially how it moved from its original location when it was discovered it didn’t have enough room to flourish. 

Just like how Mr. Woodruff won his gold medal.

Standing in the shade of a 90-year-old oak tree grown from soil that Nazis once called home, I couldn’t help but think about … roots. 

About getting to trace roads once run by an Olympic athlete who grew up not far from where I did, but had to travel greater distances for everything he accomplished in life.

About getting to follow in the footsteps of an old friend from elementary school who knows where the local hills are and what to do with them.

About getting to share new old roads with my son while remembering how good grape popsicles taste in the summertime. 

I thought about all the things I have yet to learn about the few things I know. 

By the time we left the stadium and returned to the car, I knew this, though. 

If I get to do it all over again next year, I know what my race strategy will be. 

When I see neighbors in their yards spraying garden hoses into the street …

… I will slow down. 

And let others pass me before I swing to the other side of the road. 

And as I take my time under the cool spray,  I will remember Mr. Woodruff … and remind the piece of my heart that is still young to be proud of where it comes from. 

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Postcards

Standing in the Shadow …

I wanted to be outside this morning, before things got too hot.

Chose the cemetery for a couple reasons.

Shade, for one. Lots of trees.

I like the ups and downs, too. Lets you choose your own adventure, depending on whatever ambitions you bring with you.

I’ve also found that it’s just a good space for reflection … remembering … reminding oneself.

I park in a small pull over that can fit three or four cars, depending. Was still stretching out when someone pulled in next to me. I saw it was an older fella. I was going to wish him a Happy Fourth, but he was taking his time getting out of his car, so I just set off.

The route I usually choose starts with a downhill (I like to be kind to myself), and then a short climb under a canopy of pines, from where it drops a little before flattening out to a roundabout, where I will just do some loops for some easy distance, before hitting a straightaway that takes me past where I parked.

Midway through my first loop, I saw the gentleman who had parked next to me. I’m bad at guessing ages, but based on his silver hair, I’d put him a bit north of 70. He’s shorter in stature, but solid.

He walks with two walking poles.

Not fast, but persistent.

I waved as we passed.

“It’s good to be outside on the Fourth of July isn’t it?” I said.

“Yes it is,” he said.

And then I did this thing that I do sometimes, when I’m out for a run and encounter elders doing their outdoor things.

It might be a by-product of the endocannabinoids that get released in my brain when I’m moving. I’ve noticed that they like to take over my broadcast system sometimes.

I turned back around and said, “I just have to say … you inspire me.”

He looked up at me and smiled, surprised.

“I just have walking sticks,” he said, somewhat sheepishly.

And I said the true thing that I say sometimes.

In so many words, that there is no such thing as ‘just.’

“Well, I hope to live as long and be as wise as you someday, and get to enjoy being outside on the Fourth of July.”

“Well, I am enjoying it,” he confessed.

Then, for good measure, my endocannabinoids bid him adieu with a, “God bless ya’ sir.”

And we went on our respective ways.

Continuing past where I parked, there’s a straightaway that passes in front of the cemetery’s crematorium — or what my daughter affectionately termed the “Easy-Bake” during our Covid walks — and up a hill where I like to take a right and descend to another small roundabout that overlooks the veterans’ cemetery.

In the lead-up to Memorial Day, they put flags on all the markers and gravestones, and leave them up through the summer. The flags catch the natural breezes of the hill, and are always fluttering, which I always find moving as I am moving.

Among the things I appreciate about the fluttering flags is how they invite your attention.

“Looky here,” they say.

Which reminds me that the flags’ stars and stripes aren’t meant to be the stars.

What’s sacred is the ground beneath them.

This past Memorial Day I remember pausing at the roundabout. For some reason I felt compelled to slowly scan from right to left across the field to try and register each one of the flags on each one of the headstones.

Felt like a respectful thing to do.

I’m not sure how many veterans are buried there … a couple hundred at least.

As I scanned, it occurred to me how the graves spanned across many generations, commemorating service personnel from different places, backgrounds and homes. Who all answered and honored the same call, each for their own reasons, if they had a choice. Whose lives were probably all changed in different and complicated and meaningful ways — some ended — by their experiences in uniform.

The flags always catch me the way the breeze catches them.

Passing by them this morning, I felt compelled to capture the scene … for posterity.

Felt like a respectful thing to do.

I was barely a couple seconds into filming when the sun peeked from behind a cloud and cast the large flag behind me that anchors the overlook.

And all of a sudden I was standing in the big flag’s shadow …

… overlooking a Veterans’ cemetery …

… in a small town named for the man who once referred to the country’s then-new government as “the last great experiment, for promoting human happiness,” …

… on the Fourth of July of that experiment’s 250th birthday.

Standing still in the shadow of all of that, I found myself deeply moved.

And so I did my best to reflect … to remember … to remind myself.

My hunch — and this might have been the endocannabinoids talking — was that not many of the souls buried in front of me spent a great deal of time patting themselves on the back. That, when their service was done, they likely appreciated that what they came back to — country-wise and life-wise — was still very much a work-in-progress. With just as much work to do as had been done.

I’m hoping that each one of ‘em at least took a measure of pride in having done their small part in keeping it going and giving the whole experiment a chance.

After taking a moment to pay my respects … I picked up my stride again … just grateful to all those who came before me for the gift of being outside on the Fourth of July before it gets too hot.

And I said the true thing that I say sometimes.

In so many words, that there is no such thing as ‘just.’

May this experiment live long enough to get to be as wise as our small town’s namesake and country’s first president.

May we re-commit to the goal of promoting human happiness for all and co-create a world that promises no more and no less than what a good cemetery does — all the ups and downs you want, but letting you choose your own adventure, depending on whatever ambitions you bring with you.

May we close the gap between the truths and unalienable rights that Jefferson knew were self-evident to our creator, but still very much work-in-progress to those of us standing in our creator’s shadow.

And even if we don’t live long enough to see its fullest manifestation, may we at least persist long and far enough to inspire younger striders with our walking sticks.

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Fathers and Sons

Soft distances …

While in Richmond for some family medical appointments, I talked my son into getting up and going for a run along a trail close to where we were staying.  

We negotiated an 8 a.m. departure. It was still drizzling when we parked the car and walked over to the trailhead. 

“You want to run together or do our own thing?” he asked. 

I appreciate that he always asks, even though we both know the answer. 

Much faster than me, he typically targets a pace when he runs. 

Anymore I pray in soft distances.

“Do our own thing,” I replied as always, never wanting to hold him back. 

Over the next couple minutes, I watched the back of his shirt get smaller and smaller until it disappeared into the trail’s twisting curves. 

So I was surprised when, about 10 minutes later, I came upon him again — stopped and holding his phone in front of him. 

“What’s up?” I asked, pausing the podcast in my ears. 

“It’s my favorite bird,” he said. 

I didn’t know he had a favorite bird, let alone …

“Wood thrush,” he answered, before I could ask. 

I realized he was recording, not taking photos. 

“Listen ….” 

His one-word invitation disappeared the static of the world … and let the pure signal reach my parched ears. 

And for a good half minute, we stood next to each other in silence.

Rapt and enraptured. 

Alive in our tracks.

By a small invisible thrush in a vast forest. 

Singing its natural anthem … over a whispering drizzle as cool and coaxing as brushes on a snare drum.

“He’s going through all his tunes,” Peter said, just as I caught the crispest “Ee-oh-lay” — the trilling, thrilling middle and most recognizable of the three-part hymn ‘common’ (in name only) to the male of the species.

The whole time I was mindful that we were simultaneously inconsequential to the proceedings and possibly the most grateful audience he’ll ever perform for. 

After his last note, I held my breath a couple extra seconds — the same greedy and hopeful feeling I always feel after the last firework — just in case he felt like taking another chorus. 

Exhaling broke the spell.  

And we gathered ourselves … as if after a benediction. 

Peter put his phone away. 

I put my podcast back in my ears. 

He took off in front of me. 

And I watched the back of his shirt get smaller in the distance before disappearing once again in the twists of the trail.

As I followed him at a soft distance, I was still warm from having received something significant … the gift of standing next to my son while listening to his favorite bird singing arias in the rain. 

And I prayed the futile and selfish prayer I sometimes pray after a good sermon  — that I will remember this … and cling to it … when the noisy world comes hard for my heart.

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Fathers and Sons, Postcards, Righteous riffs

Fast Forward …

After driving the six hours home from Philly last Sunday, I went over to the high school track … just to give my legs a stretch. 

My son got there a few minutes before me, fresh from running some errands. 

When we are at the track together, we run separately.

He’s much faster. Keeps track of his times and such. 

Me … I just go for the medicine of it. 

The track was empty when we arrived, but after a bit I spied a couple walking down the hill. From a distance I recognized a retired teacher from the middle school. I see her walking at the cemetery sometimes too, always with a spring in her step, a smile and a kind word.

All of which she possessed when she taught. Both of our kids had her for reading. 

Whenever I see Mrs. Labella my memory goes back to our son’s first year of middle school … when Karry and I signed up for parent teacher conferences. 

That was … what? A dozen years ago now? Thirteen?

I say this lovingly, but Peter was a bit of a handful back then … at least from our side of the equation. 

Whatever internal motor was responsible for his initiative … revved very low. 

Most of his homework got done with Karry’s foot in close proximity to his keister. 

His default with most things was to expend the least amount of effort required. He had dual gifts for pushing buttons and refusing to admit any wrongdoings. We often said he would make a great lawyer someday. 

He also exercised great agency over his energy and attention, which was often at odds with where the world wished he would direct them.

He was never in any great hurry.

His internal clock just kept time differently.

When we met his middle school teachers for the first time, we expected to come back with homework on what we could do better at home to help him succeed in class. 

I’m not sure, but I think Mrs. Labella was first. 

Peter wasn’t much of a reader then … or now. 

Didn’t inherit my English major genes, though he does have a genuine love for language. He just has always preferred working with his hands. Loves making and fixing things.

Reading and writing? Not so much. 

I remember Karry and I bracing for impact when we first walked into Mrs. Labella’s meticulously curated classroom. 

We were indeed stunned by what we heard. 

She said how wonderful it was having Peter in class. 

How well-behaved he was. 

How much she appreciated his participation.

We were like, “Um, our son?”

He didn’t even like to read.

We were kind of speechless. 

I don’t remember Mrs. Labella’s specific words, just that she saw a light in him … that we were too close to see for ourselves … and reflected it back to us.

I now know that those were the days when we — or at least I — spent way too much time squeezing the parenting handlebars way too tightly. 

As Mrs. Labella chatted with us, I remember appreciating being in the presence of a person who’d spent years in the company of 12- and 13-year-olds, who deeply understood the assignment, and who loved the important and sometimes hard thing she got to do … with exactly who she got to do it with. 

Someone who commanded respect, took no b.s. … and was comfortable enough in her own skin to give Grace where and when needed. 

In other words, someone who was born to be a teacher.

By contrast, I realized that Karry and I were as new to being parents of a middle schooler as Peter was being a middle schooler.

Maybe we were all doing a little better than we gave ourselves credit for, even if we were a little fidgety in our respective chairs.  

The rest of his teachers pretty much said the same thing. 

Walking out of the school that night, Karry and I joked that maybe we had a budding actor on our hands. Had ‘em all fooled, he did.

We both knew that wasn’t at all true. 

The truer thing was that maybe we were in too much of a hurry with our expectations. 

That maybe our parenting motors were in need of revving a little slower.

___ 

So … fast forward … to last Sunday at the track. 

I waved to Mrs. Labella and her husband when I caught up to them. 

As I jogged by, she said she appreciated a piece I’d recently written. 

For the record, I’m not sure higher praise exists for a writer than to get a gold star from a middle school reading teacher. 

I told her it’s a blessing to have such good things to write about.

I ran on ahead a bit … then felt moved to double-back. 

“In the spirit of not assuming,” I said. “That’s my son over there,” pointing Peter out on the other side of the track. “If he didn’t say hello, make sure you say hi when he passes by.”

“I’ll trip him if he doesn’t,” she said … still not an ounce of b.s. in her voice. 

I was about three-quarters of the way through my next lap when, up ahead of me, I saw this.

My 25-year-old son and his middle school reading teacher. 

It filled my heart full to see that he broke from his pace to walk with them.

Turns out, his internal clock has always understood time just fine. 

They took a good full lap together.

I don’t know what they talked about. 

Only that they each had a smile and a kind word for the other. 

I imagine he told her what he’s doing now. 

I imagine that she told him she’s not surprised one bit. 

I found myself slowing my pace behind them … careful not to get in the way. 

Just grateful for the medicine of it … in no great hurry myself anymore.

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Outside, Righteous riffs

Fools in the rain ….

Anymore spring just hits me to my core. 

Every bit of it. 

Watching the deliberate greening of the woods behind our backyard feels like having a front-row seat as a miracle unfolds in slow motion.

How it starts from the bottom and patiently works its way all the way up to the tops of the trees.  

—-

Thursday after work my son and I rode over to the high school track together.

Checking the weather I mentioned to him the rains on the way. 

He asked how long we would go if it started raining. 

“I imagine the question will answer itself,” I said.

On Thursdays a youth fitness program meets at the track. A few adults break the kids into groups, from teenagers down to elementary schoolers, and run them through exercises and drills. 

Was barely a lap in when it started raining. 

The rain picked up speed quicker than me, and soon was coming down pretty good. No thunder or anything, just a hard, heavy shower. 

I checked to see what the coaches would do with the kids. Figured I’d follow their lead. I assume they know more than me. 

It was raining so hard, I fully expected them to call it … maybe take the kids inside the school if not cancel out of an abundance of caution.

But they didn’t.

They proceeded to line ‘em up and on-your-marks’d ‘em. 

Made me smile while my nose dripped.

The rain kept up the whole time we were there, but the heavy part only lasted a few minutes. 

For the remainder … it was just a quintessential Southwestern Pennsylvania spring shower. 

I was glad for the kids … that they got to experience the gift of running in the rain. 

The kid in me was grateful to be reminded, too. 

By which I mean … the question answered itself.

___

Yesterday after work I went back to the track for some easy loops at the end of a long week. 

My running shoes were still soaked from the night before. 

It was pushing 7 p.m. on a Friday … and I was the only one there.

Only human, I mean.  

The track sits below the school, so you walk down a hill to get to it. 

On the grassy slope by the entrance, a robin was posted up … practicing her signature tune.

Robins are so common around here, sometimes I forget how beautifully they sing.

You catch one by herself, though, and God pulls up a chair. 

Her crisp song cut the still air so clearly.

Every time I circled back to where she was practicing, I slowed down and gushed compliments.

It was like being in the front row of an empty amphitheater while the evening’s soprano was dry-running her arias.

If I’da had flowers, I’da laid ‘em at her feet. 

All by herself singing a song she’s sung hundreds of times and singing it new for the first time again.

By which I mean … spring.

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Righteous riffs

Brimming ….

Took advantage of the temperate Sunday afternoon weather to head over to the high school track for a few laps.

Sun was peeking through the clouds, which had me debating whether or not to wear my, um, running hat.

I’m not supposed to be in the sun that much.

I inherited many things from my dad, among them an appreciation for jazz, a penchant for re-telling favorite stories, and bad skin.

The hat’s very … protective, by which I mean it’s large and … wide-brimmed.

Not saying it’s like an Easter bonnet … just that it’s more functional than, you know, a fashion choice.

Gets windy at the track, so I like that it has a string that goes under your chin that you can cinch.

You know, like a manly … bonnet.

Enough sun was peeking through … so I decided to throw caution to the fashion winds and cinch ‘er up.

Was a couple laps in when I saw an older couple walking down the hill that leads to the track.

They were dressed for a walk, not a workout.

The lady wore a long blue coat while her large beau sported a jacket and jeans.

Both wore big, floppy hats atop their silver heads.

I came up behind them a minute later, and as I passed I turned around and said, “I appreciate your hats!”

I chalk up my enthusiasm to a slow jogger’s high.

Gave ‘em a big smilin’ thumbs-up.

You should’ve seen their faces alight.

“Yours too!” the big fella said, gesturing towards my formidable headwear.

“These are my people,” I thought to myself as I turned back around.

Unironically, I might add.

Next lap around the big fella calls after me, “Hey, I like yours … where’d you get it? ”

I turned around and walked backwards so I could face them.

Me: My son got it for me. Not sure where.

He: The brim looks sturdy.

I cannot overstate how delighted I was to be having this conversation.

Me: Indeed it is!

He: Repels UV light, I assume?

Me: Not totally sure, but I assume so?

He: You know, skin cancer’s the most common form of cancer.

Me: I didn’t know that!

Told him of my inheritance from my father.

“These people get me,” I thought to myself as I turned back around.

Next lap I told ‘em that I was inspired by their example.

Meant it, too.

The lady said, “Oh, we’re just walking … while you’re zooming around.”

Zooming’s a relative concept, trust me.

I turned around and walked backwards again.

“The reason I do this is in hopes that someday I’ll live to be as wise as you … and still walking outside on a beautiful day like this.”

You should’ve seen their faces alight.

Yep, my people.

I would’ve tipped my hat to ’em, but it was cinched pretty tight … manly bonnet style.

Gets windy over there sometimes.

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Righteous riffs

It’s So Good

New Year’s Eve 2025

I don’t mind the ups and downs 

taking laps around the high school 

when snow keeps me off the track

The numbered parking spaces 

keep me company

reminding me every step counts

Reminding me of the charts 

we used to play in Sam’s band 

when I was in my teens and early 20s

I always say thank you 

To the low hundreds on the hill, 

descending the side of the building

while walking out of breath back to my car

One twenty-five: Cherry Pink 

(and Apple Blossom White)

might’ve been a stock arrangement

Four-bar intro

then Dad playing the Billy Regis trumpet part straight

while I provided the proper punctuation 

for the dancers …

one-two, cha-cha-cha

one-two, cha-cha-cha

One twenty-four: Tuxedo Junction

one of Dad’s favs, which made it one of mine

we kept the intro polite

Holding it back ‘til

it was time for church

Dad’s eyes closed, spirit moving

Taking chorus after chorus

going back for seconds and flatted thirds

bending notes that would’ve made Glenn Miller blush

Wrapping it all up with … 

One seventeen and theme:

C’est Si Bon

“Lovers say that in France”

Us playing soft two-beat behind Alice

Before swingin’ it into four 

How I loved kickin’ the trumpets

“Every word, every sigh, every kiss … “

Pow … Pow … “Dear” … 

“Leaves you on-ly one thought … and it’s this … dear ….” 

Taking my New Year’s Eve laps as three-song sets

still humming Auld Lang Syne climbing back into the car

after shaking hands once again on the bandstand 

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Postcards, Righteous riffs

Heroes ….

“So, we’re making this a tradition, huh?” 

Em’s reply when asked if she wanted signed up for the New Year’s Day Resolution 5K we ran last year.

“Yes … a tradition!” I enthused.

To be clear, she detests running. Didn’t have her newer tennis shoes at home. Had to borrow my old hoodie. 

When Peter asked her goal for race day, she answered: “To not cry the entire time.”

“Me too!” I replied, holding up a hi-5 which she promptly ignored.

In this year’s sequel, I took note of a few differences from our maiden voyage. 

For starters we arrived early. 

In the 23 years I’ve been a parent, we’ve never been early for anything. 

Like, ever. 

We had ample time to get our bibs, pee, stretch. 

I actually peed a second time …  because I knew I may never be this early again. 

To be fair, last year was a totally spur of the moment affair. In a spasm of poor decision-making, I signed us up on New Year’s Eve — the day before the race — whilst slightly north of my second Moscow Mule of the evening. Was genuinely surprised they both said yes. It was their first 5K.

This year was Em’s second.  

Her brother, on the other hand …. 

Peter’s actually taken a keen interest in running over the past year. Much more serious than mine. Minds his times and distances. Actually had a New Year’s Race Day goal in mind. 

Meanwhile, I held fast(-ish) to mine from last year: not puking.

With the aforethought that comes with pre-planning, I strategically managed my New Year’s Eve race prep. 

Stayed away from Moscow Mules. 

Opted for margaritas instead.  

Was coming off an uneven night’s sleep when we took our place among the mass of humanity at the starting line. Didn’t feel like I had much in the tank. 

So I was grateful to find a person shortly after the start to hitch my wagon to, so to speak. From the back, the guy looked middled-aged and mis-matched …  seemed to be wearing a collared shirt over another shirt (?), along with shorts, dark socks and a ballcap. Temperature was in the 30s, which made his incongruous ensemble read as either brazen or ironic — both of which I found oddly appealing. 

He seemed like a poorly informed tourist from another country trying too hard to blend in … or exactly how I’ve felt in every race I’ve ever participated in. 

His pace was reasonable, though. Determined without trying to prove too much … which, I reminded myself, was the same criteria I used for picking my middle school cologne. 

Managed to keep him in my sights the first mile. The trail was puddled in places, which made it a little challenging for me to keep up, but not too off-putting. 

After I hit the mid-point turnaround, I was greeted by a winter wind bent on smacking me in the face the whole rest of the way (rude). Over the second mile, my pacer lengthened his lead, but I did my best to keep from falling too far behind. 

I find once one crests a race’s midpoint, one’s playlist becomes really important. You need that voice in your head to take your mind away from the realization that, if it wasn’t for your poor decision-making, you could be home right now under a weighted blanket on the couch, binge-watching Murder She Wrote while sipping hot cocoa. 

My playlist was on shuffle, so up popped a slow ballad I love by a melancholic Pittsburgh band from the 90’s, whose singer began to croon, “This world will be the death of me,” which convinced me I should maybe outsource the curation of my hype music to the algorithms.  

Stole a glance down at my phone to hit skip, trading “… satchel full of broken hopes … ” (wtf?) for “Heroes” by Bowie (universe balance = restored), and noticed I had just under a half-mile left. Took a quick inventory of my legs, breath and bowels and, confirming stasis, looked up and noticed I’d gotten a little closer to Dark Sock Ironic Collar Guy.

This is the point in the proceedings where one starts thinking about one’s finishing kick, which for me, consists of trying not to giggle slash pee oneself.

The lesson of the TBPPD (Tall Bearded Prematurely Peaking Dude) from a year ago slow-jogged through my mind as I considered my strategy. The previous night’s margaritas suggested … a conservative approach. 

So I waited ’til the three mile mark, and then, you know, called down to engineering to fire up the old warp core. 

Once engaged I passed DSICG with all the urgency of a middle-aged man on the cusp of the morning’s third pee …  in the process resisting the temptation to look over my shoulder to see if my backdraft caused the collar on his shirt to at all flutter.

Hubris eventually comes for us all.

Pushed as hard as I could as I crossed the finish line. 

But after catching my breath on the other side, I sought out my pacer. 

“Excuse me, sir,” I called out. 

He turned around, whereupon I noticed that (a.) he was a bit older than me, and (b.) his collar was actually a neck-warming device (pro move). I also saw the front of his shirt for the first time, which commemorated a Boston Marathon he’d previously conquered decades ago. 

Respect.

I congratulated him on running a great race. Told him he was my North Star, and thanked him accordingly. 

He confessed he hadn’t run in two months, so wasn’t sure what his body was going to give him. From where I stood, he did more than OK.  

I sought out Peter and Em in the post-race hubub, and we headed back indoors to warm up and so Peter could check out the results. 

He found his name on the printout they taped to the wall by the awards table. Finished top 25, third in his age group, shaving a whopping two minutes-plus per mile from a year ago. 

What a difference a year can make. 

So we hung around for the awards. 

They went oldest to youngest, announcing the winners in the 70-and-above category first. 

A familiar figure walked up to claim first place.

Dark socks. Shorts.  

Dude was in his 70s. 

Um … brazen, it turns out. 

As far as North’s Stars go, I chose wisely. 

Probably went home and spent the afternoon chopping wood. 

Needless to say, I found the experience of smoking a stone cold septuagenarian down the home stretch very satisfying. 

We waited through the other age groups until they got to the 20-29s. 

Announced females first. 

When we heard third place finished just above 30 minutes, Em and I had the same thought.

She turned to me, “Wait, if she was third … then I might have ….”

We were both giggling by the time she finished the sentence, just as they were calling her name for winning her age group.

In the ironic category. 

I had a fresh hi-5 waiting for her by the time she returned to her seat … which she promptly ignored.

I informed her that she was now bound by honor to come back next year and defend her crown.

Ah … traditions.  

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Fathers and Sons

Sunday morning mix tape ….

Things That Got Me Through My First 10-Mile Run

EQT 10 Miler – 11.3.24

The fortuitous timing of turning back the clocks gifting us an extra hour to make an 8:30 a.m. start time at Station Square. 

Karry’s words before I left the house:  “Enjoy your time with your son.” Until she said them, my mind was anxious about whether or not I had 10 miles in me (the odds far from guaranteed). Her six words melted my anxiety on the spot, reminding me that the morning in front of me was not to be measured by distance. A reminder that I can’t hear often enough: that what we do is not what we are doing. That it’s not about arriving. It’s about being resident.

Being among the first Sunday morning passengers on the T at South Hills. Watching and listening to it fill up, stop by stop … all shapes, sizes, colors and ages. A crescendo of expectation. By the time we arrived at Station Square, it was filled to overflowing. Spilling out onto the sidewalk to make the pilgrimage over to Highmark Stadium. The loud music and announcer calling us from a distance. The feeling of being part of a summoning.

Shortly after starting, going across the West End Bridge and looking right to see Pittsburgh glistening under the clearest, crispiest blue sky. A lone boat had the confluence all to itself, its wake billowing behind, regal as a queen’s robe. The sun and the scene conspiring to almost make me cry it was so Sunday morning beautiful.

About 2 miles in, I caught Peter on a slight down hill somewhere on the North Side. I stayed just behind him, careful to remain outside of his peripheral vision. I didn’t want to risk him seeing me and feeling compelled to slow down his pace on my behalf. Content to just let him be my pacer for a little bit. What Grace to have lived long enough to follow in my son’s footsteps. 

My playlist serving up the best medicine exactly when I needed it. Three miles in, Frank Sinatra crooning, “Nice and Easy,” me hearing Frank’s finger snaps in the mix for the first time. He couldn’t resist … the band was swinging so much. By the last choruses, I couldn’t either. Me and Frank in the rocking chair as it were. Ol’ Blue Eyes subsequently passing the baton to Pancho Sanchez, Rage Against the Machine, Lauryn Hill, AC/DC, Levon and The Band, Morgan Harper Nichols, Indigo Girls and a chorus of other encouragers. One of my best mixtapes ever, if we’re bein’ honest here.  

The cheerleaders, mascots, DJs, cow-bell ringers, kids, friends, significants, seniors, families and neighbors who came to root. Especially the two drumlines throwing down. When I saw they had their hands full, I made sure to applaud them.

About six miles in, passing under an archway that read, “It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood.” Proly woulda cried at that point, too, if I hadn’t been holding on to my tears for miles 9 and 10.  

Between miles 7 and 8 we ran on Penn Avenue through the Strip District. It was as close as I’ll ever come to imagining what Stallone had in mind running Rocky through the streets of Philadelphia.  Penn Avenue’s melting pot holding down the Strip’s legacy while the world squeezes in on all sides. 

Pretty much over the whole endeavor by mile 8, but also knowing I’d run too far to give up. Muscling through the last two on fumes and a blistered and calloused right foot. Accepting every hi-5 offered by folks encouraging from the sidewalk. A thousand bonus points to the saints holding the Mario-inspired “TOUCH FOR POWER BOOST” signs down the home stretch.

Encouragers, never underestimate yourselves.

 

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Postcards

Everyday Special …

Lydia and I met as freshman English majors at Waynesburg College. Had a bunch of classes together. Worked on the newspaper. Lydia was editor our senior year. I wrote a silly column trying too hard to be Dave Barry. Lydia was in charge of things. 

Anyone who knows Lydia will not be surprised by this. 

She expected a lot of herself, and of the world around her. I remember once she got so fired up upon learning that a classmate had been cheating in one of our classes.

“Pete! It’s just not fair! He’s not doing any of the work and he’s going to get the same grade as us!”

As an aside … she was being generous in including me in the ‘us’ part of the grade-getting.

“Doesn’t that make you mad?!?” 

I remember answering her that what other people did didn’t bother me much. That maybe what mattered more was what we were learning … what we were getting out of the class … what we might take with us. I remember telling her that I wasn’t sure that the grade even mattered all that much. 

Needless to say, I was unsuccessful in litigating that case with Lydia … who went on to be our class’s valedictorian, and graduate from law school after that. 

I think our friendship was forever forged in Dr. McEwen’s Research Writing class. To say that Dr. McCewen was exacting would be an understatement. The entire semester was dedicated to writing a research paper. We would meet to work on it at Lydia’s sister’s apartment in downtown Waynesburg (quieter than the dorms).

Lydia was the organized one. She kept us on task. Made sure we hit our deadlines and turned everything in on time, if not early.

None of the above were among my superpowers.

In a spasm of poor decision making, Lydia let me choose the topic for our research paper. I remember wanting to look at different periods of history to see what given societies found funny, as reflected in their drama and literature. Like, what was funny in Shakespeare’s time? And to what degree did comedy stay the same or evolve across centuries and societies? 

It looked good on paper. 

It didn’t look good in our paper. 

We’d be on like, draft 7, and Dr. McEewen would return it just bleeding red ink from his infamous pen. Lydia would get so stressed out. As the semester progressed, she doubled-down on editing our drafts before we had to re-submit. She had this big blue thesaurus. She would pull it out and make suggestions when we were stuck on something. This is one of the few things we clashed on. I’ve always hated thesauruses. Have always considered them a sign of weakness. Whenever she would bust out the thesaurus, I’d rebel. Ignored all of her suggestions. Told her we weren’t trying hard enough and would figure it out.

Aside from that, if I brought anything to our partnership, I think I helped keep things light … helped us from taking ourselves too seriously. 

I think Lyd found me amusing … much the way one is amused watching a dog chasing its tail.

I could always make her laugh.

The LYDIA laugh. 

It was glorious. More of a cackle, technically speaking. 

And one, that for as long as I knew her, she never cut short for room or circumstance. 

__

Our interactions during Dr. McEwen’s class would remain the hallmarks of our friendship after college. 

Lydia remained the organized one, always taking the initiative in our remaining in touch. She’d send cards and thoughtful letters recounting her travels abroad and life updates. Which I would return weeks, sometimes months, later. She was meticulous about sending cards around the holidays. My birthday card from her would invariably arrive a couple days early. 

By contrast, while I knew her birthday was in February, I could never remember the exact day. She’d always give me shit when it arrived days, or sometimes weeks, late. I remember once asking her to remind me when it actually fell. Her response, “I’m not telling you. You should know.” 

She expected a lot of the world around her. 

It got to the point where, when I’d see February approaching, I’d immediately send her a note, making a point of calling out how proactive I was being. 

She didn’t buy it. 

__ 

But there is one date that I know I will never, ever forget — Friday, June 7, 2024. 

We had made plans earlier in the week to talk. She’d warned me in advance. “Brace yourself, Pete … it’s not good.” 

When I picked up and told her I was driving, she said it was probably good that I was sitting down. 

And for the next couple minutes, she — unflinchingly, unblinkingly, remarkably —  let me know that it took her doctors three biopsies before they figured out what it was. That it was not the recurrence of breast cancer she and they first believed it to be. That it was worse. A rare form of cancer. Only 200 cases. And that it had spread all through her body. That she likely had a month to live. With treatment, maybe three months. Maybe a little longer. 

She told me that I was the last person she planned to have this conversation with. That it was just so impossibly hard. That she was done recounting it all. 

I mean, what do you say to that? 

You start with what’s true. 

I told her that I received both the act and substance of what she shared with me … as an honor … as a gift … as a blessing. 

That she has always had such a light about her … and that light was as bright in this moment as it had ever been. 

And that I would always do my very best to reflect her good light back to her, and to the world at large. 

And you both cry a little bit, but not much. She’d done the crying. 

So you do what you’ve always done for as long as you’ve known each other. 

You just catch up. 

You talk about Waynesburg. Old classmates. Dr. McEwen. Other professors. 

In our reminiscing, I mentioned to her that I have few regrets, but I do regret that I was never able to go back and have an adult conversation with Dr. Bower, who was another larger-than-life character in our college experience. To talk about all the seeds he planted … his knowing we weren’t equipped in the moment for them but planting them anyway. I wished I could’ve told him what some of those seeds had come to mean for me.

When Dr. Bower passed away, Lyd and I went in on a memorial donation to the library in his honor.

In response to my ruminating, Lydia said the most remarkable thing.

She said, “I’d wish for the exact opposite.

“I’d just like to go back and have one day at college. Not even a special day. I’d just like to walk campus. Sit in on a boring class. Hang out in the dorm talking about nothing. 

“Go to Scott’s Delight … get an Everyday Special.” 

Scott’s was an unassuming greasy spoon down the road from campus. A counter with stools directly in front of you as you entered, and a few booths on either side of the entrance. The Everyday Special = legendary. You could get a burger, fries and a coke for like $1.85. Cup of nacho cheese to dip your curly fries would set you back another 45 cents. That’s how the pros did it, anyway. 

It wasn’t great. But it was perfect. 

An Everyday Special. 

It was just the most golden thing for Lydia to say.

I was still letting it sink in when she continued. 

“Oh, there’s something else I wanted to tell you.” 

She said that she was hoping to surprise me, but she wasn’t sure she would get the chance, so she wanted to tell me just in case.  

She asked me if I remembered seeing a few months ago that the college (I know it’s a fancy University now, but it will never be anything other than Waynesburg College to me) was doing a fundraiser for an Alumni Walk.

Um, I hadn’t seen it … to which she was not surprised. 

She let me know that she made a donation … to which I was not surprised. 

Until she added … 

“I got us each of us a brick, Pete.” 

Oh my gosh, I said aloud, pulling one hand off the steering wheel and placing it on my heart. 

I mean, what do you say to that? 

She said it for us. 

“So we’ll always be together on campus.” 

I was speechless. 

I don’t remember what we chatted about after that. 

I only remember one thing, actually. 

At some point … I made her laugh. 

Don’t remember what I said … most assuredly something dumb, like always. 

But there it was.

The Lydia laugh. 

Her singular cackle. 

The one she never cut short — even in this impossible moment — for room or circumstance. 

Undiminished. Resplendent.

__

Days later I found myself downstairs at my desk … still reflecting on our remarkable conversation … when it hit me.

I remembered something I hadn’t had occasion to think about for 35 years. 

The kind of detail that Lydia was notorious for remembering … the kind I never could recall. 

I remembered the title of our research paper. 

And it about knocked me out of my chair. 

In the shadow of our remarkable conversation, it was infused with a poignancy that I cannot adequately put into words. 

The title of our paper was inspired by a story we’d come across in our research. The story is believed to be apocryphal, its exact source lost to history. 

But the gist of it is this. 

A famous actor was lying on their deathbed, being attended by family and friends come to pay their last respects. A former colleague was at the bedside, looking at the frail actor in their failing health. Piteously, the colleague said, “This must be so difficult for you.” 

To which the actor opened their eyes and said in reply …

“Dying is easy. Comedy is hard.” 

The memory hit me at the very moment I was thinking of the sound of Lydia’s laughter … from the last conversation we would ever have. 

Lydia took the thesis from our paper and pretty much made it the thesis for a full life, well-lived. One she never stopped researching.

In the end she was litigating my case back to me. That when all was said and done … the grade didn’t matter after all.

__

I had the great honor to attend Lydia’s celebration of life a couple weeks later. Got to see her sister Karen for the first time in decades. She kindly invited me to stop by the luncheon they were hosting after the service, said that Lydia had something for me.  When I did, Karen handed me a bag … said that Lydia had written me a note, but that she had so wanted to revise it (always the editor). Had asked Karen if maybe she could type a revision for her, but Karen told her that she was certain it would mean more in her own handwriting. 

Of course she was right.

I waited until I’d driven the four hours back home from Mechanicsburg before I looked in the bag and fished out the letter. 

__

This is me keeping my promise to my friend. To do my best to reflect her good light back to her, and to the world at large.

While I recalled above how our friendship was forged in Dr. McEwen’s research writing class, Lydia had a finer point to put on the forging. 

“For me, our lifelong friendship was sealed on September 17, 1990. While battling my first round  with cancer, I called to wish you a happy birthday. The summer of 1990 was beyond challenging for me — battling Hodgkin’s Disease while attempting to carry on as though all was well. During our call, you said, ‘I miss you, Lyd.’ Nearly 34 years later, your simple sentiment brings tears to my eyes. You were so sincere, and it was just what I needed to hear. Thank you, my friend.” 

Of course Lydia would remember the exact date.

Of course she would think to call me on my birthday while she was battling her first round with cancer. 

Of course she would remember what I said.

If you only knew that about Lydia Hack, you would know enough. 

But there was more in her note. Her gift.

“I’m not sure if you recognize this. Do you recall the role it played during our Senior Thesis? This tattered reference has traveled with me throughout my career (both legal and nanny). When I was cleaning out my office, I thought you should have it.” 

I placed her letter inside the cover. To make sure I would have an excuse to crack it open every now and again.

__ 

In a spasm of poor decision making, I let my son talk me into signing us up for the Waynesburg Homecoming 5K, which was held early yesterday morning on campus. 

I’d never participated in the race before. The course looped through campus and spilled a little beyond. Past Martin Hall … our freshman dorm. Up the hill past the bottom of Buhl Hall … where all our English classes were held. Made a left at the corner where Scott’s used to be before it was torn down way too soon so many years ago. 

Aside from a few alumni starting to mill about, it was just a regular day on campus. 

I took note of that.

With one notable exception.

When we’d arrived early before the race I saw a sign listing the schedule of events for Homecoming weekend. 

Where I learned that they were dedicating the Alumni Walk at 9:45 a.m. … not far from where the race finished up.

Of course they were.

While Peter waited in the gym after the race for the awards to see how he did in his age group (he won), I walked over to the space between Miller and Hanna halls just as the ceremony was beginning. 

Found us.

I miss you, Lyd. 

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