I love Brooklyn.

After sailing across the top section of the Verrazano-Narrows bridge, surveying the staggering views and thinking of what lies ahead for the next 25 miles the reward is the crushing enthusiasm of Brooklyn. Not a single piece of curb space unoccupied. A virtual mountain of support, the deafening noise and raging, screaming, overwhelming crowds. It’s the ideal place to erase all the doubts which accrued then multiplied and piled up during the two-hour wait at the starting area in Staten Island.

All of Brooklyn came out to say collectively, YOOZ GUYS KIN DO IT! It’s the perfect launch pad for the New York Marathon. Just getting to the start in Ft. Wadsworth is a major effort in itself. Beginning four hours prior to the start time: a ten minute walk to the subway, forty minute subway ride to the ferry terminal, thirty minutes on the Staten Island Ferry, twenty minutes on the bus to the start area, fifteen minute walk to the start and then a two-hour wait to be set free to run 26.2 miles. I could have used a nap before it even began.

Cloudy, cool and crowds. Surrounded by 40,000 people and not feeling crowded seems like it should be an oxymoron. I had a number, a letter, a color, a chip, a wave time and a corral. I guess that explains how it works. I fully expected to see a border collie barking out orders about where I should go next. Now all that’s needed is to have someone wind me up and press go. There’s very little else to do except wait and wonder what the hell I was thinking. But what I was thinking changed after Brooklyn. Hand delivered contagious enthusiasm is all that’s needed and maybe a decent playlist.

There’s as many ways to be amazed as steps to the finish line. I stopped counting how many blind and sight impaired runners were being led by a guide over the 26.2 mile course. Or how many charities were represented. Or how many people passed me or how many put some very creative thought into what they wore that day. My only concern was that I had enough Tylenol stuffed into an otherwise jammed pocket filled with things you wouldn’t consider food but may supply some energy in case of emergency.

We exited Brooklyn at the halfway point of 13.1 miles and over the Pulaski Bridge into Queens. I happen to love the bridges. They provide a little uphill battle and then a nice downhill followed by – you guessed it, another huge crowd. They are a great distraction from thinking too much about where I am and how long it’ll take to get THERE.  Each mile provided an update on time and distance and I may have spent too much energy calculating and trying to remember – was that last mile 15 or 20? This was critically important because of my rendezvous with the boys for a little mental reinforcement. Was it 60th Street or 65th? So much to remember! What mile and where? They were exactly in the right place at the right time. Whew.

For a little amusement on my way up First Avenue towards East Harlem and the Bronx I reviewed my music and wondered to myself if I really put that playlist together. The song titles were a snapshot of my day. For starters: Breathe, I Go to Extremes, For Reasons Unknown, The Underdog, You May Be Right, Hanging By a Moment, Clocks, Beautiful Stranger, Let Time Go Lightly, and the list goes on. Strangely, I didn’t have New York, New York but that was playing right around mile 26 which was a real treat.

Mile 26 is one place on earth you can’t believe it is there when it shows up. A mirage. It finally presents itself – even though I suspect it’s the longest mile of the marathon. All the while I’m wondering why those extra .02 miles are necessary. And of course how do those winners and early finishers manage to do what they do?? I will never know but I’ll be forever in awe of that speed and talent.

“When you run up First Avenue in New York, if you don’t get goose bumps, there’s something wrong with you.”

—Frank Shorter

John J. Kelly, winner of the 1952 Boston Marathon: “Marathoning is just another form of insanity.”

Meandering out to the mailbox I silently congratulated myself on getting two minutes worth of aerobic exercise. Even as I glanced at my watch to accurately document this activity my next thought was:  This is what I’ve become…a meanderer? More like a cross between a mosey and an amble. Definitely not quite a stroll – that might indicate a degree of speed. Delivered right in the middle of my training for the New York City Marathon, a fractured foot, which rudely interrupted everything. An event I’ve waited three years to gain entry.

Then there was the imaginary conversation I envisioned having at the start of the race with a complete stranger about my training. Somewhat of a confession perhaps? Yea, I ran a few miles and then spent the rest of my time walking back and forth from my mailbox with a boot on my foot. Perfect.

After having the equivalent of a temper tantrum followed by spewing profanity I crawled out of the cave of denial and sought a second opinion (other than my own – which was basically, it’s fine – what’s a little pain?). Surely in the medical field of white jackets someone with a magic wand could mysteriously fix everything. Poof! There you go – off and running! The nice lady in the white jacket stared at the x-ray shaking her head and threw me into total lock down. “Stay off of it — one hundred percent”. What? Can I…..no, no, no and no. Adding insult to injury, she handed me the boot.

Actually, there were three of them. Pick the one which is most comfortable she said. Immediately, I flew into shoe shopping mode. Is this all you have? I could care less about comfort – I prefer something a bit more, well – not so ugly. Are there any other colors? What will I wear it with? I can’t be walking around in this thing. She knew what I meant – she wouldn’t like it either. Big, wide, flat, open toe boot with two sets of velcro bands — I was not a satisfied customer.

During my training intermission, OK –  I concur, it was a  complete disruption — I saw a need to change my strategy. Knowing what happens after running 26.2 miles I negotiated with myself that after trying to salvage this run I would keep dumb ideas to an absolute minimum. Next I suppose I’ll print out any pages of my address book that include residents of the Five Boro’s we run through. Also, just in case, I’ll tattoo my hotel and pertinent cell phone numbers on my forearm. That way — if there is an emergency I can be handled just like a Fed Ex priority shipment – same day delivery. I may even tuck a twenty dollar bill in my pocket for cab fare. Not.

It’s important to look at the positive side of this as well. Why do it at all? I could defer to next year – but why? There is one major reason and then several others that count as reinforcement. First and       foremost – calories. Burning over 2000 calories in a couple of hours in a city where the restaurants are incredible is top on the list. It’s essentially a free credit for eating absolutely any food product known to man in any quantity. Second, total stubbornness – pure and simple. And finally, because I really want to see if it’s actually possible. There are thirty days to get it all back. Sounds like a challenge but what the heck?

I was jolted back to reality by the notion that the man in the white jacket was still speaking. To me, to us actually. His lips were moving and large complicated words were tumbling out. He had a black book also — to explain in giant color pictures all the details that we were obviously missing in his careful diagnosis. Slowly turning the pages to elucidate the situation. Had there been a mirror in the room quite certainly I would have seen a smattering of question marks spilling over my face and down the front of my clothes.

Meanwhile, I was sensing multiple opportunities for us to contribute to his beach house being erected on an (as yet) unnamed exotic island that he is purchasing in the near future. Along with a jet black Maserati he may want in a few years as he approaches his mid-thirties.

The anxiety set in prior to his arrival as we waited patiently in the sterile room we were assigned. Glancing over the numerous framed certificates from several top-notch universities and vet schools I concluded that he probably finished paying off those bills and is moving on to the fun stuff.

Oh yes, he’s still talking but all I can hear is a very loud:  cha-ching, cha-ching, cha-ching. Cha-ching, cha-ching, cha-ching. Then, from the other side of my brain I’m picking up a signal from the top of Everest. It’s echoing back and forth and sounds a lot like the words….I TOLD YOU SO, DIDN’T I WARN YOU, BIG DOGS, KNEE PROBLEMS….so between the cha-chinging and everything else no wonder the vet calmly ends his explanation and says – do you have any questions?

Of course.

Starting with the obvious one. HOW MUCH DID YOU SAY? Any there any discounts for extra cute large dogs? Which bill would you expect to last the longest – yours or my mortgage payments? Should I cancel my cable and phone now or wait until later? Do I need the Rosetta Stone program to learn the doggie language of your former patients? Most of whom I would love to assume are still living? What would they say about you as a vet? He sleeps twenty hours a day so is this really necessary? Really? Really? Were you just joking about the physical therapy in the pool and on the doggie treadmill?

In that short visit it seemed getting an estimate on your dogs knees isn’t far off from an estimate of putting an addition on the house. Both are not exactly firm and subject to change at the speed of sound.

If it wasn’t for dogs, some people would never go for a walk.

Surprisingly, my plan passed muster from all sides. Not a single objection. No one raised an eyebrow or whispered a protestation. Interestingly, I never heard the words “You’re leaving the puppy with her?”. Quite frankly, I’ve had a harder time wrestling a stuffed animal away from a small child than I did this cute little puppy from it’s owners.

They handed him over willingly, along with all his belongings. I hid my shock and disbelief and quietly loaded his stuff into my car. Have a nice trip – see you when you get back. HA. If you can find me when you return. Then, smooth as ice, I was granted full, total custody of an adorable puppy. For ten days. Let the spoiling begin.

Animals are instinctive creatures. They already know what you are thinking and act accordingly. No one said, that leather chair is yours to sit in, but this puppy knew it was OK. Go ahead, make yourself at home. As long as you are comfortable. He just knew he was on vacation – a super-size vacation. Everything around here with regards to dogs is double extra- large.

Now, I know he’s never been on a cruise, but the activity and food and accommodations resemble what I recall on my last cruise. Full course buffets, lounging outside drinking by the pool, light nap in the afternoon, and then eating again. Repeat. No rules, too. You’re on vacation – do whatever you want. Sleep where ever you want and eat what ever you want.

Toughen up a bit too. Tug of war with a dog who weighs 140 to your 12 pounds? Dragging his toys around, which isn’t easy and running away when he thinks you’re eating his food? It’s a little bit of boot camp too. Sissy boot camp because that what most boot camps are anyway. Made for sissy’s. In order to get tough you have to hang out with the big dogs – it’ll come natural then. Oh well, am I worried that they will read this and come rushing back? Of course not – They’re on vacation! They are having fun while I am also having a great time spoiling this little dog of theirs. Free of charge.

No vacation goes unpunished.

Karl A. Hakkarainen

It seemed like a bona fide rendition of  the charming Dr. Seuss book “Are You My Mother?”. Little creatures in places least expected. The box turtle found wandering unhurriedly through the middle of the yard where he was met head-on by Mr. Camp Curiosity. Poor guy hunkered down as if a typhoon was imminent.

Reluctantly, the love struck dog was dragged inside and I went to check on the turtle. Time elapsed? Two or three minutes.  So how does this deliberately dawdling turtle vanish in a matter of minutes? It’s true – he was gone.

Under that tough shell was sheer determination. I suppose, in certain instances the tempo of a turtle may be changed by trauma. No chance of a reunion here.

Surprisingly, right around the corner in a matter of minutes another episode. From just inside the rose bush, crying and carrying on were three baby birds. Even I had to ask them – where is your mother – you poor babies. They’re hungry. Where is that mother bird? I’m not your mother. Where is she? Of course, checking on them every hour day and night was now essential. Those tiny beaks screaming for a morsel of food. I was ready to go digging for a few worms myself. (Not really but…) And yet, in the course of a day what the heck.

And finally, to show I have a changed attitude, a renewed interest in the creatures around me, who else but my “friend” the snake showed up to test me. We were both having a quite relaxing morning. Coffee (me), sunshine (him), calm weather (us), and then we met. Again. I don’t want to speak for this fellow but I presume we are both tired of this relationship. I run, he runs, etc. It’s exhausting. Then I had a small revelation.I found out that I have complete control over this guy. I can whisper one word and he slips into obscurity. Boo. And he’s gone. Then, I felt sorry for him and decided, we can co-exist. Just keep your distance and ditto for me and its a happy arrangement. For now – how about that!

And the turtles, of course… All the turtles are free- As turtles and, maybe, all creatures should be.
Dr. Seuss
American Writer and Cartoonist, b. 1904-1991

How did that Frank Sinatra song go? I want to be a part of it, New York….New York. What exactly did he mean by that? Part of what? I like NY although occasionally it exasperates me.  And I have an abundance of patience so it takes a lot to aggravate me.

I don’t think Frank was referring to the traffic. Although driving in midtown and beyond doesn’t bother me in the slightest. I understand traffic patterns, I know how to drive, and I do it diligently. For example, merging traffic– everyone knows what this means. In the real world, it means you go, I go, we take turns. Customarily, it’s very civilized. In NY, there’s some minor adjustments. Merging in midtown means — you cut me off, I cut you off, you give me the finger, I curse you under my breath and we fight to the finish. It’s very simple.

So, recently after a brief weekend in the city, we got in the car and began the trek back home. There were roughly 30 blocks between where we parked and the Lincoln Tunnel. No problem. Except, for some reason this particular Sunday was extraordinarily busy. Every block had an excruciatingly long traffic light with the added burden of, don’t block the box, no honking, miss the cab driver by a hair. All the normal stuff.

I remained very calm for the duration. Even as four lanes merged into one. I didn’t exhibit any signs of impatience. I could literally see the tunnel entrance. I’d been waiting patiently for this merger for just under an hour. The tunnel was ONE BLOCK AWAY. I breathed a sigh a relief. Finally.

Out of the blue, yes – the NYPD traffic cop blue, came the whistle.  I was in the far right lane carefully merging to the left. Suddenly, before me I heard the shrill, high pitched sound, a searingly loud, obnoxious whistle. Manning the intersection was a NYPD traffic cop pointing his finger at me. Inches before my merger into the tunnel – this giant fellow is pointing me to the outside lane. I was incredulous, beyond annoyed, exceptionally exasperated.

I looked at him and looked at the traffic entering the tunnel and was like – YOU ARE CRAZY. I continued creeping forward carefully considering my options – even though they appeared limited.  With his left hand he pointed me to the outside lane again - as if I missed it the first time.  Seemed he sensed the flicker of resistance and stepped towards the car and mouthed the words – I DARE YOU while casually reaching for the ticket booklet inside his jacket.

Now, had I taken him up on his offer I might likely be writing this from a NYPD traffic cop jail. Three seconds later, not even, he said it again – of course with more meaning. I DARE YOU.  (He double dared me?) Cautiously I put my window down and asked – what exactly do you want me to do? His answer – Go ’round the block.  (????)

So this traffic cop thinks by taking one little car out of the tunnel traffic his issues are over? My patience was o-v-e-r. I admit, I wimped out – I did what I was told, unhappily. Quickly, the conversation in the car turned to why this guy was so cranky. A rationalization was imperative. What was his problem?

Sunday duty, tunnel traffic, bad attitude, – he must have been at least on probation or something…..missed his coffee & doughnut stop this morning….whatever….

A Car is useless in New York, essential everywhere else. The same with good manners.

Mignon McLaughlin, American Journalist 1913-1983

Almost any other creature would be welcome. I acknowledge it’s an unfair assumption but I draw the long, skinny line against this fellow. I don’t know him but still I don’t like him. No reason. And I’m not budging on the issue. Imagine, a beautiful afternoon, mulching, mowing and playing with the puppy.

I took a short five minute intermission from where I’d been kneeling in the dirt pushing the mulch around. Then the question….

Hey, did you see the snake? Me: NO, what snake and where? Exactly where you were just mulching.

I looked and sure enough, all curled up, nestled comfortably is the snake. IN MY GARDEN. IN MY MULCH. IN MY SPACE. Needless to say my interest in this activity was effectively terminated. I rip off the gloves and the knee pads and declare my status. FINISHED.

But still, something obviously needs to be done about this creature. What shall WE do with it?

I challenge anyone to deny they haven’t used the “we” word in this context. Simply, it means we — but not me. I may watch but I will not help. “We” should put him someplace. WE. You get my point. In certain circumstances, “we” just does not exist. (Such as, what time are we getting up today?, or What time did we get in last night….)

Anyway, my plan was not executed. Snake catching is a slippery business. I’ve never caught a snake so I was blissfully unaware of the SOP. The standard operating procedure in this situation involves a series of steps, of course. Apparently, they must go in order also.

Put the dog inside. Let’s (which is just another form of the “we”) find something to put the snake in. Let’s find something to catch it with….meanwhile, I swear there was a committee/coffee meeting on how to corral this fellow and relocate him to a new home.

Of course what happened was he slipped away, back into his private estate where he is most likely procreating smaller snakes to torment me. I heard it myself, before the snake catcher could get to him – HE GOT AWAY. DARN. Yeah, darn I said. I will not elaborate on what I was thinking….

No matter what happens with snakes, DO NOT google the word snake to find out what it was or was not……the pictures are not worth it………….

Snakes, why did it have to be snakes?

Raiders of the Lost Ark

Most of my day dreaming and musings transpire while I’m standing in front of the kitchen sink. On this particular evening the window is cracked open to flaunt a beautiful spring night and I find myself gazing over a container of smiling yellow pansies with dark brown dimples which are sitting on the back patio. It’s quite peaceful.

My eyes wander aimlessly across the backyard. And back. Hopscotching between the yellow pansies and the back yard grill where my very specially marinated chicken is simmering. (I am anticipating dinner in less than ten minutes. Yum.)

Back and forth like an intense ping-pong game. I watch. It escalates to an all star tennis match. I am watching closer. Faster as the action changes. They are just an arms length apart. These pansies and the grill.

Now, I notice, dancing from the grill are flames. I am usually NOT the grill person so my commentary is generally unwelcome. “It’s fine. Just a little char-grilled.” (I fear for my chicken and my life and the life of my dog.)

I make my point in one short sentence. Very calmly, I exclaim, excuse me I meant explain — without shouting hysterically or acting crazy — without screaming or evacuating the area, I say (perhaps tersely, or nervously, or tensely)….maybe I shouted but probably not…..

I think, THE GRILL IS ON FIRE. I will omit the !!!!!! because I realistically could not put as many !!!!!!! into this as need be. Remember, I am a calm observer. (!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)

Over the next several minutes (as the fire turns into an inferno – granted, my opinion…) we watch and believe me when I say, it was on fire. I was mourning the loss of my fantastically marinated chicken, (I wasn’t ready to answer any questions about my recipe…) but I was quite concerned about the situation.

The ensuing, somewhat (un) civilized discussion went….close the lid! no, open the lid, no! definitely close it. It was a smoke signal to the surrounding five square miles of neighbors.

In my defense, I did what any sensible person would do. I ran around the house three times looking for the twenty year old fire extinguisher which I knew existed, (where was it???) all the while racking my brain for a solution to this situation. Finally, in one hand the phone with the numbers 911 almost dialed and in the other hand a fire extinguisher – I said – grease fires need powder, or something. I said – “Throw this on there.” It was a white powdery substance from the cabinet – OK – it wasn’t what the fire dept. would have used but hey……..I tried.  It may have aggravated the situation a tiny bit – oh well……the fire went out after twenty minutes, no harm done but no chicken for dinner that night……….

I don’t even butter my bread; I consider that cooking.

Katherine Cebrian

Smuggled between two gorgeous sun splashed days last weekend was Saturday. It was the evil stepchild. Friday was the younger, energetic, happy child. Sunday was the older, cooler, medium-tempered child. Gusty but not turbulent.

Saturday lashed out with buckets of rain, sulking with chilly temperatures, moping in springtime mud. It was a broadcast to the world. A hostile warning – stay inside today. Drink hot drinks and eat chocolate croissants or bacon-stuffed waffles or anything else accessible.

This weather is the very reason why I do not like to plan ahead for outdoor activities that need prepayment. Unsympathetic, unfriendly rain. Without that paid-up commitment, there’s no guilt when I wander to the coffee machine instead of the car. I’ll just make a pot of grumpy-monkey coffee and bag the race. Not today. Not in the rain.

But now – it’s done and I just wasted money if I don’t go. (Let’s not wander into the den of why did I pay in the first place.) Mentally, I’m handcuffed to this thing. Just like the winds, so many prevailing thoughts.

Watching the pounding rain on the drive there created a dire sense of urgency. Hurry, get home and bring all my baby pansies inside. They were going to drown. More guilt.

Upon arrival I looked frantically for a place to hide. It is pouring rain. It’s cold and wet. All the extra clothing in the car I am now wearing – hence, nothing dry for the ride home. If there is a ride home.

It was the infamous Mt. Penn Mudfest. What I know now – it’s not a good idea to chat with anyone at the starting line. Ignore everyone because the information is coming from crazy people and you begin to wonder if you are one of “them”. A 15-k trek thru hill and dale and mud and muck. Four early spring water crossings. And of all things – the 15th anniversary of the race. The race director describes it as “unmatched by anything other than Full Contact Backgammon.”  ???

The logo on the shirt said- “15 Years of Dirt, Debris and Despair”. What I saw was — get in the car and get out of here. Now. That did not happen. All this so I could consume a couple of chocolate bunny’s? On Easter?

Eternal gratitude goes to the runner behind me who acted as a lifeline across each water crossing. Plus a push up the muddy embankment, and after the third time said “since we’ve been holding hands so often – I should know your name…”

The finish line was exactly what I wanted to see when it eventually arrived!

Perhaps one day this too will be pleasant to remember.

Virgil

Ah, the test. All he must do is demonstrate his ability with ten basic commands. (TEN!). With my assistance…hmmm.

In front of a couple of instructors. Throw in a few distractions which included one cranky beagle and a frisky little puppy.

With the added directives — Ignore them, if you want to pass.

And of course, the vacuum cleaner and some other noisy stuff. {Are they just trying to push him over the edge?}

OK, let’s just get this thing over with.

Final exam time – let’s see what you’ve got. Granted, he is a dog and does not care if the instructor doesn’t like him or pass him. But me? I think it would be a reflection on both of us – mostly me, but does he know this? I don’t think so.

Rightfully, there is no comparison but somehow each time he completed an exercise I felt like the partner of an Olympic Ice-skater – Yes! A triple, triple double whatever – landed!

I agree, there’s no way it would ever be that difficult.

The last five minutes of class went like this:

Instructor: He’s very, very good. He did very well. And he’s very, very handsome. (OK, I added several extra very’s.)

Me: Thank you – We try. (Extra hard)

2nd Instructor: What kind of pills do you have him on this evening?

Me: He had a little red wine with dinner. Ha, ha.

Instructor: It’s amazing. He passed.

Me: What? Are you sure?

Instructor: Yes, he’s very smart and very handsome and very….(shall I finish?)

On his way to a career in therapy dog training…..

Shall I rent the hall and have the party? Nah, I’ll wait……….

Have an aim in life — then don’t forget to pull the trigger.

ps. Happy Birthday Martha & Lorenzo!