Because We Can

In the spring of 2000, a motley crew of coworkers and friends reluctantly agreed to run our inaugural Reach the Beach Relay. From the beginning, team Run, Rest, Repeat doubted our own sanity—most of us had never strung more than 6.2 miles together at a time—but we had a persistent captain who managed to convince us that somehow, running 210 uphill miles in a hurricane would be fun. Of course, he left out the “uphill” and “hurricane” parts, but that’s a story for our therapists.

Nine years later, the same core crew—with a few yearly alternates—comprises a team that has shared more sweaty van space, Purell hand sanitizer, chafe-prevention tips, and peanut butter sandwiches than we care to recall. We return for a single unifying reason: We’ve learned, throughout these nine Septembers, that running 210 uphill miles in a hurricane actually is fun. And the only people who really understand this are the other runners who participate in the race.

The reasons we run are as individual as our members—which over our history number 33. Some run to push their physical or mental limits. Some run as part of a long-distance training regime. Others use the race as a metaphor for a personal challenge. And, still others just love the pancakes (thanks, Candia Fire Department!).

Regardless of our personal reasons, we return year after year for the unique bond we’ve formed. For 30 hours, we forget the outside world and immerse ourselves in a cocoon of camaraderie—inventing inside jokes and memorable quotes, literally laughing our asses off over the antics of our teammates. We’ll never forget the Ass of Ossippee; our very own profane Pippy Longstocking; Yoga for Accountants; or the time Van 2 faked an Achilles injury and convinced our captain—who had already reached the beach and changed into comfortable clothes—that he had to run a 4th leg (his reaction immortalized on video).

These are the ingredients of our selective memory—the experiences that wrap the grueling, cold, and often soggy miles in a blanket of friendship that reminds us that the race, in fact, is secondary.

This summer, Becky Davie—an integral member of our team—lost her 15-month battle with cancer. Though she never ran with us, Becky ardently supported her husband, Jeff Hazen, and her sister Sarah through nine RTB events. Becky often met our team at Hampton Beach State Park, bringing her and Jeff’s three beautiful daughters along as our personal cheering section.

As athletes, it’s difficult to reconcile our generally healthy lifestyle with such a vengeful disease. But the unfortunate reality is that it can strike any one of us at any time (Becky was an avid swimmer, cyclist, hiker, kayaker, and runner—among other things). This year, Becky inspired our team—including her grieving husband Jeff—to run through personal adversity to our full potential. Because we can.

RIP, Becky.

(Note: Our team captain adapted these words for a special website he created to remember Becky this year—which also describes our "tagging" of other team vehicles during the race).

The boiling point of blood

Last Friday, John McCain announced that Sarah Palin - former mayor of Wasilla, AK and current governor of the same state - would be his Vice Presidential nominee.

Much has already been written about this monumental WTF? (see, for example, this, this, this, and this) - and I don't intend to replicate here what others have already more intelligently observed.

But let there be no mistake:

As a woman, I am insulted by the notion that Sarah Palin could ever woo me from Obama's camp. Right. I'm so blinded by her nice rack and functioning uterus that I'll suddenly forget she bullied her way into politics and thinks that banning books is cool. As a woman, it's even more infuriating to watch her own party ridicule her with "cute" catch-phrases she undoubtedly embraces as complimentary. Palin 'slides her stiletto heel' into the Obama campaign? Are you kidding me?

Perhaps most disappointing is the fact that - after trying to grant her the benefit of doubt - I actually watched the beginning of her RNC acceptance speech. But I could only abide the first 5 minutes - because despite her lipstick and pearls, Sarah Palin is just another one of the guys.

Summertime, and the eatin' is easy

On Saturday, we hosted an impromptu dinner party on the patio for some friends that - thanks to the mercy of Mother Nature - capped perhaps one of the most gloriously sunny days of the summer.

We'd been scheming to do this for months, but somehow always bumped up against one obstacle or another: rain, out-of-town travel, our need to scrape and prep the house for painting, rain, and - have I mentioned it? - rain. Add to this our diminutive living space, and our minimally functional kitchen, and the challenges often didn't seem worth the effort. Where would everyone sit if we couldn't eat outside? How could we possibly prepare a meal for six people in a kitchen built for a gnome? What if people realized we actually can't cook? However, take four friends eager to volunteer as culinary guinea pigs, combine with a serendipitous weather forecast, and voila! We were committed.

So, on Saturday morning - as has become our summertime custom - we hopped on our bikes and rode two miles to the Burlington Farmer's Market to see what we could rustle up. By the end of our excursion (which included a stop at City Market), we had an almost 100% localvore menu:

Hors d'oeuvre
Petit chevre from Doe's Leap Farm
Brother Laurent cheese from Boucher Family Farm
Boucher Blue cheese from Boucher Family Farm
Organic red grapes
Organic stone wheat crackers

Main course
Grilled rib-eye steak from Boucher Family Farm with garlic and horseradish cream sauce
Baby artichokes from Half Pint Farm, sauteed in garlic and olive oil
Roasted beets, fingerling potatoes, and carrots from Half Pint Farm
German rye bread from Adam's Village Bakery in Westford

Dessert
Vermont maple syrup cheesecake (I can't believe I don't remember the vendor!)
Fresh blueberries from Adam's Berry Farm (Note to self: dumping a cup of sugar directly on top of said berries does not create "blueberry syrup")

With the exception of the red grapes, crackers, olive oil, and spice rub for the steak, every ingredient - down to the horseradish and heavy cream for the sauce - was grown or produced in Vermont. Gorgeous flowers from Pomykala Farm adorned the table, and we even had a local white wine from Shelburne Vineyard - though this was bumped in favor of some decidedly non-local, California varieties. And Kettle One vodka. And bourbon. And port (my brain cells are writhing in agony just thinking about that particular beverage . . . )

Anyway, though we hadn't expressly intended on creating a localvore meal, localvorism is an idea both of us have been toying with, to varying degree, for quite some time. And while I can't speak directly for Rob, my personal interest has recently kicked into high gear due to the convergence of some obvious issues - transportation costs and associated greenhouse gas emissions; recent widespread contamination of the food supply - with unsavory realizations about the corn industry and factory farming (which, if you're interested in this, is thoroughly examined in Michael Pollin's The Omnivore's Dilemma). But, embracing a philosophy - and actually surrendering deeply-rooted habits in order to act on it - are two entirely different things, and until this week we'd considered it a major victory just to have stopped buying half-rotten, out-of-season "produce" and mass-produced, grain-fed meat at Shaw's. This dinner, however, offered a perfect opportunity to experiment - and I have to say, we had a blast. My favorite victory was scoring the local horseradish, even though we did pay close to four times as much for it! It's also particularly satisfying to meet, and actually get to know, the people who are providing our food. The farmers we see each week are, to a one, the most down-to-earth (heh), approachable folks you could imagine.

Since the dinner - which by all accounts was a smashing success, and may just have birthed a sort of monthly Localvore Dinner Challenge among our friends - I've been a bit exuberant about the possibilities. Thanks to our new chest freezer, purchased initially to house our October beef and pork shares, we're already planning to make and store a variety of soups for winter consumption. Yesterday, though, I suggested that we make tray upon tray of vegetable lasagnas to freeze. Oh, and what about canning and jarring what's in season right now? (I've never canned a thing in my life). How about we freeze the blueberries? Can we whip up a gallon of cilantro pesto and throw that in the freezer, too?

Of course, I recognize the ambition of these plans and realize that many of them are unrealistic, at least all at once. But I'm grateful for the mindfulness this experiment provided, because I honestly don't think I can purchase or consume another meal without considering exactly where it came from - or how it got on my plate. I'm not saying I'll never eat another chain-restaurant meal (hel-lo Cheesecake Factory!), but for a former city girl who cut her teeth on McDonald's cheeseburgers, I'm happy for the evolution.

Bon gusto!