Skarlette

Krischan went ice-skating with his Uncle Josh a couple nights ago.  I wasn’t there, but thanks to a 30-clip of video Josh captured on his cell phone I was able to see how my grandson handled skating on thin ice for the first time in his life.  Three words: Not very well.

You’ve seen the cartoons where the rabbit, the cat or the mouse—in an attempt to escape the jaws of death from a larger adversary—begins pumping its legs in a circular motion for several seconds before the legs take hold and they actually begin running, right?  It was just like that, except Krischan was holding onto the side rail for dear life while his skates were digging a six-inch crevice in the ice.  While it lacked in grace, it sure was fun to watch. 

But I’m not here to discuss Krischan’s outlook for the Winter Olympic Games a decade or so down the road.   Rather, this is about Krischan’s new friend Skarlette.

Beautiful long reddish-brown hair, dangling earrings and an infectious gap-toothed smile that melts your heart, Skarlett is the daughter of Josh’s lovely girlfriend Bernice.  Only eight years old, Skarlett already has the quiet wisdom and insight of a young lady well beyond her years.  She is also—and this may be one of the reasons Krischan took to her so quickly—one of the boys.  

    

Skarlette came to visit us during the Christmas holidays and as Krischan does with all first-timers who come to our new home in Senoia, he wanted to take them out on the trail in the woods behind the house to hunt zombies.  First things first: Weapons.  I grabbed my foam sword in the garage and Krischan grabbed his, leaving the plastic sword that nobody uses because the blade breaks every time you hit a tree limb with it for Skarlette.  To her credit, she didn’t complain one bit. 

She fell in line behind the Captain of the mission (Krischan) and his soldier (me) as we began blazing the trail behind the house.  Following Krischan’s lead, Skarlette began swinging her sword at every branch, vine and plant that she encountered.  She was a natural.

At one point I stopped to pick up a stick and threw it about 10 feet in front of Krischan (I do this all the time when we’re in the woods and almost every time he doesn’t know I threw it).  Krischan raised his arms (as he always does when he doesn’t know I threw the stick)) and said ‘nobody move, I heard a clue.’  I looked back at Skarlette and she had both hands over her mouth, fighting back a giggle that I’m certain would have sounded like a melody had it been audible.  About a minute later Skarlette bent over to pick up a stick and did the exact same thing I had done earlier, and it had the same results.  ‘Nobody move, I heard a clue.’  I looked over at Skarlette and she had her hands clamped down on her mouth so tight I thought her big brown eyes were going to pop out of her tiny head.   

The rest of the weekend Krischan and Skarlette were inseparable.  They sat next to one another on the couch for quite a while Saturday night; Krischan was mesmerized by Skarlette’s prowess playing the latest video games.  I might add that it was obvious Krischan is in no hurry to impress the ladies: he sat close to Skarlette the entire time, looking over her shoulder with his security sheet firmly in hand and his thumb in his mouth.  In fact the only words he said over a two-hour window of time was when he asked for ice water because his ‘breath was hot.’  Charming, eh Skarlette?

Sunday morning we all went to church (Krischan loves church—‘they have a playground’).   He insisted Skarlette come to his classroom, full of kindergarten age children a couple of years younger than her.

Skarlette wouldn’t have had it any other way: The two of them were inseparable during this special, memorable weekend.   

It was pure magic.

Burning Bridges

Buckman.  Fuller Warren.  Acosta.  Dames Point.  Mathews.  These are the names of a few of the many bridges you’ll find in Jacksonville, Florida. 

If you want to visit Jacksonville you’re inevitably going to cross the St. Johns River. 

Main Street.  Hart.  If you’re going to run in Jacksonville’s top running event, the Gate River Run, you’ll be crossing the river via these two bridges.  On foot, of course.

I’ve run the race 10 times.  I ran my first 15K at the River Run.  I ran my fastest 15K  there, arguably the best race I’ve ever run.  At one time it was my favorite race.

I’ve also been to Jacksonville to run the marathon no less than nine times.  At one time the race finished in downtown Jacksonville; the route included the crossing of two bridges; one early in the race and one late in the race.  I ran my first Boston qualifier in Jacksonville.  I’ve run my personal best there as well.

The current route of the Jacksonville Marathon doesn’t include any bridges.  The course is as flat as week old road kill.  I ran this year’s race and was surprised to find myself red-faced, embarrassed and totally exhausted.  What’s even more surprising is that all of this happened 15 hours prior to the start of the race: At the packet pickup where I picked up my race bib (number).

Let me explain.

I signed up for the marathon back in June.  Early registration was $70, a relative bargain in today’s world of ever-increasing entry fees.  (In comparison this year’s New York City Marathon cost $255 to enter; $347 for non-U.S. residents.)  I sent my application and a personal check through the U.S. mail.  My friend Valerie--who entered the race on a whim at the last minute—well after I signed up--and I went to the 1^st Place Sports Running store on Baymeadows Road to pick up our race packets.  Incidentally, I’ve brought many a runner to the Jacksonville races over the years; I mention it because the significance of that comment will be apparent shortly. 

We checked the printed list of entrants in the store’s parking lot to find our corresponding race numbers so we could ask for our respective packets.  Val spotted her name immediately and had her number in hand while I was still scouring the list for mine.  It became evident after five or six minutes that my name simply was not on the list.

I was directed to the go inside the store where I was handed off to Jane Alred, who just so happens to be the wife of the marathon’s Race Director.  (I assure you I had no intention of using her name; however as you will soon understand why I told her I intended to write about this experience in the very near future and she subsequently handed me her business card so I could spell her name correctly.)   

Jane asked me if I had proof that I registered for the marathon.  Well, let’s see: I had the original application in hand that clearly shows I detached the mail-in application, I drove all the way down from Atlanta to participate and I’ve been running races in Jacksonville for well over 30 years.  Most of all—plain and simple-- I’m telling you that I did.

Sorry, not good enough.  Jane asked me if I had the canceled check for the entry fee.  I explained that my bank didn’t send canceled checks with the monthly statement and I really didn’t know.  ‘Well, here’s what you can do: You can pay the early entry fee again and once you prove you already registered I’ll refund your money.

Now it was my turn: ‘Sorry, not good enough.’  Val told me later she could tell how upset I was because my face was beet red (actually what she said was ‘as red as my chicken’s wattles and comb when they get mad’ but I have no idea what that meant).  Val added that anyone could tell I was being completely honest by the conviction in my voice and face.  Apparently anyone except Jane, that is. 

Jane went to the back room and returned with a cardboard box containing the applications that had been mailed in.  There couldn’t have been more than 50 in an event that encompassed thousands.  Mine wasn’t in there.  ‘The U.S. mail isn’t always perfect; maybe they returned your entry.’  I assured her they didn’t.  She assured me she didn’t receive my entry and didn’t ‘want my money twice,’ although earlier she asked for my money twice because I knew with absolute certainty I mailed my application and she already had my money once.    

I told her I was a Race Director myself and if the roles were reversed I would believe her without hesitation and grant her request in a heartbeat.  I told her I’ve always known runners to be the most honorable people in the world. 

She replied that she’d been taken advantage of—many times, in fact—over the years and it wasn’t going to happen again. 

Being the hothead I can be when I know I am absolutely right, I said ‘fine, I’ll just run without a number.’  Jane shrugged and walked off.   (I want to mention I did not have my checkbook with me and I wasn’t about to give her my credit card information that she promised to refund once she received proof of my ‘alleged’ earlier payment.  Seriously, if they lost/misplaced/whatever my application, what were the chances I would get my credit card refund?)

That’s when cooler heads prevailed.  Val asked me to call my wife Cindy and ask her to go online and check our bank statements.  I knew Cindy had a really busy weekend and wasn’t sure she would even have the password with her (she was working at her store at the time) but I called anyway.  Miracle of miracles: Cindy found the canceled check online (cashed on June 17), scanned a photo of it and sent it to my cell phone.  I in turn sent it to Val’s tablet which I took to Jane who in turn asked me to follow her outside where she hand wrote my information and gave me a number for the marathon…without the slightest hint of an apology.  I repeat: Without the slightest hint of an apology, although she continued to try and convince me she didn’t want to take my money twice and how some people can be so dishonest.   

Back story: Several years ago a friend of mine was running competitively for the Atlanta Track Club at the Gate River Run.  She called me the day before the race and explained that she was given a back-of-the-pack number rather than a seeded number (reserved for faster runners so they can start at the front of the race) and needed my help.  I wrote the Race Director (Jane’s husband, remember?) and vouched for my friend’s credentials as an established and talented runner.  He took me at my word and gave my friend a seeded number while I took comfort that my reputation in the world of running meant something.  Heck, a similar testimonial from the office of the Atlanta Track Club on my friend’s behalf moments earlier had fallen on deaf ears, thus the request to me.

After giving everything I possibly have to give to the sport of running for these past 36+ years I didn’t deserve to be treated the way I was at 1^st Place Sports.  Factoring in the absence of an apology only made matters worse.  Again, if the roles were reversed I would have offered her the sincerest of apologies once I was proven wrong.  Not only wrong, but dead wrong.    

It got me to thinking about a lot of things.  I woke up the next morning at 1:30 a.m. and spent the next four hours thinking about these very words you are reading right now.  What could possibly have made Jane treat me the way she did?  What triggered her comment about ‘being taken advantage’ of? 

Then I thought of something I’ve said (as well as written) many, many times: Runners are some of the finest people I’ve ever known.  Could I have been wrong all this time? 

Then this thought dawned on me: Road races—particularly marathons and ultras, are charging more and more money every year for the simple privilege of running in them.  I have a difficult time believing these costs are justifiable, yet here we are.  Why do the big-name and big-ticket events charge outrageous entry fees for their events?  I can’t help but think the answer is—plain and simple—because people will pay them.

Most people, that is.  It’s entirely possible that some runners have had to resort to fabricating stories about ‘lost applications’ to finagle their way into a race they desperately want to run: That special race charging an exorbitant entry fee, money that could be put to better use towards other things.  Food, clothing and shelter for example; things a little more important than a three-dollar finisher’s medal or a race shirt listing all of its sponsors on the back.

So perhaps the way Jane treated me wasn’t the reason I found myself red-faced, embarrassed and totally exhausted before the Jacksonville Marathon even began.  Maybe the real reason is something that has been bothering me for the last 10 years: Race Directors that are more interested in making a buck than taking care of their runners.

That’s why I’ve always been fond of the races in Jacksonville: Sensible entry fees and a passionate concern for the welfare of the runners.

That’s why it saddens me to say I won’t be returning to Jacksonville to run either the Jacksonville Marathon or the Gate River Run ever again.

Those bridges across the St. Johns are now in flames.   

Just Plain Stupid

I've seen a lot of things in my life that were just plain stupid.  Granted, I was responsible for most of them; just not all of them.  Here are a few that instantly come to mind every time I hear the joke about a redneck's last words being 'bet you've never seen anyone do this before!'

1.  I was at a cookout and the man responsible for grilling the hot dogs had no feeling in either hand.  Apparently he fell backwards off a ladder some point in his life and broke his fall by stretching out his arms, thus landing on his palms and destroying the nerves in both hands in the process.  What that translated to was his 'talent' for cooking the hot dogs on a hot, flaming grill by rolling them with his bare hands since he wasn't able to feel the heat.  The fire, however had another effect on him:

Me:  You realize your both of your hands are in the fire, right?

Him: (Boldly, because his chest was puffed out) Yes, but I don't feel a thing.

Me: Maybe so, but your flesh appears to be melting.

2.  There was a man who voluntarily ran across Death Valley, over two mountain ranges and all the way to the portals of Mount Whitney, a distance of 135 miles.  It was in mid-July and the temperatures reached the low 130's.  It took him over 36 hours.  But he finished, dammit.  He finished.   (OK, so this one was me.)

3.  The route I drive to work through a small town in Georgia crosses a train track.  Once in a while the train comes and when it does the railroad is blocked off by those big wooden arms with the flashing lights.  When that happens I--as well as every single other driver I've seen in the last 11 years--turn right, drive about half a mile, turn left onto a road that runs beneath the train tracks and merge back onto my normal route.  Simple.  However one day when the wooden arms with the flashing lights were staring me in the face, I happened to be the third vehicle 'in line.'  The two vehicles in front of me apparently were content to wait out the train; I wasn't.  I pulled around the two cars and turned right, just like anyone else save these two yahoos in front of me on this particular day would have done.  Big mistake: The first vehicle in line was a police car.  Instinctively I pulled over to the curb, about a nanosecond before the flashing blue lights signaled me to.  The policeman got out of his car, walked up to my window and said 'give me your license so I can write you a ticket.'  He walked back to his car and returned 30 seconds later and asked me why I would pull around a policeman at a stop sign and turn in front of him.  I said I--as well as every single other driver I'd seen in the last 11 years--did it all the time when a train came through.  The policeman then retaliated with perhaps the worst (translation: dumbest) analogy in the history of the English language by asking: 'If a policeman was watching and everyone was jumping off of the top of a building, would YOU?'  Shortly thereafter he returned my license to me and told me to 'go on…just go on.'  I consider myself fortunate this occurred at 6:58 a.m. on a Thursday morning, or two minutes before the policeman's shift was over.  His police station was directly on the other side of the railroad tracks, coincidentally.  

4.  Once upon a time I had a root canal.  Without any anaesthetic.  The end.  

5.  When Cindy and I were dating, we spent one summer at my parent's house in Virginia.  One night we went out to see a movie and on the way home decided to stop for a few minutes to park (Is that what they still call it?  Parking?) in my parent's subdivision in an area where new houses were being built.  It was raining--heavily--and the dirt we parked in soon turned into mud.  Once we realized our car was stuck in that mud, I walked to a neighbor's house and asked for their help.  I didn't bother asking for their silence because I thought that was understood.  The neighbors were able to help us get our car out of the mud that night, and 12 or 13 years later my parents finally let me in on their little secret: They knew about it the very night it happened.  Moral of the story?  Don't park in the mud.    

6.  There was a man who voluntarily ran 100 miles through the Sierra Nevada mountain range on a route that went up-and-down-and-up-and-down-and-up-and-down.  And up.  This man had no business running through the mountains, since most of his training miles were run on asphalt.  The course was exceptionally wet and the man's running shoes stayed saturated for 30 hours.  At the end of the run the man had a deep gash right down the middle of the ball of his left foot.  The best description of the foot is this: If the bottom of the foot was the state of Arizona; then the deep gash would be the Grand Canyon.  Yes, it was that deep!  (Me again.)

7.  Did you notice I didn't mention the name of the small town in #3?  That's because the men and women of the Fairburn Police Department don't have a sense of humor.  

8. In sixth grade I was sitting in the back of the classroom next to my best friend.  Abruptly he lifted his right leg and passed gas so passionately (I don't know what else to call it) that it rumbled--LOUDLY--in his wooden chair and echoed throughout the classroom.  I put my face down on my desk because I just knew I was going to laugh until I cried.  Thirty seconds later I lifted my head and saw every single face in the classroom looking directly at me.  I glanced over to my best friend and found him solemnly pointing at me--as if he was disgusted I would do such a thing.  

9.  It is entirely possible to trip over a quarter-inch rise in the asphalt while running.  It is also entirely possible to run two miles in 12 minutes with blood gushing out of a one-inch gash directly beneath your chin.  I hate that I know these things to be true.  

10.  It is entirely possible to forget the names of people you've known for two generations.  I hate that I know this to be true as well.    

Looking back over this list, perhaps I'm confusing 'stupid' with 'getting older.'  Maybe there's hope for me yet.  

The policeman in Fairburn, however, doesn't stand a chance.          

Holiday Spirit

It was the first Friday night in December and the two of us were glued to the couch watching the Christmas double feature that every grandfather and grandson must watch together at some point: A Christmas Carol and How the Grinch Stole Christmas.  Not the originals, mind you, but the modernized versions featuring the affable Jim Carrey.  I’ll admit it was the first time seeing them both for yours truly, but I could tell by Krischan’s facial expressions that this certainly wasn’t his first trip to Whoville or peek inside the mind of Ebenezer Scrooge.

Saturday morning came early.  A bit chilly with occasional rain showers did nothing to dampen the enthusiasm of the young runner as he put on his running shoes—complete with jingle bells attached to the laces—to run the Jingle Bell Trail One-Mile Run.  Prior to the start of the race Santa Claus, who would soon be giving the command to start the race, was standing directly in front of Krischan and I.  I asked my grandson if he wanted me to take a picture of him with Santa…and he lightly punched me in the arm.  If you have a grandson you may be familiar with this explanation of what was going on inside his mind at that very moment:

Oh boy oh boy oh boy it’s Santa Claus and he’s right next to me and I’m so excited

 I can barely stand it but I have to play it cool and act like it’s no big thing because people are watching but oh boy oh boy it’s Santa and what can I do to disguise how excited I am

 oh I know I’ll punch my G-Pa in the arm because everyone will think

I’m laid back and much too cool for Santa and they’ll never know how excited I am that

SANTA CLAUS IS RIGHT NEXT TO ME!!!

I’m guessing there were quite a few of you that had that last sentence in your head before you even read it.  Verbatim, if I’m not mistaken.

As the two of us took our positions at the starting line I told Krischan to keep his eyes straight ahead since there were a lot of children in the race and I didn’t want him to trip and fall.  I said I would be directly behind him and instructed him not to look back for any reason.  So what did he do for the first quarter-mile?  He looked back every two or three seconds.  I’m not sure if it was to make sure I was still with him or to make sure he was still beating me, but he did it A LOT and I know he could have run the race a little bit faster if he had kept his eyes straight ahead.  In spite of everything—the looks back, the rain, the congestion caused by several hundred children running with jingle bells attached to their shoes—he beat his best time in the mile by over a minute.

Time to celebrate.  We headed to the local frozen yogurt shop where Krischan asked me to fix him ‘lots of choklit.’  Chocolate frozen yogurt, chocolate sprinkles, chocolate chips, chocolate syrup and a scoop of gummi spiders (don’t ask): Let the celebration begin!  

We headed home as we had about 90 minutes to kill before the second part of our day was about to start.  I used the time to recover; Krischan used the time to reload. 

Before I knew what hit me we headed out for the annual Light Up Senoia (LUS) festivities.  We arrived several hours before the event would begin; you know, to make sure we would get ‘a good seat.’  (Later on it was clear that had we arrived at one-minute-to-LUS we would have had the exact same ‘seat.’)  So after killing a couple of hours visiting The Walking Dead store, eating a chocolate (is there any other flavor?) pudding in The Walking Dead Café, visiting The Walking Dead Museum, taking in a few of The Walking Dead sites in town and spending a good 30 minutes hunting a few of The Walking Dead on our own (Krischan came prepared: Zombie Nerf gun was firmly in hand at all times) it was time for the show to go on.

But first we had to get a large bag of hand-spun cotton candy that soon turned Krischan’s hands and face completely blue.  After a visit to the local pizza parlor for a ‘cleanup in aisle three,’ we took our spot in the center of town to watch the launch of LUS.

Two local radio ‘celebrities’ (they host a car show on the local country music station) introduced the homegrown talent.  Baton twirlers were followed by fiddlers were followed by (OK, time to fess up: I have no idea who the third performers were because this was when we really went to the pizza parlor to de-blue Krischan.  I lied earlier.  Sorry; I was very tired.  Plus, I’m prone to lie.) 

At this point there were still 20 minutes until the parade would start.  So we head down to the Senoia Masonic Lodge because, after all, Krischan’s face wasn’t going to paint itself!

It was there we waited about 15 minutes for our appointment with Dusty the Clown.  Three minutes (and $5) later Krischan sported the cutest reindeer face you’d ever hope to find on a boy too cool for Santa.  If I’m not mistaken (and again I could have been because, like I said: I was very tired) he looked like one of the characters I saw in Whoville the night before.  (Kudos, Dusty!)

Five minutes later we had front-row spots along the parade route.  I made a mental note not to show up three hours before the parade in the future, while my grandson and his little reindeer smile giggled in anticipation of seeing his very first parade…and of course Santa Claus. 

Having never been to a parade in a small town I didn’t know what to expect, but it didn’t take long to see the pattern: Baton twirlers who we’d seen earlier when they were performing in one spot but not marching as they were now, members of a local church (with a ‘float’—actually a trailer with a manger and a faux Jesus and faux Mary cradling a baby doll), local merchant handing out candy to the children, local Boy Scout troop, two of the Budweiser Clydesdales (we saw them earlier but I didn’t mention them because they sort of frightened Krischan, the same boy who has no problem fighting flesh-eating zombies), local marching band, classic car, local church handing out candy to the children, local merchant, local marching band handing out candy to the children, classic car, local Girl Scout troop, people on horseback (Horse #3: PLOP!  Children along parade route: EWWWW!!! Note: Carrying large pail behind horses in a parade is the second worst job in the world.  The worst job in the world? Carrying a large shovel behind horses in a parade.) and more candy candy candy candy candy…and then…AND THEN…

Santa AND Mrs. Claus!

It was then I saw the smile I had hoped for nine hours earlier when Krischan was standing a foot away from the Man in Red.  The smile of a young boy filled with hopes and dreams.  The smile of a young boy who doesn’t yet understand the meaning of peace on earth and good will towards man, but give him time.  The smile of a young boy who throughout the afternoon gave a generous amount of his candy to the little girl standing beside him along the parade route because she was having trouble getting it on her own.  The smile of a young boy reminding you that there is nothing like the smile of a young boy.

As I remember our day together I realize I won’t have any trouble this year getting my fair share of the Christmas spirit.

The kid's got enough for the both of us.