Brrrrr

Although the calendar says Almost April, the temperatures this weekend said Almost Alaska.

In spite of the frigid temperatures, which made for brutally cold conditions for Saturday's 10K in Richmond with Baby Sis, these backyard daffodils have made themselves known, and they promised me when I spoke with them yesterday that warmer weather is on the way.

Still, just like the runners who couldn't feel hands, feet, toes or fingers Saturday morning, these daffodils have to put their heads down to brave the oncoming cold wind, push forward, and persevere.

Baby Sis and I managed to eke out a personal best in Saturday's 10K.  With no training other than last weekend's half marathon, we jogged a very frigid 10K in one hour and three minutes.  Could we have done better?  Of course.  Could we have done worse? Yep.

I need to sniff out another race for us to do this spring.

Until then, I'm going to sniff the backyard daffodils and hope for warmer temperatures this week.

Baby Sis and I at Saturday's 10K, cold and suffering in spite of outward appearances.
Thanks to Edward Anderson for this picture.

Misty Morning

Thursday morning a pocket of fog clung to the shoreline of Smither's cemetery across the creek from me.  Sunrise saw warmer temperatures jockeying for position with the cooler nighttime ground temperatures.  Although it rained on and off throughout the day, it was a very warm day eventually.

That warmth is predicted to be short-lived, however, and just in time for yet another race I've not prepared for:  the Monument Avenue 10K in Richmond, also known as Baby Sis's stomping grounds. We'll spend Friday night at her friend Dino's house, awake at Oh-So-Dark Thirty Saturday morning, and limp up and down Richmond's quaint neighborhoods in freezing temperatures--although likely nowhere near as cold as the Valentine's Day race at the winery.

Afterwards, I'll drive to Daughter's track meet in Charles City, which is sort of/not really/but kind of on the way home. If you're going the long way which includes going in the entirely opposite direction.

On Sunday I hope to do absolutely nothing.

Have a wonderful weekend.

Snow

Tuesday morning Mathews County awoke to gray skies, a layer of snow on the ground, lingering snow flurries, no school for Daughter and no work for me.  (This was one of the rarest of rare occasions my place of employment shut down for the day.  I think they need to try it more often, they might like it. I know I would.)

By the afternoon, clouds gave way to sunshine, but the temperatures were still brutally cold.

So much has happened since I last posted I hardly know where to start.

Saturday morning, Baby Sis and I traveled to New Kent Winery and stood in the freezing cold along with about 1,600 others for what felt like hours waiting on the start of a race. If that wasn't a test of endurance I don't know what is.  Naturally neither of us had trained for it, but even so we placed in the middle of the pack for the 10K.  (There was also a 5K.)  Afterwards we sampled some of the wine, which helped make the pain and agony of gasping for breath in frigid weather somewhat worthwhile.

Later she talked me into going back with her to Richmond. Her friend Dino made us a delicious Valentines supper of perfectly cooked baked salmon, and the three of us headed out to see a band at the Broadberry Theater.  I confess that the very last thing I wanted to do after running a 10K early on a Saturday morning an hour from home in brutal temperatures was stay up late and see a band, but in hindsight I'm glad I did.  We had a really good time.

Sunday night I joined my friend Alda, her husband, and a new friend with one of the most unusual names I've ever heard--Myrtchas--for dinner in Deltaville, also a good time and not something I'd ordinarily do on a Sunday night.

Monday Daughter and I waited eagerly for details about the impending snow storm. I started cooking, because that's what I tend to do when it snows.  Vegetarian chili, lasagna and cornbread for starters.  An odd combination but somehow it worked.

Tuesday morning we awoke to the winter wonderland above. Later in the day I started sweating--very unusual in a house I keep at a steady 67 degrees even in this frigid weather--and realized I'm getting sick.  Thankfully, because work was cancelled, I could spend the day in bed without feeling guilty. I still found time to make more food, including a chocolate peanut butter pudding cake in the crock pot.  Yes, you read that correctly.  Not sure where the punctuation goes, but all of those words belong.

That same day, in between bouts of sweating, I still had to walk the dog six times in the snow.  Six times.  Six. In calf-deep snow. My aging dog has kidney disease and when he's not drinking water he's expelling it.  It's great fun in 20-degree weather when you're simultaneously sweating and coughing.  Good times.

That's OK.  Except for the dog and running 6.2 miles on a hilly course in New Kent County in frigid temperatures my minor aches and pains, the past several days have been wonderful.

Practically perfect.

Hope all is well where you are.

-CBW

This and That

These are recycled from February 2013 but are as good as new to me since I haven't seen them in a while. This dock and boat, in their advanced state of deterioration, really appeal to me.

But then again I don't get out much.

And I'm very easily entertained.

Growing up in Mathews in the days before technology, the back yard was the cable TV, the internet, the cell phone, the Netflix, everything. You made your own fun.  Luckily I've not forgotten those days and am still very much amused by almost nothing at all.

It's either a life skill or some form of insanity, I'm not sure which.

Not to sound like a broken record, but things are busier than ever at work and at home--especially work. This weekend is a long one, though, thanks to the federal holiday on Monday.

Saturday morning bright and early, Baby Sis and I will jog a 10K over in New Kent at a winery, a first for us.  We'll trot up and down hills and meander through neighborhoods and with any luck be rewarded with wine and chocolate at the finish.  I dread the running in this cold, cold weather but look forward to the rest.

Baby Sis is trying to talk me into seeing a band in Richmond on Saturday night, after the 10K.

Something tells me after the week I've had and the early morning jog in frigid temperatures, I'll be ready for nothing more than a very long nap Saturday evening. And staring out my window onto Queens Creek from the comfort, warmth and quiet of my warm living room.

But we'll see.

I hope your weekend is fantastic.

Heron

Sunday afternoon I arrived home from yet another fiftieth birthday celebration, this time for my friend Laura Lane.  Several high school friends converged on an oceanfront hotel in Virginia Beach, and my college roommate Iris also was in town for her daughter's volleyball game.  There was lots of fun and frivolity, but not a lot of rest and sleep. There also didn't appear to be much behavior typically associated with fifty-year-olds.  One of the two rooms we were in was visited by the hotel security guard, who issued a warning for noise.

(Please note, I was not in that particular room.  I was as quiet as a church mouse.  Well, a more accurate statement is at the time the warning was issued, I was dancing the night away downstairs in the hotel lounge. So, for the record, I was not in violation of any hotel policies.)

A n y w a y... this heron spent the better part of  Sunday afternoon lollygagging on this pole across the creek from me.

At times he looked like a one-legged heron--especially from the angle below.

But eventually I caught him standing on both legs.

My own two legs are a little sore from Saturday night's dancing.  I view it as cross training for some upcoming races, one of which is a 10K on Valentines Day at a local winery. (Click here for details.)  I can't think of a better motivation to exercise than chocolate and wine.

And I can't think of a better cross-training exercise than dancing with lifelong friends in the middle of January in an oceanfront hotel in Virginia Beach.

Have a great week.

Three Things

On Thursdays I give myself and anyone reading permission to spout off three random things, even though most everything written here on any given day is a volcanic eruption of random thoughts. Thursdays are different. The randomness is encouraged, allowed, supported, and expected.

I'll go first.

1. Photographs from the organizers of Saturday's 10K race came in an email last night--available, of course, for purchase. Why in the world I'd want a picture of myself struggling across the finish line after running 6.2 miles in the rain while wearing a crab hat is well beyond my comprehension. I'd have to be insane to actually pay money for such a monstrosity. No. Thank you very much.

2. The dogwoods are bursting with blooms this week. My drive to and from work on the Colonial Parkway, a leisurely, highly-enforced 45 mph drive which overlooks the York River, is made even more pleasant by these beautiful white blooms sprinkled throughout.

3. Depending on how much my camera costs to be repaired, I may have to buy a new one. Initial reports back from Canon indicate that I have an older/outdated model that may not be worth repairing. (What Canon doesn't understand is that everything I own is outdated. Cell phone? Circa Car Phone Era. Have to tap out text messages like Morse Code. No keyboard, just a number pad. I can only function with outdated stuff. Everything else is too confusing. By the way, the camera they call "old" is only 5 years old. Even if a camera's age is measured in dog years, that's still young. But of course the chances of a camera's technological life and a dog's life being measured equally are, well, OK FINE. My camera is old.)

Until I acquire a new or (likely) refurbished camera, you can expect one of two things on this blog: a month or more of pictures from my crabbing adventure and/or recycled photos from the past 4-5 years.

Now it's your turn to share three things no matter how ludicrous outdated random they may seem.  I love to hear from you, even if you only have one thing to say. We really have no rules here.

Crabbing 101: Preparation

View from our take off point, Davis Creek

Continuing with the theme of commercial crabbing, today's post will focus on the preparation process, step by step, as seen through Chesapeake Bay Woman's brain, which serves as a sieve filter preventing her from grasping and retaining details; technical terms; and other items of importance, such as whether she turned off the stove. Or the kitchen faucet.

Or brushed her teeth.

It also causes her to focus on certain details that others don't care about might not pay attention to.

Let's begin.

The very first part of the crabbing operation is called (by me and likely nobody else on the planet) the Getting Ready part.

This involves lots of movement around the boat; lots of fiddling with gadgets; lots of checking on things.

It's extremely important to check on things before you leave the dock.

After everything has been checked, we are free to depart.

Menhaden are manhandled.

Step Two is the Bait Preparation Process, which involves manhandling frozen fish, specifically menhaden.

(I think. See above about inability to retain details. For purposes of this post since the name works well with manhandling, we're going with menhaden.)

To recap, Step Two = Manhandling menhaden.

After being pried from their icy boxes and dumped into the very important Black Bin, the fish are broken open or in half, which is way easier to do when they're frozen. Not that any of this is easy.

Trying to crack open an unfrozen fish by hand to me would be like trying to catch a greased pig. Very frustrating. And I'd give up after the second try. Also, there'd be blood and guts going everywhere and eeewww. Gross.

Of course, one might actually use a knife to open up unfrozen fish, but again this tutorial is written by CBW, who will run wide open down the road called Tangent rather than focusing on the obvious.

The Bait Preparation Process continues...   

as we head out the creek.

Before even thinking about fishing crab pots, you must have the essential gear.

In my assessment of the whole operation, these gloves are the most important items required to fish crab pots.  

(You also have to have hands, but that's implied when I say gloves.)

These gloves protect you from all sorts of dangers, including stinging nettles, sharp shells, and most of all  the very perturbed, very feisty crabs which come equipped with two very sharp claws.

The close ups involving the hands/gloves
are among my favorites.

Irrelevant side note relating to crab experiences outside of today's topic:  In 47 years I've never been pinched by a crab even though there has been plenty of opportunity. I have, however, displayed the feisty, claws-up personality of a crab on more than one occasion, especially when threatened by things such as a pre-sunrise alarm.

Guinea boots

Nothing says waterman more than a good pair of Guinea boots, which are practically their own fashion category here in Mathews.

Here we have your standard white boot.

Speaking of footwear, although it was reasonably calm the day we went out, at one point the boat unexpectedly lurched sideways, causing us all to lose our footing.  Johnny Pugh--up to his waist in crab pots, crabs on the loose, and bait--quickly regained his balance and without missing a beat said, "I'm not used to doing this in my high heels."

They have a great sense of humor, these guys.

Next, let's review some of the essential equipment.

There must be something into which the crabs go, and these baskets do the trick very nicely.

There's a cute wooden lid that's attached after they are overflowing with feisty, unhappy crabs. (Unhappy crabs. Redundant?)

Most of the time a few crabs escape. You must find them, catch them, and stuff them back in the basket.

Sometimes you have to do this even after you've attached the cute little lid and even when a new crab pot is coming aboard. It's a production line, this crabbing process, and scooping up loose crabs is a distraction I couldn't handle. Not that anyone ever asked me to.

Still, I empathize.

Your waterproof gear is extremely important when you're leaning over the side of a boat hauling in crab pots from the depths of cold, salty water.

Above, the captain realized after we'd already started fishing pots that he forgot to put his on before leaving the dock (part of the Getting Ready Routine).

Evidently a third person with a camera interfered with his routine which is perfectly understandable, especially when said third person snapped photographs every second of the trip.

Nonetheless, it's never too late to put on your essential waterproof gear.

Here he is, pre-waterproof gear.

After the gloves, the Automatic Crab Pot Puller Upper (above) is in CBW's opinion the second most important thing to have in any crab operation.  They used to pull the pots by hand.

Let me just say this about that.

If I had to break more than a couple of those frozen fish open and then had to haul just one or two pots into the boat, shake them out and toss them back over, I'd be whining about not having the endurance or strength even with the Automatic Crab Pot Puller Upper.

It's all very hard work no matter how easy these two made it seem.

A few good scrub brushes are also required, along with the stamina to use them after picking up and throwing back thousands lots of pots at a good clip.


This concludes our first lesson in fishing crab pots.

Stay tuned for the next segment which will review the Pot Pulling and Shaking process.


_______________________________

p.s. The 10K on Saturday was wonderful. I finished without walking, even if my time was terrible.

(The 88-year-old Gwynn's Island man came in at 1 hour 22 minutes. The 47-year old CBW came in at 1 hour 9 minutes. Although this ought to bring me solace, actually it doesn't.)

Chesapeake Bay Mother also successfully completed the event. Click here for her version of the day.

Three Things

Once again Thursday is here at our doorstep, and that means it's time to be grateful to have survived another week.  

Also it's time to share three random thoughts. Or in my case, three blog posts in one.

1. Unless a major weather event sneaks up on us, I will go crabbing today, and I don't mean the sitting barefoot on the end of the dock with a chicken neck tied to a piece of twine chewing on a piece of clover wearing bib overalls and a straw hat sort of crabbing.

(The Misplaced Modifier/Run-On Sentence Police just arrived and are serving warrants for my arrest as we speak.)

No, this is Official Crabbing, folks. Although I've been out clamming before--from Hampton, circa 1981/82 on the Little Lisa.--this commercial crabbing thing will be a whole new experience which hopefully will not involve turning green, since a wee bit of wind is called for. But we're not focusing on that. We're just going to do the best we can. (We=me.)

2. Speaking of doing the best I can, Saturday is The Big 10K. My only goal is to finish without walking. Or falling. Or experiencing a major cardiovascular event.

Or crying.

3. The Mathews High School track team is in dire need of resources, both human and financial.

I'm trying to get up there once a week to provide a little guidance with the high jump and hurdles. However, they could also use help with some of the field events including discus, shot, long jump/triple jump, etc.

Approximately 65 kids and over 15 different events from sprinting to distance running means that one coach and one assistant are not nearly enough. In addition the school will not fund the expenses (room and board) for those who make it to the state championship; the coach must raise that money himself. They need a long jump pit. There weren't enough uniforms for everyone. They need so much.

They're running on the very same track my mother helped raise money for 30 years ago. Since we lack adequate facilities, all the meets are away.

If you have time or funds to donate, please contact me or the high school. There is so much talent and it pains me to see them struggling because of the dearth of resources.

I'm buying 7 (my lucky number) Power Ball tickets for this 400 kajillion dollar lottery this Friday. If I win, Mathews will never, ever have to worry about track being a Stepchild Sport again. We'll have Olympic quality training and facilities.

It's nice to daydream. But I assure you that's what I'd do with a very large portion of my money if I had it to spare.

Now it's your turn to share three things. Whatever is on your mind. Anything at all. No matter how lofty or potentially unrealistic.

Six Miles or Anatomy of a Run

My six-mile run begins and ends at beautiful Bethel Beach, which is acres upon acres of swamp marsh and vast expanses of  beautiful vistas. This one happens to be of dead trees, but trust me.  It's pretty.

In a fit of winter madness, I signed up for a 10K run at the end of March even though the farthest distance I'd ever previously run was 5K, otherwise known as half as far.

Oh, also, I am 47 years old and not exactly strutting around like some spring chicken, a term I seem to have grown fond of lately, no doubt due to my love/hate/mostly shock that there's no more spring chicken in my lifetime relationship with aging.

No matter, I gradually built up to barely running six miles.

My particular route begins and ends at Bethel Beach and takes me well over an hour, usually about an hour and nine-ish minutes.

Numbers, details, specifics and particulars are not my forte, which was made abundantly clear when I signed up for a 10K as opposed to a 5K.

My only goal for this 10K is to finish without walking.  Pace and speed are a worry for another year.* I was born a sprinter. Distance running is a foreign concept to me. 15 to 16 seconds for the hurdles, and that was it for me.  All done.

As such, this particular 47-year-old jogger is not used to tapping into endurance, which is really a clever word for patience when you were born a sprinter.

Distance running easily bores me, and that translates into my becoming completely unmotivated.

Which is why the Bethel Beach route is so wonderful.

There are many things to distract you from agony boredom.  These same things also distract you from wondering, about one mile into the thing, why you suddenly feel electric shocks shooting through your right leg, which quickly turns into your right foot feeling utterly and completely useless and numb even as you continue to plod along.

You wonder what would happen if you suddenly collapsed here in the Middle of Nowhere since you're dragging one foot like Quasimodo-- even if you're not entirely sure that Quasimodo actually dragged one foot.

Still.

Who would find you and how would they know who to contact?

This is what flashes through a disturbed person's mind when they're a hypochondriac 47 and running six miles.  In the Middle of Nowhere.

That's why I look forward to seeing these goats.

These are the very same goats that sprung loose and jumped directly in front of my car one time.

(Click here for that story and photo).

Now, though, the goats and I are BFFs.  They call out to me whenever they see me, jolting me out of my Quasimodo-like foot deformity/death is nigh thoughts.

The little shed below is near the goats.  I compliment it every time I go by, but not out loud.

The goats might think I'm crazy.

Eventually I get to around the two-mile mark and remember there is a very legitimate reason why my right foot feels numb and electricity is shooting through that leg.

A couple of years ago I actually did lose some use of my foot attributed to nerve damage caused by......wait for it.....sitting at the computer too long with my legs crossed.

A nerve conduction test (also known as Modern Day Torture condoned and performed by doctors nationwide on a daily basis) confirmed there was significant damage. A year later, though, everything was just about back to normal, like the doctor said.

Click here for my 2008 post on that delightful experience.

Anyway, it starts to talk back to me on these six-mile runs, that cheeky little nerve.

Daffodils  are barely visible to the right and left of this house if you squint. 
Or pull out a magnifying glass.

After the goats, I pass some boisterous chickens who always make it clear they're the boss of their territory. The chickens mean I am close to this gorgeous house, which always beckons me to pay her a little attention. I'm very happy to oblige even if around this point I'm not feeling so great.

The goats, shed, chickens, and this house do a good job of distracting me from all that though.

There. That's a little better.  That sea of yellow on the right = daffodils.

My favorite part of the run is when I see a red barn off in the distance.  The red barn means I'm nearing this lonely horse, who always says hello even if I do look like Quasimodo a little distressed.

This horse tells me I'm nearing the halfway mark, the turning around point.

Poor baby is for sale. He always looks so forlorn.

And I am all about turning around and heading back.

Here's what the turning around point looks like in summer.
(This was taken a while back.)

This is almost 3 miles from Bethel Beach, where the car is. So even if I can't run back I am forced to at least walk.

However, I've not been forced to walk yet, electrical shocks, numb feet, and  absolutely ridiculous thoughts notwithstanding.

Usually the run back feels better than the first half, and I get to see the horse, the chickens, the house, the shed and the goats all over again.

They really do a very good job of keeping me motivated, even as I wonder how many teeth would be chipped (or lost) by falling face first on the pavement when my foot finally gives out.

That last mile in to the car can be brutal, even without the irrational thoughts. Actually, irrational thoughts make way for mind games at this point.  I have to convince myself that if I just keep going to the end, I'll win the lottery and be able to make ends meet and perhaps take a trip to Bora Bora.

I end having overcome certain negative thoughts by focusing on wholly unrealistic, yet positive, thoughts. And it works.

For some reason, however, my time gets worse each time I do this.

Whatever.

Thankfully, I'm not doing it for the time.

I'm doing it for the goats, the chickens, the house, the horse.

But most of all for me.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

*This week's Gazette Journal features a story about an 80-year-old man on Gwynn's Island who runs six miles every single day, even in winter, unless it's raining.  80 years old!  Also, he's running the same 10K at the end of the month.