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Exploring the Alexandria Area Today my walk across Virginia would be stretching almost to the northernmost point along my planned route. I would be heading up to the D.C. area, exploring various points of interest on the southern side of the Potomac River. I was going up there with my friend Terry, whose brother offered to let us stay in his house in Alexandria (Thank you Chris!). I picked my friend Terry up at her house at 4:15 a.m., so I set my alarm for 2:30. However, when I woke up at 11:30 last night, I couldn�t get back to sleep. After tossing and turning for a half-hour, I gave up and got up. It was going to be a long day. When I arrived at Terry�s, she was wide awake, packed, and ready to go, which surprised me a little bit. She is not a morning person, as she made abundantly clear in her threats to my person if I woke her up with breakfast in bed as I had with Dawn last weekend. She caught up on her lost z�s with a nap on the drive up. For me, sleep would be a shortfall throughout the weekend. There was too much to see and do to let a little thing like sleep get in the way. Our first stop was Theodore Roosevelt Island, which sits in the middle of the Potomac and is accessible by footbridge. The info I found online said that the island was a nature preserve that served as a �memorial to the outdoorsman, naturalist, and visionary who was our 26th President.� Fitting, then, that the island trails memorializing the �Rough Rider President� would be rough riding as well. Terry and I took the Swamp Trail, which was a little less than 1-� miles and circumnavigated the island. As we should have gathered from the trail�s name, the path was bumpy and rocky and overgrown with roots. So after a mile or so we switched trails when we intersected the Upland Trail to follow that for the last little bit to where we started out�except that �last little bit� took us back across the island again instead of completing our circle. So what did we do? We crossed trails again, following the Woods Trail this time. The Woods Trail led us to the center of the island where we stumbled across a memorial site that I didn�t know existed: Memorial Plaza. Wow, what a find. There was a circular canal with fountains surrounding the plaza, which featured a 30-foot statue of Roosevelt, four giant pylons engraved with some of his profound quotations. I bragged to Terry that I wasn�t lost, I was just searching for the plaza, but she wasn�t buying it. She may have even given me the stink eye. Of course, what was supposed to be a 30-minute hike had turned into an hour-and-a-half, and Terry was feeling famished. We walked back to the car where I�d packed some healthy sandwiches and a couple of bananas in a cooler. She ate about a half of a banana before grabbing her stomach and saying she was full. She�s such a lightweight! I polished off my sandwich and eyeballed her�s. But it was too early in the trip to start stealing her food. There�d be plenty of time for that later.
Since that morning, we�d hiked about 5 miles first over �rough rider� terrain and then up and down hills. Terry had had enough. She was ready for lunch. Guess she should have eaten more than a banana, huh? But, I was also hungry, so I agreed. I suggested going straight to a restaurant, but Terry wrinkled her nose and said we should head to her brother�s so she could �wash the stink off.� She looked like she hadn�t sweated a single bead so I figured this was her polite way of letting me know I was funky. And not in the groovy Lipps Inc. way. When Terry was fresh and I was defunkified, we headed into Old Town Alexandria and stopped in at a pretty little French caf� called La Madeleine. Unlike every other French caf� where I�ve eaten, this one actually had real Frenchies staffing it. The food was authentic, too. We each ordered quiche and I got mine with a cup of the house soup: a basil tomato concoction that was creamy enough to clog an elephant�s arteries. But, man oh man, was it delicious. Luckily, the French, although their food is Fort-Knox-rich, tend to dress up their meals and keep their portions miniscule. As was evidenced by our desserts. Terry ate a chocolate mousse and I had a strawberry shortcake parfait, each of which was served in a container the size of a shot glass. Satiated, we left the caf� to explore the Old Town section of Alexandria. Old Town is laid out in a grid, so even first timers can find their way around. We hoofed up and down the streets for a while, stopping in shops where clerks were dressed in Colonial garb. One girl greeted us as �Sire� and �M�Lady,� then posed for pictures with us as we took turns doffing a crown. I felt quite regal. The lass asked where else we had visited today and I replied, �We just came from Arlington and earlier in the day we walked around Thomas Jefferson Island� The clerk gave me a funny look and Terry laughed outright. �He means �Theodore Roosevelt Island,�� she corrected. 
Terry�s lucky I wasn�t a real king, otherwise it would have been Off with her head!Back on the street, we passed a couple of street entertainers: a guy playing a trumpet and another playing a glass harp, rubbing his fingers on the rims of glasses filled with water to make music. I gave the trumpeter a five and asked if he would play Louis Armstrong�s What a Wonderful World for us. Which he did. Twice. I was getting my funk back, and this time it was in a good way.
The cab barely moved when Terry hopped into the cab, but when I stepped aboard the cab felt like a teeter-totter tilting all the way over to one side. I could almost read Lucy the mule�s thoughts: Get this jackass off my back! Lucy carted us up and down the hilly streets while the operator filled us in on tons of neat little details, such as where the first blood was spilled in Alexandria during the Revolutionary War and how the basement in Gadsby�s Tavern served double duty as an icehouse and a place to stow bodies until the ground had thawed enough for digging. We�d packed an awful lot into one day, but we weren�t quite done yet. That night, we went out to a Spanish restaurant called La Tasca. I�d made reservations and we had the best seats in the house, right by the front window. These were so primo because there was a flamenco show at 8 and 9 o�clock that night and there was a space cleared by our table where they would be dancing. Terry had seen flamenco dancing before�in Spain, no less�so I asked her how noisy the castanets were. �Not too loud,� she said. �It�s the heel stomping that gets really noisy.� Sure enough, as the two flamenco dancers spun circles by our table, the clacking of the castanets was drowned out by their furious stomping. I�d never seen this form of dance in person and was impressed by how energetic it was. As with our lunch at the caf�, dinner here was delicious but served in small portions. This restaurant specialized in tapas, so we ordered two seafood dishes and a dish of paella and shared them. The seafood dishes only had a few bites worth and the paella was fairly healthy. None of them would hurt my diet. But then I saw the drinks menu. �Look at this,� I said. �Sangria. I�ve never tried that before.� We each ordered one and Terry raised her glass in toast. �Here�s to walking across Virginia.� We�d both had a long day but an excellent one, and Terry didn�t yet know how I would be testing her patience the next morning. I clinked glasses and we basked in our happy glow. In the Footsteps of Washington �I�ll wait for you at Mount Vernon after I do my walk,� I told Terry. We were planning our logistics for my morning walk, where I would trek from Alexandria down to Mount Vernon and she would pick me up in the car. �No,� Terry said. �I�ll get there early and wait for you. Payback for all the times I�ve kept you waiting.� After years in the military and working in factories, I am neurotic about being on time. Terry, on the other hand, is an artist who views time as more of an abstract concept. I did a quick calculation in my head of the �payback� owed and figured I�d need to keep her waiting about 5 hours. Since my walk was only 3-hours long, I called her up 2 hours before I left. For some reason, she didn�t believe me. Actually, I took off at a little before 6 in the morning and let her sleep in. I�m such a softie. The George Washington Memorial Parkway is a beautifully landscaped road that was once called America's Most Modern Motorway. It runs along the Virginia side of the Potomac River for 25 miles and has benches stationed at various scenic overlooks. The Parkway also traces George Washington�s life, from his estate at Mount Vernon, past the National Capital, to the Great Falls of the Potomac, where he worked as an engineer before he rose to fame.
This morning, I walked the half-mile from his house to the Mount Vernon Trail. The path had a yellow line dividing it into lanes just like a highway, with signs every so often asking slowpokes to stay on the right. Pokey me, I hugged the right shoulder the whole trip. As I figuratively followed in George's footsteps, I decided to toss a silver dollar across the Potomac just as he had when he was young. Historians out there will argue that he didn't actually throw anything across the Potomac, which is about a mile wide, but across the Rappahannock River, which is a mere (cough, cough) 250 feet across. Also, it wasn't a silver dollar he threw but a piece of slate about the size and shape of a dollar. So, I didn't feel too bad that I was also throwing something else as I attempted to mimic his feat. I tossed a quarter, which does have his face on it. And, when it plunked into the water about 10 feet from where I stood, I didn't feel bad about that either. In the revisionist stories I tell, that quarter will catch a draft and fly all the way across the river, bouncing several times on the far shore before sliding into the slot of a parking meter just before the meter maid arrived. See, I'm not only strong; I'm a Good Samaritan as well! At least, I will be if you can keep your big mouth shut. Shhh. It was dark when I started out and I tried taking some artistic shots of the night sky and the lighted skyline of Washington D.C. across the river. However, I didn�t have my tripod with me and I had to hold the camera as steady as possible during the long exposure. Needless to say, the pictures came out blurry. The tripod is one more thing I�ve got to add to my packing list, at least when I�m out hiking before the sun comes up (or plan to be out after it goes down). I was on the Trail a half-hour before I encountered another person jogging my way. But from that point on, there was a regular stream of walkers, joggers, and cyclists. I wished each one a �good morning� as we passed, and they each offered me a short, friendly greeting. When I saw a guy wearing a hat with a single light mounted in it, I changed things up a little by saying, �Where�s the coal mine?� He was not as amused as I was. Guess I wasn't the first one to come up with that nugget. A while later, a muscular runner came racing past, replying to my greeting with �Good morning, Sir.� With his buzz cut, I�d already figured him for a service member, but the "Sir" clinched it. I turned around and yelled the phrase I�d always heard sergeants say during my years in the Army when addressed that way: �Don�t call me Sir! I work for a living!� The soldier chuckled and gave me a �Hooah.� A handful of people on the trail passed me multiple times, and when each of them came upon me for the second time I asked how far they were going. One man was going 12 miles. A woman was doing 13. And a pair of college-aged girls were out running 22 miles. I told them each �Good job!� and stopped to applaud them. I had thought my 8.5-mile hike this morning was an impressive distance, but they disabused me of that notion. They weren�t just going longer, they were going faster as well. Showoffs. I finally came across someone who was going more my speed. Her name was Jayne and she was walking her dog, Mack, a labradoodle. �He looks just like Obama�s,� Jayne said, �except he�s only got one white patch on his paws.� After a brief pause she added, �And he�s cuter.� We ambled along the trail for a while and chatted about the local schools and the wealth of history in the area. Indeed, the trail itself had plenty of historical markers. I leaned down at one point to read a marker describing how an English town had donated 250 trees to the Mount Vernon Trail on Washington�s 250th birthday. Mack was so interested in the marker that he �anointed� it. We went our separate ways and soon I came upon the first of a dozen fitness stations dotting the latter portion of the trail. Several people stopped to do pull-ups or jump over logs or do other crazy things, and I was impressed enough by their vigor to stop at one of the stations myself. I picked a station where exercisers were supposed to walk across parallel bars on their hands. I sized them up and said to myself, �Okay, Bill, here you go.� I dropped my rucksack and dug through it for the snack I�d packed. Then I rested against the bars and ate my dried mango strips. Now that is how you do the parallel bars. When I saw a sign stating that Mount Vernon was 3.5 miles away, I called Terry on my cell phone. She mumbled for me to wait a second as she had a mouthful of toothpaste. My timing, as always, was great. I let her know that I should reach Mount Vernon in a little over an hour and she said she�d meet me there. But I dawdled a little bit, taking pictures and enjoying the view. An hour and fifteen minutes later, I entered the RV lot on the opposite side of the Parkway from where we were supposed to meet. Just then, my phone rang. �Where are you?� Terry asked. �I�ve been sitting here reading the paper for the past half-hour.� I thought about dawdling some more, heaping on some more �payback,� perhaps stopping at one of the picnic tables to change out of my wet socks and tee shirt or thumbing a ride back to a nearby restaurant. But I could see the car as soon as I crossed the street and when I entered it I couldn�t help but smile. She might not have been waiting for 5 hours as I�d envisioned; the frustrated look on her face just made it seem that way. The Art Walk There was another reason I didn�t tweak Terry as much as I wanted to this morning; she would be guide in the afternoon. Terry, as I�ve mentioned before, is an artist, and today we were doing an Art Walk in Old Town Alexandria. But before we enlightened ourselves, we first had to do something about my growling stomach. We opted for Gadsby�s Tavern, a restaurant with a sandwich board out front that told us �George Washington ate here.� He not only ate there, he also held his birthday parties there. Many of the businesses in Old Town have a connection to Washington. He ate and partied at Gadsby�s; he worshipped at Christ Church; and he stopped in for coffee every morning at Starbucks. George was a fiend for Grande Vanilla Skim Lattes. Or so I heard. Our Gadsby waitress was dressed in period costume and several of the menu items had a Colonial flair. We both ordered the Cock-a-leekie pie, which was a chicken and vegetable stew baked in a crock and covered with a puffy pastry crust. As I had the day before, I also ordered a side cup of soup. This time, though, my choice�peanut soup�was disgusting. I tried a couple of slurps, but it was just too overpowering for me. The Cock-a-leekie more than made up for it, though. That was delicious. When the waitress came back, she noticed how I�d set aside my side order and asked whether I liked it or not. �Sorry,� I said, �it�s not my cup of soup.� Terry groaned, but shortly afterwards made her own bad pun. When I asked about the staff members� aprons, which were fastened to their shirts with buttons instead of being tied around the waist, she said, �That�s what they mean by no strings attached." No, our first destination after Gadsby�s wasn�t a trip to the general store to buy a real sense of humor. We went, instead, to the Torpedo Factory, an artist colony along the waterfront that used to be (duh) a factory that made torpedoes for the U.S. Navy. A couple of old torpedoes are on display in the building, but otherwise you couldn�t make the connection. Inside, the artist studios were, for the most part, open to the public. Some artists shut their glass doors so they could work in private, but even then they were open to scrutiny.
�Those hold paint,� she said, grabbing my arm and tugging me away. Safely out of earshot, Terry confided, �That artist, she�s, um�� then Terry waggled her hand in a so-so gesture. That�s about as close as her sense of propriety will allow her to say something sucks. There was, however, plenty of other work on display that was quite good, some in artists� studios and some in the display gallery. Artwork also covered the stairway and columns at the entrance were turned into painted totems. When we left the Torpedo Factory and wandered the streets, Terry stopped and gazed into the windows of stores that had jewelry or clothes on display. But her eye was fixed on the murals painted on the walls. Then we came across what was, from our perspective, the find of the day: a two-story, upscale gallery on King Street called P&C Art. The art displayed in their gallery was wowtacular. Yeah, you heard me right: wowtacular. The gallery worked with just a few select artists and the pieces on both floors were gorgeous.
I'd been good all day�well, not to Terry, but in terms of my diet�and I decided to splurge a little bit. I ordered the surf and turf, which featured catfish (my favorite) and a half-rack of their �ultra famous� ribs. Terry had more will-power than I and she ordered some chicken-covered salad. But she crumbled when, moaning in delight, I tempted her with a taste of tender ribs. Soon, her moans rivaled mine. I understood how their ribs became ultra-famous. They, too, were wowtacular. To close out our night, an Irish band set up on the floor right beside us. Once again, we had the best seats in the house. They played rousing songs and encouraged the crowd to sing along with the refrains. The one that sticks in my head: �Hide your sons, protect your daughters, there�s Viagra, in the water.� Not sure what that has to do with Ireland, but it was catchy. So catchy, in fact, that I would be singing it to myself on the next morning's long walk. Problems, As Always So, you already know what I was singing to myself as I started this morning's walk (and if you don't, peek at yesterday's blog to find out; don't worry, it's not cheating), but that was not the only thing I brought with me from yesterday. I also learned my lesson from the blurry pictures and brought along my tripod. As I walked north on the Mount Vernon Trail, I set up my tripod and took some nice, steady shots of some beautiful Potomac River views. you will automatically return to this page   
As always, though, there was a problem. I had the tripod strapped to the top of my rucksack. Each time I wanted to take a picture I had to drop my ruck, unfasten the tripod, set it up, take the shot, retract the legs, fasten it back again, ruck up, and go. Phew. After a few iterations, I streamlined the process and just hooked the tripod to my belt. I got some funny looks from some of the joggers on the trail, but hey, I'm used to funny looks by now. For some reason, the people I passed on the trail were not as friendly as yesterday morning. Perhaps it was because I was headed toward D.C. and these were politicos with important thoughts on their minds. Perhaps it was because my sweat-soaked gynormity was offensive to the skinny minnies that darted by. Or, perhaps it was because the tripod bouncing on my thigh looked like a weapon with which I would beat anyone who said "Good morning." Whatever the reason, I got the stone-faced look from 4 out of 5 people I passed. Harumph. Worse yet, a girl on a bike pulled to a stop about 50 yards ahead of me to gulp down some water from a bottle. I had just pulled out my bag of dried mango strips a minute ago. I held out the bag and offered some to the girl as I approached. "No thanks," she said, hopping back on her bike and pedaling out of there like a bat out of hell. Harumph again. But that wasn't the worst reaction I got. Here's what happened: As I was walking over a bridge near Reagan International Airport, I looked down and saw a squad car and the officer hunkered behind a bush holding a radar gun. He hadn't seen me, so I whipped out my camera and snapped a photo. Then I put it away, leaned over the edge, and called down to him. "Morning, officer!"
I held both my hands up, palms out, and said, "Nothing, officer. I just wanted to wish you a good day." He didn't say anything, just stared up at me. So, I turned and continued walking down the path, my heart jacked up almost as much as I suppose his was. A little while farther, I looked up in the sky and, for the briefest moment, thought I saw a plane falling from the sky. I registered the smoke and falling objects, but it turned out to be parachutists with smoke canisters on their boots. They were part of the kick-off show for the Army 10-miler, which was going on just across the river. As I walked the trail, I saw a steady stream of tee-shirted runners flowing down the D.C. streets. I slogged on through Alexandria and Arlington and up to Theodore Roosevelt Island. 10-� miles in all this morning. This time, I called Terry just a half-hour before I arrived so she wouldn't have to wait as long. As always, though, there was a problem. It was my turn to sit and wait for a half-hour. I found a spot on a good-sized rock and changed my wet shoes and socks. Then I pulled some snacks out of my rucksack and munched while I waited. I stretched a little, paced a little, and started wondering if this was payback for yesterday. But then Terry ripped around the corner and pulled into the parking lot. She rolled down the window and said, "Argh! The GPS sent me onto the freeway." Ouch! I'd expected her to just hop on the George Washington Memorial Parkway and drive up the same way I'd walked this morning, but after singing the praise of my Garmin over and over, I can understand her following its lead. Terry was not as impressed with it as Dawn was last weekend, and her Garmin song had a slightly different tone: Garmin's poopyWe put that snafu behind us and went back to her brother's house so I could clean up. We packed up our belongings and headed down to Mount Vernon, the last place we would visit before heading back home. The estate was much larger than I thought it would be. It was grand and beautiful, but the lines were atrocious. We were already worn out from the long weekend and we wanted to keep in motion. We were both a little too tired and hungry to enjoy it properly. Which is a shame, because as historical sites go, this one is world class. In addition to the artifacts and restored buildings, there was a high-tech education center that featured informative and interesting displays that rival the Smithsonian. The only thing I wondered was how the docents could keep saying same thing day after day to throngs of visitors without going bonkers? We sped through Mount Vernon and had lunch at their restaurant. And, as always, there was a problem. The power went out midway through our meal. Our waitress said, �Well, it is an old place.� But it wasn't just Mount Vernon. Traffic lights were out in the immediate area as we started our drive home. I was pretty wiped out from the excellent and exhausting weekend, so I drank a soda to stay alert on the road. Because you know my track record and what, as always, seems to happen to me. But there were no more "problems" and I flopped into bed a few hours later one happy fella. I just hoped I would still feel that way when I stepped on the scales tomorrow. Road-Tripping with Mary Jane Dawn has a friend visiting her this week, her long-time pal, Mary Jane. I'd heard so much about her for so long, I was glad to finally meet her. The two of them swung by my office yesterday and Mary Jane treated us to lunch. What a sweetheart. They had scads of things planned for their week, but when I told Mary Jane about my walk across Virginia she wanted to come along with me on one of my legs. A sweetheart and an adventurer!
We visited the monastery before walking since it would be closed by the time we were done. We stepped into the chapel and looked around. It seemed empty, so we gawked and took some pictures. But then Dawn tapped me on the shoulder and whispered, "There's a nun at 2 o'clock." Dawn is a 20-year veteran of the sheriff's department and reverts to this lingo when giving directions. I looked toward 2 o'clock, forward and slightly to the right, but all I saw was a wall. I turned to my 10 o'clock and saw the nunk. Sheriffs may have cool lingo, but they can't tell time for beans. The nunk was peeking over a bench at us, and when she saw us looking back she got up and scampered away. Feeling like intruders, we backed out of the chapel and checked out the gift shop. The gift shop had an assortment of hand-made rosaries and cards with religious sayings written in calligraphy. For some reason, there was also a micro-cassette recorder and a sealed package of printer ink. Nothing had prices on it. If we took something, we were supposed to drop what we thought was appropriate in a donation box. I suggested cleaning them out and leaving a dollar, but I was vetoed. And rebuked. And even slugged in the arm. We went back out to the car and Dawn asked if I had anything to snack on. "Already?" I asked. "But we just had sandwiches before leaving your house!" Why she's not 300 pounds like me with that appetite of hers, I'll never know. Regardless, I unpacked the bag with three sandwiches I had fixed for the road and we chowed down. As we got started, Dawn kept making jokes about my size compared to their tiny statures. She told Mary Jane she was just "Messin' with Sasquatch." But then she added that she better watch what she says because if I did something to them while we were out walking in the back country, no one would ever find out. "Why do you think I carry this ruck sack," I said. "It's to dispose of the bodies." Dawn added, "He's probably got an axe in there to chop us up into little pieces." "Nah, I got one of those cheese slicers. It'll take longer that way."
"Oh, that's just me," I said. "Not a chance," Dawn piped in. "Bill has almost no sense of smell," she informed Mary Jane, "but he sure does have a sense of stink." The road we were walking was narrow; it could fit one car comfortably but when two cars passed each other they had to squeeze over onto the shoulders to avoid bumping mirrors. So every time we heard a car coming we would line up single file on the side of the road. At least, that was the plan. Dawn, for some reason, kept going to the opposite side of the road. "Always stay on this side," I told her, indicating the shoulder facing traffic. "Oh, yeah? Well what if there's a car coming right for you on that side?" "If it's just aiming at you, then yes, stay there and Mary Jane I will cross over." She finally figured out which side of the road was the correct one, but she lost style points when a motorcycle came around a corner without much warning. Mary Jane and I stepped onto the shoulder and Dawn ran to our side of the road flapping her hands in the air and shrieking as if she'd seen a ghost. If nothing else, she's good for a laugh. As the sun went down, we broke out the flashlights and I donned my safety vest. Dawn shone her light over her shoulder when traffic would approach from the rear, which Mary Jane said sounded unwise. "You might blind the drivers." "It's perfectly safe," Dawn said. "Watch this." We stopped and watched her as she turned around and walked backwards toward us with the flashlight aimed over her shoulder. She walked right into me. "Oh, yeah," I said, "that's real safe."
I cracked open a couple of snack-sized packs and gave one newton to each of us. The cat dug into it with glee and I whipped out my camera to take a picture. He was curious when I leaned down and held out the camera and came up to investigate just as the flash went off. He must have jumped a foot in the air. Standing behind him, Dawn said she could see the outline of his head and the veins in his ears from the bright flash. Sorry, kitty. As we drove home, Mary Jane called her husband to tell him about her accomplishment. "I just walked 7 miles!" she said. I was glad she didn't add anything about how she left us young uns in the dirt. As I said before, she's a sweetheart. The Heart of Richmond NOTE: This entry also appears on Virginia Living's website. Once per month, they will include one of my stories on their blog. They also have a variety of other interesting stories about lifestyle, food, and entertainment from across the Commonwealth. You should swing by their site and check them out.  Dawn�s friend, Mary Jane Bitler, was visiting from Pennsylvania for a week and the two of them wanted to walk a couple of legs across Virginia with me. So this past Friday (Oct. 9), we planned to walk across Richmond. I arrived at Dawn�s house at 8 a.m., but the women were still hustling around getting ready. They�d been staying up late partying every night. No problem. I would make them pay for it with sweat equity on Richmond�s hills. We arrived in the city a little before 11 and since Dawn is �she of the tiny bladder,� we stopped at the Virginia Living offices to use the facilities. I�d been hoping to �pop in� during the walk, but this spared the staff from putting up with me after I�d built up a good layer of road grime and sweat. My pan was to catch a taxi back to the car after our long hike, but the editor, Richard Ernsberger, said to give him a call and he�d haul us back. I should have asked him for a raise while he was in such a good mood. Oh well. Finally, at noon, we were ready to walk. We started out at the Chimborazo Medical Museum on the eastern edge of Richmond and headed west on Broad Street. From atop Church Hill, we could see past Shockoe Bottom to the skyscrapers jutting up from the heart of the city. It felt good to start out downhill, but the moment was bittersweet since we could see the steep climb awaiting us on the other side. Eight blocks into our walk, we came upon St. John�s Church, where Patrick Henry delivered his �Treason� speech to the Virginia Convention in 1775. Across the street, in Patrick Henry Park, stood an eight-foot tall translucent monument with his famous quotation etched into it: �Give me liberty or give me death.� 234 years later, those words still were powerful enough to raise goose bumps on my arms and stir my spirit. �Come on,� I said to my companions, �let�s get a move on.� They were likewise buoyed, but we only marched two more blocks before coming upon the Patrick Henry Pub and Grille (2302 E. Broad St. (804) 644-4242). After visiting the park, how could we pass up a restaurant with a name like that? Inside, the d�cor was 20th Century hole-in-the-wall, with dim lighting and movie posters on the walls. Much of the space was taken up by a nicked bar, behind which was a sign reading �Give me Liberty or Give me Beer.� Under normal circumstances, those words would stir my spirit and raise goose bumps on my gullet. But we had miles to go and imbibed only water. We all ordered the special (salmon sandwich and side salad) and were glad we�d stopped. The sandwiches were delicious and just filling enough to give us energy without sitting heavily in our stomachs. We pressed on, cutting over to Main Street to check out the Main Street Station and 17th Street Farmer�s Market. Though the fresh produce looked delicious, we were full and the loaded rucksack on my back contained a gallon of water and a few �road snacks.� I�d come prepared for anything. Or so I thought. When we got to the State Capitol and found out they offered free tours of the building all day long, I wondered what the heck I was going to do with my ruck. The security guard said I couldn�t leave it at the visitor�s entrance, so I passed it through the scanner on the conveyor belt and wore it through the Capitol. I got a few funny looks, but hey, I�m used to that by now. The tour was fabulous. The docent was knowledgeable and entertaining, giving us just enough information about the incredible pieces of artwork on display and the history behind them to make us think we were smart. I�m not sure what I thought was more breathtaking: walking beneath the gorgeous rotunda, standing amongst the busts of the eight Virginia-born presidents, or gazing at wall-sized paintings showing the birth of the colonies (the landing at Jamestown) and the birth of our country (the surrender of General Cornwallis at Yorktown). All of it was spectacular. Even so, we couldn�t linger. The day was getting away from us and we still had more miles to cover. From the Capitol, we zig-zagged up to Broad and then down to Franklin Street, where, after a few more blocks, we came upon the five-star Jefferson Hotel (101 W. Franklin Street). �We�ve got to go in here,� Dawn said. �This is the place with the staircase from Gone with the Wind.� As we approached the front door, it automatically swung open toward us and Dawn jumped back with an �Eek,� something I would give her gears over for the rest of the day. But more stunning was the interior, which was luxurious beyond my imagination. Checkerboard floors, gorgeous chandeliers, and a white marble statue of Thomas Jefferson standing beneath an ornate dome. Beautiful chords of music filled the air and we saw, off to one side, a woman strumming a harp. The concierge could see we didn�t belong, but he was pleasant when he asked if he could help us. When Dawn asked if they had a famous staircase, his face lit up. �Oh, yes,� he said. �Follow me.� He led us to a grand ballroom with a 70-foot ceiling and a stained glass skylight. �This,� he said, �is rumored to be the staircase that appeared in Gone with the Wind. It most definitely is not. However, Margaret Mitchell did stay here while she was writing the book and it may have been the inspiration for the staircase in the movie.� Whether it was the actual one or not was immaterial. We had to get pictures of it. I went to the opposite side of the ballroom and shot a photo of Dawn and Mary Jane coming down the stairs. Eat your heart out Rhett. Back out on the street, the wind had picked up and a couple of times we had to lean forward to keep the gusts from toppling us. As we passed beneath trees we were frequently bombarded with acorns. Once we stopped beneath a ginkgo tree to investigate the apricot-like shells that were scattered around it and smashed into the sidewalk. �These are supposed to be pretty stinky,� Mary Jane said. �Kind of like this guy,� Dawn added, patting me on the back. To make sure I wouldn�t forget her comment, she plucked a couple of ginkgo leaves and tucked them inside the brim of my hat. While we were jabbering back and forth, a gray-haired, blind man came our way, tapping his white cane from one edge of the sidewalk to the other. We stepped over onto the curb to give him space and we also stopped talking, which might not have been the smartest thing for us to do. How was he to know we�d stepped aside for him? The answer, of course, was that he couldn�t. As he approached the tree he said, �Get out of the damn way! People are walking here!� We continued our march westward and soon Franklin gave way to Monument Avenue, one of the grandest streets in the country. We walked the length of it, at least as far as the monuments stretched, from the row of horsed Civil War generals to the likeness of Arthur Ashe, whose upraised arms epitomized the way we all felt just then. We�d covered about 5-� miles on the street and another �-1 mile on various detours and tours. And we�d seen a glimpse of the grand and historic city of Richmond, the brightest gem in the crown of Virginia. I stood on the grassy median and noticed, like me, Dawn was smiling. �You thinking about everything we saw today?� I asked her. �No, I was just thinking about what this must look like, the three of us standing her like this. People driving by must think you�re a pimp and we�re part of your stable.� The 5K Race I used to run a lot of road races, a few 10-kilometer races but most of them were 5k (3.1 miles). When I was a serious runner, I used to be able to finish a 5k in about 19 minutes flat. Though the days of me being a serious runner are dead and gone, I though the thrill of running a road race might still be alive. And, so, this morning I ran in the Poquoson Seafood Festival 5k. In my younger days, I used to size up the competition at the beginning of a race and wonder which ones would challenge me on the road. Today I followed the same routine, looking to find a fat guy with a hangover. And a limp. But it was not to be. Everyone here was hale and hearty. A couple of hundred people were milling about the starting line, many of them svelte and springy teenagers. I moved to the back, where I thought I saw an octogenarian sizing me up and nodding to herself.
"That's okay," he said. Then, after a beat, "Um, what kind of pace are you talking about?" I've run a few times in the past month, never more than 2.5 miles, so I had a pretty good idea of my pace. "I'll probably start out at 12:30 per mile and pick it up to an 11-minute pace after I get into a groove." "Yep, that's pretty slow." The gun fired and I started off at a lumbering shuffle, slowly increasing to a plodding trot. Little kids standing no taller than my waist passed me by, giggling and joking with each other all the while, and I ran a little faster than I'd intended trying to keep up with them. But by the time I neared the halfway point, I was feeling winded. Rich hung back with me and offered encouragement. When I tried to slow down, he said, "Come on, Bill. Pick it back up. It's all in your head." Since I didn't have a club with which to beat him with, I gasped some reply and followed his suggestion. I felt like taking a breather, but his goading kept me going and I ran the whole way.
My appetite sufficiently appeased, I checked my finish time to see how I'd done. It might not have been anything special (33:45), but the 10:53 pace was faster than I'd intended. And 5k was the farthest I've run in years. So, thank you Rich for keeping me going. I apologize for all the nasty things I called you under my breath during the race. You are not the Devil sent to Earth just to torture me. You are a scholar and a gentleman. And one heckuva speedy guy. Money raised from this race benefitted the National MPS Society. Mucopolysaccharidoses (MPS) is a genetic disease caused by the body's inability to produce specific enzymes, resulting in the storage of waste materials in virtually every cell and creating progressive damage throughout the body, including the heart, bones, joints, respiratory system and central nervous system. The National MPS Society is searching for a cure, and your donations can help fight this insidious disease. Gangland With my walking route approaching Richmond, I�ve been eyeing with some trepidation the various southern neighborhoods of Richmond. Although I wouldn�t have to get to the city by way of South Side proper, I would have to pass through one of the dangerous areas along the southern outskirts. As I�d done before when walking through a high-crime area, I planned to make this journey at what I figured was the safest time of the week: Sunday morning, when all the thugs are in bed and everyone else is in a worshipful mood. I parked my car at the Civil War Medical Museum on the eastern fringe of Richmond, and began the hike down the steep Chimborazo Hill. Though no one knows who first called it that, we can guess why he chose that name. Chimborazo is a dormant volcano in South America. With Chimborazo Hill rising along the banks of the James River and dominating the skyline, one can easily see why it was named after a volcano. As glad as I was to be walking down the hill, I was already dreading the journey coming back up it to return to my car. I left my rucksack in the car and was doing a fast hike this morning, toting only a bottle of water, my car keys, and an emergency 10 bucks in case I needed something more to drink. Everything was quiet and cool as I raced south down Route 60 and I made it to my turnaround point, a Burger King in Montrose, I stepped inside the BK and my foot started itching. The sawbuck stashed in my sock was dying to come out and buy me a gooey crosissandwich. But I kept it tucked away and merely refilled my water. I�d walked 4-� miles so far and turned around for the return leg to Richmond. Although I didn�t have my ruck with me, I was wearing my boonie hat, which earned me chuckles from some of the people I was passing. I could just imagine what they were thinking: Who is this fat white guy in the funny hat zipping through our neighborhood? Around 11 a.m. a couple of wiry twenty-somethings stepped out from an intersecting street onto the sidewalk in front of me. They were dressed in all black, except for the splashes of color on the backs of their pants from the rear pockets to behind their knees in what I assumed from their similarity were some sort of gang markings. (When I drove home later, I saw two more guys sporting the same colors on the backs of their legs, reinforcing my opinion). They were headed in the same direction as I but at a slower pace, what with their bee-bopping and all. I briefly wondered what was the proper gang etiquette. Should I slow down so as not to pass them? Should I cross over to the other side of the street? Should I turn and run away? I opted for the fourth choice: barrel straight ahead. I said, �Morning,� as I passed them and got a couple of cold stares in return. Soon I was out of Montrose and climbing Chimborazo again. The hill was killer going up, but I leaned into it and kept chugging ahead at the same strong pace. I thought I�d be wiped out from doing 9 miles, but my legs still had plenty of juice left. I got an apple from my car and plopped down on a park bench. I chewed on the fruit while wondering what to do next: go home as I�d originally planned or add a little more distance to my walk. What the heck, I figured, I�m already here. I drove another 1-� miles past my turnaround point and parked at a church in Sandston. Walking from there to the BK and back would add another 3 miles to my day and bring the total up to 12. This stretch of road was flat the entire way and I picked up my pace even more. For the second weekend in a row jets flew over my head as I walked past an International Airport named RIA, though last week the first �R� was Reagan and this week it was �Richmond.� The 12 miles took me 3 hours and 13 minutes to complete, and I got back in my car feeling satisfied with myself. As I drove home I saw a couple of 8-year old girls waving cardboard signs on the side of the road, jumping up and down and screaming, �Buy a pumpkin!� I turned into the parking lot and bought a couple of monster-sized pumpkins to carve up and leave on the porch and a few smaller ones as well. I saw a celebration in my future, something involving pumpkin pie. I�ve never baked a pumpkin pie (or any other, for that matter), so this experiment might turn out to be more dangerous than walking through gangland. But, if the pie turns out to be disgusting, I can always bring it in to work and put a sign up next to it reading �Help yourself.� Then I can just sit back and enjoy the fun. The Monastery to the Winery I was so pumped up from the fast walk I did yesterday that I decided to do a long walk today. A really, really long walk. 20.4 miles, to be exact. I picked up where I left off in Barhamsville at the Bethlehem Monastery of the Poor Clares and set off to hike the width of New Kent County. I felt pretty good at the outset, but a couple of hours into the walk I was starting to question the wisdom (or lack thereof) of this walk. The woods were tight around the road on which I was walking, giving me the same view of tree trunks and leaves for most of my hike. My brain was so bored I started singing to myself. The Flintstones theme song. 100 bottles of beer. Anything I could think of. After 4 hours of walking, the pack on my back was feeling mighty heavy. In addition to my usual load, I was carrying 3 extra quarts of water (5 total) and a lunch (2 sandwiches and an apple). I could barely remember how jubilant I�d felt about the extra juice left in my legs after walking 12 miles. Instead of thinking about juice, I was thinking of hamburger. Because that�s what my feet felt like. All I could do, though, was keep plodding ahead. After 6 hours, I knew I was getting near my endpoint: The New Kent Winery. I started seeing some vines growing in small plots and I saw the road signs warning that there were traffic circles up ahead, which, in this area, are only on the drive leading up to the winery. When the vineyard came into view, I felt a rush of energy and picked up my pace to the parking lot. I plopped down on a bench on the winery�s front porch and whipped out my cell phone to give my mother a call. She was coming up to pick me up at the end of the walk and our plan was to take a tour of the winery and down some of the grape juice. Unfortunately, I hadn�t checked the winery�s hours. They were open every day of the week�except Monday. I called Mom to let her know, but she was pulling around the bend into the parking lot just then. So that�s where I get my punctuality from! We drove back to the Monastery and did a quick tour there instead. We heard singing when we entered, but I set off some sort of alarm when we entered the chapel door and the singing stopped shortly thereafter. I don�t know if we scared off the nunks (see October 7 blog entry) or not. I hope not. I�ve got too much bad Karma as it is. Burning up the Town People who know me poke fun at my early bedtime. I usually go to sleep sometime between 7 and 8 p.m. so that I can wake up and get to work at 4 in the morning. Many of these fiends�I mean, friends�call me "Farmer Bill." However, this week I shut down the barn and burned the midnight oil. Well, maybe just the 10 o'clock oil, but it was still pretty good for me. First, I was lucky enough to score tickets to hear David Baldacci give a presentation at the Thomas Nelson auditorium on Thursday night. He is one of the most dynamic speakers I've ever heard and a staunch supporter of the literary arts. I recognized a dozen-or-so of my peeps in the crowd and got to chat everybody up before the show started. Most of them had the same things to say: "This is so exciting. I can't wait to hear Baldacci speak." Followed shortly thereafter by, "What are you doing up?" The next night was a holiday celebration for me. Terry had bought me two tickets to see a one-man show as an early Christmas present. The show was called "Basic Training" at the American Theater in Phoebus, and the performer, Kahlil Ashanti, was spectacular. Seeing his performance was well worth staying up until 11 p.m. Even if I had to get up at 2 the next morning. Why so early? Because the next day Dawn and I were headed down to Atlanta to see the Hokies play Georgia Tech. Dawn had accompanied me to "Basic Training," and when I showed up at her house to pick her up at 4 a.m. she was still asleep. Her alarm was blaring and had been going off for almost an hour, but she was obliviously sawing logs. Simply amazing. After I rolled her out of bed, she did a rush job getting ready and we hit the road for our 10-hour road trip. Dawn reclined her seat and promptly returned to the land of nod, so I fell off the wagon and drank a couple of sodas to help me stay awake. It rained almost the entire trip down and we were wondering if we should stop somewhere to get rain gear, but when we were 10 minutes outside of Atlanta, the rain let up and held off for the rest of the night. We had a couple of hours to burn before the game, so we walked around Hotlanta and stopped in at an ancient eatery called The Varsity. The place was pure kitsch. It had been in business since 1928 and the decor hadn't changed any. The wait staff at the counters yelled out to the lines of customers, "What ya'll have?" and passed them trays of greasy burgers, dogs, and fries. The atmosphere was great, but the food was blah. Or perhaps it's just that my palate has changed with all the healthy food I've been stuffing in my pie hole. Regardless, The Varsity is an interesting place and is worth a visit. But only once. Though we were enemies of the hometown crowd, the Yellow Jacket fans we ran into were hospitable. I'm glad I didn't make the usual ass of myself, because the Hokies lost and I would've hated eating crow on top of all the greasy food I'd already had. The next morning I tried to eat a little more sensibly. The hotel we were staying at had a continental breakfast and I opted for a muffin the size of a strawberry, a glass of juice, and a croissant. The croissant was frozen so I set it on a plate and put it in the microwave. I pressed the button with a picture of cup of water with steam rising from it and started gathering some napkins. A mere 30 seconds later, smoke started billowing out of the microwave and I pushed the stop button. I opened it up and the smoke poured out into the room. My first thought was, "Oh, crap, the fire alarm is going to go off!" And my second thought was, "I'm glad I've already checked out, because we're bolting if that thing goes off." I grabbed another plate and used it to scoop up the blackened remains of my croissant and the smoldering plate beneath it. I ran it out the front door and dropped it on the pavement, then I returned the microwave and started fanning the air. The whole room smelled of smoke but the alarm hadn't gone off yet. There was one other patron in the dining area, an old man who was giving me the stink eye. "I'm sorry," I told him. "Me too," he replied. The front desk clerk came over to check what was going on and I explained. Then I asked about the fire alarm. It was right behind a column on the ceiling, smoke pooled around its edges. It was the individual sort, not the kind that is hooked in to a building's system, the kind that would set off the alarm in all the rooms and send sleepy customers out into the cold, dark, wet morning and send me running for my car. Phew. The clerk stepped over to it and squinted up at the ceiling. "Huh," she said. "Guess it needs new batteries." We finally got the room aired out (sort of) and ate some breakfast. I stayed away from the croissants. The elderly gent stopped by our table as he left and clapped me on the shoulder. "Thanks for the excitement," he said with a chuckle. Dawn was wide awake for the first hour-or-so of our journey back to Virginia. She couldn't sleep from all her laughing. To try tiring herself out, she spent the next hour ridiculing my microwave skills. That did the trick. Before we reached the South Carolina border, she was fast asleep and I was trying to figure a way I could unbuckle her seatbelt and roll her out the door while claiming it was an accident.
Undaunted, I used my Garmin to locate all the restaurants in the area and we spent a half-hour driving from one to the other. Without luck. It wasn't just that the stores were closed for Sunday; most of them we visited were boarded up and closed for good. One section of town we drove through looked like a ghost town from some western. Yikes! We gave up on the stew and stopped in at a Shoney's. The trip down to Atlanta had been 600 miles, and while I munched on yet more stale chow I told Dawn something that had just occurred to me. "You know," I said, "this entire trip is less mileage that the walk I'm doing across Virginia." I sat there with an expectant look, awaiting the adulation I was sure would follow. "Wow," she said, "just think how many more hotels you can smoke up in that distance." I can always count on Dawn to keep me grounded. The Whinery I woke up this morning with two noodles where my arms used to be. Even though I�d laid off the heavy stuff, every muscle group in my upper body was in pain. So I figured I'd give the bod a break and go out walking today. Only problem with that was that my foot has been hurting recently, a sharp shooting pain on the bottom of my left foot. It feels better after I move around for a bit, so I was hoping today�s walk might do me some good.
There was very little shoulder to walk on and I�d often have to step off into a ditch when cars and trucks would crowd me. Each time I did that, it seemed I stepped just right on a pointy stone to make me wince. Instead of cussing, I yelled out things like �Fruit Loops!� or �Shitake Mushrooms!� Not that I�m that much of a prude; it�s just what popped out of my mouth. I paused a few times to take a picture or get a drink of water, and each time my left foot would feel worse than before when I started walking again. It was as if my left foot was on fire and I was smacking it with an iron. I wondered to myself if anyone else on Earth could endure such pain. Unpossible! I was walking with a limp by the time I reached the winery and considered thumbing a ride for the return journey. I exaggerated my limp a little bit, hoping someone would feel sympathy for me, but nobody stopped. I think a couple of them even veered closer to me, perhaps trying to put me out of my misery. Eventually, I made it back to the car. Once I sat down on my cushy seat, my foot started feeling better and I was glad no one had been with me on the walk to witness my whining. Let�s just keep that our little secret. OK? Thanks. You�re a pal. What a Pain in the...Foot 
So, I called up the doctor today to set up an appointment to have him look at my foot and to get a flu shot. I figured it would take a couple of weeks before he could see me and wanted to schedule it as soon as possible. Well, surprise, surprise, the receptionist said I could come in this morning...so I did.I got my flu shot (yea) and got some so-so news on my foot (yea again, because I was expecting much worse). I�ve got a couple of painful problems with my left foot and have been limping a lot lately (try saying that 5 times fast). First off, I�m pretty sure I've got a bunion just behind my pinky toe. That, however, is a very minor pain compared to the heel pain I�ve been experiencing for about a month now. It got really bad after my 20-mile hike and so I took things easy for the past week to see if it would heal itself. While laying off of it has helped some, it hasn�t eliminated the problem, as evidenced by yesterday's whiny walk. I've been avoiding the doc because I was afraid of what might be wrong with my foot. A few days ago, I drove Dawn to pick her car up and the mechanic, who was limping around in a padded boot, said something about the bone in his foot coming apart. I thought, �I can�t put this off any longer. I�ve got to go get my foot checked out.� I just hoped the doc wouldn't tell me I had to stop walking for x-number of months. THAT would just kill me. Well, here�s what the doc said. He said I could just put some moleskin on the bunion and worry about getting it fixed at a later date. I�ve already been dealing with the pain of it for months and effectively ignoring it (except when I step on a rock or something that impacts the site, which makes me grimace and squeal like a little girl), so continuing to walk with a moleskin cap on Mr. Bunion sounds very doable. As for the heel, he examined my foot, poking and prodding while I yelped and yowled, then told me that I have Plantar Fasciitis. Basically, plantar fasciitis is a painful swelling in the heel where the various tendons of the foot come together at a choke point. It might be caused by a bone spur, but regardless of the cause he said I could alleviate the pain by icing it down and doing some particular stretches. AND I can keep on walking. Yea me! Listen to Your Nipples A few people at last night�s party commented how fun it would be to walk one of my legs with me. Boy, were they surprised when I actually took them up on it! This morning, Patrice and I dropped one car at Bottoms Bridge then drove 7-� miles up to Sandston in another. We would walk back to the first car, completing one of the two remaining legs on my hike up to Richmond. This was the first time we�d hiked together, so I let her know that we could go at whatever pace she wanted. What I meant was that it was okay if we went slow, but that wasn�t how she took it.
�Don�t worry,� I replied, �that�s not emasculating at all.� I was building up a good sweat trying to keep up with her. And I was feeling winded from carrying my super-heavy rucksack. I mean, sure, I�d stripped it down and dumped my extra set of clothes, shoes, and a couple of quarts of water before this morning�s hike, but I�d added other stuff to it. I brought along a Tupperware filled with finger sandwiches left over from last night�s party. And you know how heavy those can be. After an hour, we copped a squat in someone�s driveway and ate the heavy sandwiches. I figured not having the extra weight on my back would speed me up some, but no; I was still eating Patrice�s dust. My shirt was wet with sweat and I stuck my finger in the neck hole to pull it out and look inside. �What are you doing?� Patrice asked �I�m checking out my nipples,� I said. I�ve always thought it a good policy to listen to your nipples. They let you know when it�s cold outside. They let you know when you�re excited. And they also let you know when you�re in pain. Case in point: me. Mine were a little raw. I usually wore an Underarmour shirt to prevent my wet shirt from rubbing my nipples raw, but I was trying something new today�I was wearing two squares of duct tape over my nipples. In the course of my walks, I came across a guy who told me about a group of male runners who all swore by duct tape. And they should know. This group called themselves bloody 11�s because, before they discovered "nipple tape," their wet shirts would chafe their tender buds and make them bleed, leaving twin red tracks running down their chests. However, I was guessing none of them sweat as much as I did. Either that or I was just too much of a hairy beast, because when I checked out my rack one of the strips of tape was gone. Some time later, the other piece fell off too. Much later, when I told Dawn of my dilemma, she had a solution. "Wrap a few bands all the way around your chest." Then she fell out laughing. I can always count on her for help. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Because at that moment, on the road, I relayed the story of the bloody 11's to Patrice and heard her skid to a halt. I stopped and looked back at her. She had a sour-lemon look on her face. �Eww,� she said, �That�s gross.� I smiled to myself, thinking, Aha, that�s how to slow her down. Just mention something revolting. If she was going to keep on being Superwoman, I was going to have to whip out some more Kryptonite. �You think that�s disgusting,� I said, �just listen to this...� Humbled by Hipple A week ago, a friend of mine introduced me to Tom Hipple, who had been reading about my walk. Tom, it turns out, is somewhat of a walker himself, walking several half-marathons and even knocking out a full marathon at a 13-minute-per-mile pace. Yowza! So, when Tom said he would like to walk a leg with me, I was a little bit nervous. But I'm always thrilled to have company. Even if I expect that company to rudely shame me.
It was cool out when we started our 7.5-mile hike and both of us wore jackets. But before we'd been out a half-hour, we'd both warmed up enough to peel them off and stow them in my ruck. I'd brought along the last remnants of the 100-pound party, and as long as we were halted I broke out the finger sandwiches. That wasn't the only time we stopped, though. I had to pull off the road every 20 minutes-or-so to stretch out my foot. The plantar fasciitis was acting up and my heel felt much better each time I paused to stretch out the tendons. Of course, the tendons were also being stretched plenty trying to keep up with Tom. He is 4 inches taller than me, svelte as a gazelle, and has legs as long as a giraffe's neck. I felt like I was taking four steps to every one of his. It was Karma getting back at me for all the times I'd made fun of short people for being, you know, short. So I pumped my stubby legs as fast as I could to keep up with his long strides and before you knew it we were turning down the road leading to Randolph-Macon College. I checked my watch and saw that we'd completed the 7-� miles at a pace just under 18 minutes per mile. I was winded and soaked, but feeling good about myself. Until, that is, I looked over at Tom, who was dry, breathing easily, and looking as rested as if he'd just gotten up from a La-Z-Boy. "That was a nice, easy walk," he said. "I'm looking forward to our next walk together." Yeah, I thought, so am I. Because I'm bringing stilts with me next time! The Veggie Wagon Dawn got off early from work today, so we met in downtown Hampton to do an easy hike from the Air & Space Museum to Fort Monroe and back again, less than three miles each way. We met in front of the museum and I asked her, "Would you rather eat now or after our walk?" I'd read a story in yesterday's paper about a Hampton man using his kitchen on wheels to bring vegetarian dishes to the street. Veggie Vibrations, as he calls his catering truck, sets up weekday afternoons in Queen's Plaza at the corner of LaSalle Avenue and Settlers Landing Road, a half-mile away from the museum. Without hesitating, Dawn said, "Oh, let's eat now!" We drove to the plaza and saw the truck with the brightly painted vegetables on its sides. He'd just arrived for the day and we were his first customers. I ordered vegetable lo mein and Dawn ordered a veggie fajita. "It'll be about 20 minutes while I set up," the cook said. No problem. We'd just wait in the car. Apparently, we weren't the only ones who'd seen the article. A flood of people approached the van and placed orders while we sat waiting and watching. Every so often, I'd walk over to the van to see if the order was ready, but the poor guy was running around as if his hair were on fire. He hadn't been prepared for this many people. He hadn't written anything down because he was used to a few customers at a time and was able to remember their orders. Also, he was having some technical difficulty (i.e., he forgot his calculator), so he offered to pay everyone's sales tax instead of figuring out what the heck it should be. More people kept showing up, more orders were place, but none were filled. The crowd was getting antsy. Every ten minutes or so, I'd consider leaving but then I'd figure, "Well, it's got to be ready soon." Dawn and I sat there for over an hour before he finally waved me over. When he passed the order over to me, an angry woman tried to stop me. "What you got there?" she asked. "Veggie lo mein and a fajita? That's my order." She'd been the second one on the scene. From our seats in my car, Dawn and I had watched her approach the van and place her order over an hour ago. I felt for her�I really did�but not enough to let her have my food. Another woman standing next to the first tugged my sleeve and laughed conspiratorially. "Ain't no way you're giving that up, huh?" Back in the car, Dawn and I dug into our meals, hopeful that the payoff would be worth the wait. Alas, my noodles were bland. Dawn gave me a bite of her fajita, which was good, but it wasn't worth-a-one-hour-wait great. What's worse, we'd waited so long for the food that we'd blown our opportunity for the walk. If we started out now, we'd be marching through rush-hour traffic. Next time, I won't listen to Dawn when she says, "Let's eat now!" Either that, or we're eating meat. Veggies are for the birds. Late Night Binging and Early Morning Pennance I recently attended a party that had loads of deliciously evil treats. Plenty were left at the party's end, so I brought a nearly full tin of cookies home with me. Big mistake. Last night I dug into them and paid the price. Every time I saw the tin I'd stick my hand in for a cookie or two. Perhaps the influx of chocolate threw off my biorhythms, but whatever the reason I went to bed at 6 o'clock last night. Then I woke up at 9 and turned on the boob tube. The Biggest Loser was on so I watched the second half of the show. But then I was wide awake and I couldn't get back to sleep. Ironically, after just watching a show about fat people making healthy choices to lose weight, I did the opposite and dug into the tin of cookies. I tried to go to sleep, but the Belgians were battling in my belly, and guilt was niggling at my brain. With a melodramatic sigh, I crawled out of bed, put on my walking gear, and headed out into the night. It was 2 a.m. and I figured I could drive up to Quinton and knock out the last leg remaining in my walk toward Richmond. Rain pelted the windshield as I drove, but I was determined to walk no matter the conditions. When I parked in Bottoms Bridge, the rain was pouring harder than ever. The hike to Quinton would take me 4 miles through Davis Crossroads and Clintwood, and then I'd have to turn around and come back. 8 miles in the rain seemed like a good penance for my chocolaty indulgence. I wore my reflective vest but left my rucksack behind, carrying only a flashlight and an umbrella. As I held up the umbrella and started down the road the "Chim-chimminey" song popped into my head and wouldn't get back out. Damn you, Mary Poppins! There was nothing to do but to walk faster. The quicker I finished, the quicker I would be out of the rain. I bulled ahead like a, well, you know, and soon I was going faster than I think I'd ever walked before. I was doing that swishy walk that the Olympic walkers use. I was also pumping my arms, the umbrella bobbing up and down like a piston. Ridiculous, yes; but it worked! I zipped through my 8.1 miles in less than 2 hours going at a 14:32 pace. Zowie! After I got home, I told my friend and writing mentor, Bill Walsh, about my morning walk and he laughed so hard he nearly had a heart attack. "Omigod," he said, gasping for breath, "I can't imagine what you must have looked like to the drivers on the road." Then he fell out laughing again. "You're killing me, Glose. You're killing me." Nice to see someone else was paying penance for my evil ways. I hate to suffer alone. What a Halloweenie Every year, Dawn throws a Halloween bash and everyone comes dressed up in creative costumes. The past two years, I�ve come to Dawn�s party as a pirate and a pimp. In both cases, I chose those outfits because I could wear a voluminous cape to hide my voluminous gut. This year was different. This year, I put my incredibly shrinking gut out there for all to see. I came to the party as King Gut�I mean, King Tut.    Ghosts of Halloween Past, Present, & Future The best costume for the past two years goes to one of Dawn�s co-workers, Dave. Last year Dave wore a suit with various papers pinned to it. On closer inspection, I saw the papers said things like �brief� and �claim� on them. He was a law suit! It still cracks me up. This year, Dave was a giant bottle of Heineken beer. Fittingly enough, he brought a six-pack of beer to the party. But it was a six of Budweiser. Can you say faux pas? Plenty of people wore scary costumes at the party. Dawn was the Phantom of the Opera. Winston was a machete-toting Jason. Ann was Cher. But the scariest outfit of all was worn by Tiny Terry. She came as a Northwest Airlines pilot. Unlike years past, the spread of food was fairly healthy (thank you, Dawn!), with veggie wraps and turkey rolls and other such things. Dawn also brewed up a big pot of Brunswick stew, something we�d both been jonesing for since our failed search for stew in Brunswick County on October 18. But a few of Dawn�s friends brought wickedly delicious food to the party and I didn�t want to be a bad sport; I had to try them out. Besides, the next morning Dawn and I would both pay for our sins as we hiked up Route 1. That hike took us from Doswell to Carmel Church where we stopped at Mount Olympus Farm. You'll have to wait till mid-November to read about it though as it will be one of my entries in the Virginia Living Blog. I got back from our hike in time to clean up and get ready for the hordes of trick-or-treaters about to assault my home. The first two were in the 3-4 year range and dressed as little trains. Very cute. One train chugged up the steps to me but his brother hugged his grandpa�s leg and refused to budge. �I�m scared,� he cried. I took off my King Tut headdress, but he was still scared. So then I walked down the steps to him and, while he stood there shivering in fright, dropped a handful of candy in his bag. When I turned and walked away he perked right up and called out, "Thank you!" Dawn arrived 15 minutes later and laughed her butt off as I recounted the story. The same thing had happened two years ago when I was dressed as a pirate, except it'd been a little girl shrieking in my driveway about how she was scared of the big, bad man. �You'll probably scare that same girl again, too,� Dawn quipped. "Come on, now," I said. �That was 2 years ago. She�s older now.� Well, I'm not sure if it was the same girl or not, but once again there was a girl hiding behind her mama in my driveway too scared to come up. And she looked like she could have been a slightly older version of the princess I'd scared before. Dawn really got a kick out of that. Two years older. Same result. At the end of the night, after Dawn was done with her scoffing and had gone back home, I packed the remaining candy into a bag and stuffed it in my car. I'd snuck a few pieces through the night, but there was no way I'd let the candy sit around the house and tempt me like the tin of cookies did last week. It's evil stuff whose powers I can't resist. And there's only one place to bring something that evil. No, not Hell. Work. Okay, so maybe your first guess was right. |
