The Hyannis Half Marathon

You know what's a really good way to distract yourself from grieving? Run 13.1 miles!

On Sunday, I did just that in Hyannis, MA. Since my grandfather's funeral happened on the day he died, there was no way I could get out to California for it. So I figured that since I stayed here, I might as well do the race I'd been preparing for. I decided it would be a memorial run for him. He wasn't a runner. He was damn stubborn, though, and wasn't one to be deterred from doing what he wanted. So I channeled this energy and ran with Dr. Bombay.

The race didn't seem particularly well-organized in that there weren't really enough Port-o-lets. The race started when we were still waiting in line to pee. Which meant that by the time we crossed the starting line, we were all the way at the back of the pack. This led to passing lots of people and sometimes getting stuck behind particularly large, slow-moving herds. I did not push anyone out of my way, though it occurred to me. I will say that there is something very, very satisfying about passing so many people. Mwahahaha!

Luckily, the weather was nice: Clear, in the mid-30s, and with only a light breeze. I know, my definition of "nice" has changed since moving to Massachusetts. I ended up running faster than I thought I would (8:13 miles). I found this especially surprising because of how slow and crowded the start and first few miles were. But, hey, in a race that long, I guess you've got plenty of time to make it up. Dr. Bombay also ran faster than he anticipated and we both ended up finishing long before Todd, our official photographer for the event, made it to the finish line. Sorry -- no pictures of me sweaty and half-dead. But here's a picture of us waiting in line for the Port-o-let:


I think channeling my grandfather's stubbornness helped propel me. Every time I wanted to stop and stretch in somebody's front yard (because, damn, were my legs tired), I just told myself (yelled internally, actually) to keep going, @#$! So that's what I did.

Thanks, G-pa.

G-pa

On Friday, February 22nd, my grandfather died. He was 93.

I didn't get to say goodbye. Though, in some ways, I've been saying goodbye for years. His health had been declining and each time I saw him, I knew it could be the last.

At some point during my childhood -- I'm not sure when, exactly -- I began to call him "G-pa." And it was the same for my grandmother, who became G-ma. I guess I thought it was important to dispense with formalities and get right down to business.

Some memories:

Once, on a family vacation to Hawaii, I discovered a gigantic cockroach in the house we were renting. Being a 5th grader, I ran down the stairs to get an adult to deal with it. (Okay, I would probably do this now. No way am I getting near a cockroach.) My G-pa came to the rescue with his pocket knife and ended up lopping off a couple of the thing's legs before it scampered away. It was like he suddenly became Crocodile Dundee. My family and I have been laughing about it ever since.

He was always an avid, loud nose-blower. When I was little, each time he blew his nose I would tell him that he "scared the wits out of me." He would laugh. It was our thing.

Whenever visiting my grandparents' house, G-pa would usually be watching some sporting event on television. But if you sat down to watch with him, he would courteously hand over the remote, the way others might pass a tray of food. And, stubborn as he was, he wouldn't usually let you get away with passing the remote back to him. I think there has been significant time spent at family gatherings passing the remote around the room because nobody really wanted it. Nobody wanted to be the one to just shut off the TV, either. It was my family's version of hot potato.

When my dad died, my G-pa and G-ma stayed with us for a little while. I remember them both taking over the running of the house while the rest of us took to our beds and cried. For some reason, I especially remember my G-pa vacuuming. It made an impression on me, I think, because I realized just how much he and my G-ma were willing to do to take care of us -- even the crappy chores. It seemed especially thoughtful that they were taking care of even little things that most others would have forgotten when they were busy bringing us casseroles and sending stupid cards full of platitudes.

Many of my G-pa memories are also G-ma memories. They would have been married 69 years this August. They were "G-ma 'n' G-pa," almost a single word. And whenever I think about how bereft I am, I think about my G-ma, alone now, counting the breaths until she can join him.

Are you gonna eat that?

The other night, Todd and I were watching Fast Food Nation, a film adaptation of Eric Schlosser's fantastic book by the same name. The movie was a little weird -- it made fiction of non-fiction and, as is often the case, was not nearly as good as the book. The last scene is a graphic depiction of a "kill room" of a slaughterhouse that I could barely watch.

Then, in a strange confluence of events, it turns out that there is a huge beef recall. What, did I forget to turn the movie off? Every time I turn on the news, I see footage of poor, sick cattle being abused by the workers at the slaughterhouse. More horrifying stuff that I can barely stand to watch. The best part is that most of the meat from this place has probably already been eaten by children in school programs.

What kind of a country/world do we live in that we feed ourselves and our children this shit? And what kind of a country/world do we live in that it is okay to treat animals this way? Yes, the plant was shut down because of the animal abuse. But this was just one place that happened to be sloppy and get caught. You'd better believe that this goes on at other slaughterhouses -- maybe not on such a drastic, horrible scale, but the lives the animals live until their deaths can't be exactly pleasant. And don't even get me started on how the workers are treated.

I fear that most people who see the news coverage of all this will be grossed out but probably not do anything about it. Maybe they still like their burgers too much. But you know what you can do? STOP EATING MEAT. Or, please, at least eat less of it*. Is your momentary pleasure in that rib-eye really worth all the pain and suffering to workers and animals and the environmental impact of it all? Go ahead and read Fast Food Nation, and watch the movie too. And be sure to keep your eyes open during that kill room scene.

Be sure to keep your eyes open, period.


*I'd like to say that I'm aware of the class issues involved in consuming less meat or being vegan/vegetarian. It really costs money to be able to choose something other than fast food or meat, and it horrifies me that the poorest people get stuck eating the worst food and not having other options. Which is why those who have money and choices should make good ones, and support programs that help feed the poor nutritionally sound food. Like this one.

The Great White North

Isn't this what they call Canada? I think it applies to Massachusetts as well.

Earlier today, Dr. Bombay and I were discussing the weather. This is not as trivial as it seems. You see, the weather here today is pretty awful. I know, Boston in February. Who could have guessed? Let it be known that I've decided that several inches of snow topped with several inches of rain is one of my least favorite weather situations.

As the conversation then moved to warmer places that we would like to be or perhaps live (all aboard for Auckland, New Zealand!), Dr. Bombay wondered why on earth I left the Bay Area, home of vegetarian restaurants, 60-degree winter weather, and cultural diversity. Good question.

Normally, when asked these kinds of questions (which, incidentally, usually come up in the winter), I feel a pang for the weather. I felt that today as well, but I also have been really noticing lately how white it is in my neighborhood. And it's not just because people are February-pale. When I lived in Oakland, I was fortunate to be surrounded by an amazing amount of cultural diversity. I just took for granted that I would hear languages other than English on a regular basis and that there were thriving communities of color. Davis Square? Not so much.

The whiteness of where I live has often struck me while riding on the T. There seems to be a line that is drawn at about the JFK stop on the red line. North of that stop, there are mostly white people. South of that stop, there are way more people of color. This is the line that seems to extend throughout the city and it seems pretty segregated to me. Of course, this usually happens to some degree in cities -- I think about the differences between certain neighborhoods in Oakland, for instance -- but there is something about it that seems especially pronounced in Boston.

People who have lived here longer than me (and there are a bunch of 'em) might accuse me of stating the obvious, especially given Boston's history. But just because this is how it's been for a while doesn't mean that it's okay with me.

I'm just saying.

The (not so) Frigid Fiver

Today Dr. Bombay and I thought it would be fun to do a little something called the Frigid Fiver, a five-mile race through Newburyport. Given that it is February in Massachusetts, this race could have lived up to its name and we really could have frozen our asses off. Luckily, the temperatures were in the 40s, which was not very frigid at all.

Unfortunately, I've had a cold for the last couple of days, so in order to actually do this run, I resorted to drugs. (Ooh, it's the Frigid Fiver doping scandal!) I must say that pseudoephedrine is a miracle drug. It makes it so I can breathe no matter how sick I am. It also puts me in a dry-mouthed dissociated fog and for some reason makes my lips turn bluish. I suppose this really isn't what one might desire for a race, but being able to breathe seemed like a top priority.

I managed to breathe throughout the whole race, though really loud and hard, which I think contributed to a major stomach cramp. I think I must have sounded like I was on the verge of an asthma attack. (Notice that I'm alone in that picture. I scared people away.) In spite of my infirmity, I managed to run faster than I was expecting under the circumstances (7:34 miles). The problem is that the cold air on my scratchy throat has made me lose my voice and now I am barely able to speak. I feel like I should take advantage of this temporary impairment and use my scary voice to my advantage, by, say, cackling at small children or impersonating Little Richard.

But I won't.