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Hanging In by Linda Lange
Thursday, July 2, 2015
Rated "PG13" by the Author.
A 5K walk restores my enjoyment of life. Update to my memoir, "Incomplete Passes."
It’s a perfect day for a morning run or walk. The sky is cloudy-bright, the temperature barely breaks seventy, and a light breeze tickles my skin. It’s a lovely Saturday in May, and I’m at the Forest Hills 5K in Anderson Township, the Cincinnati suburb that reminds me of a bigger Allouez.
This is something new for me. I never used to understand fundraising walks. “Why don’t people just ask their friends to donate for a cause?” I wondered. But last fall I saw a flyer for a diabetes walk/run and realized that walking is one of the ways I control my type 2 diabetes, so there was indeed a connection. I walked and enjoyed it so much that I couldn’t wait a year to do it again. I walked in the Heart 5K in March, and now I’ll be doing this one, a fundraiser for the schools in this upscale suburb.
I’m coming off a lousy couple of weeks. At the animal shelter where I volunteer, we’ve lost eleven cats in only two weeks. Now, none of these deaths was surprising. Some of the cats were geriatric, others had active leukemia or FIV (“feline AIDS”), and one was a starveling newcomer from a hoarding situation. Eleven out of a population of six hundred is a small percentage. But these deaths came so close together that it’s been a depressing time.
I’m also worried about my friends from Green Bay. Pam was supposed to have hip replacement surgery this week, but the surgeon canceled it because her platelet count was too low. Pam’s doctors believe her spleen is trapping platelets, so they’re going to remove it and see if her count rebounds. Only then will she be fit for the hip surgery. “Nothing will make me miss our trip this fall,” she vows. I’m upset just the same. Although Pam, Carla, Del, and I were all born within an eleven-month period, Pam seems to be aging faster than the rest of us. That isn’t fair.
Carla has had a bad week herself. She returned to Green Bay, but not for pleasure. Her father was admitted to Bellin Hospital with fluid around his heart. Fortunately, his doctor drew off the fluid, and the buildup did not recur. The medical staff pronounced it a one-time occurrence, probably due to a viral infection, and sent him home. Carla remains watchful, telling us her dad still isn’t himself. This is scary; Mr. Porter is in his nineties.
But it’s hard to dwell on death and decay as I report to Nagel Middle School for the Forest Hills 5K. There are contestants of all ages, but a preponderance of kids, since this is for the schools, after all. One elementary school has had its pupils training for weeks, and they are capering around me in matching purple shirts. I hear a father tell his daughter that he’s not there to win the race, but to enjoy some special time with her. A middle-school band plays a creditable rendition of “The Star-Spangled Banner” as the event begins.
We assemble behind the starting line. The public-address announcer tells us to let the competitive runners go first. The walkers and the smaller children will bring up the rear. I hang back, knowing that it will take me more than fifty minutes to complete the three-point-one mile course.
And we are off, out of the school driveway and up Nagel Road, which is closed to automobiles for the occasion. The runners establish their pack up ahead. At sixty-seven, with mild arthritis and osteoporosis, I can’t run anymore, but I take a few skipping steps to separate myself from slower walkers.
Left, right, one, two. As the runners navigate the turn up ahead and come back past us, I glance sideways at the teenage girls among them, admiring their taut muscles and determined faces. If events like this had existed in the sixties, my boomer friends and I would surely have been part of them. Well, Pam probably wouldn’t have, but I’d have been game, and Carla and Del would have competed for medals.
One, two, one, two. Student bands are stationed at intervals along the course. What they lack in expertise, they make up in enthusiasm. I’m tempted to break into a dance step as I pass the musicians, but I stifle the impulse. That would something a cute little old lady does, and I’m too young to be cute. In ten years, maybe I’ll try that. People will cheer just because I can move.
The event rules specified no dogs. But we are traveling through residential neighborhoods, and people have brought their dogs out to watch us. On one block we run a veritable gantlet of wagging tails and grinning faces. A little girl leashes up two pugs and capers beside us. I wince as the tiny pug dogs move faster than I do.
Left, right, left, right. I’m going to finish; I wave triumphantly to the crowd. Why does this course end with an incline? Damn Cincinnati hills. I’ve got enough energy left to press a little harder. I finish in almost exactly the same time as in my two preceding races. Volunteers are passing out water and food beyond the finish line. I grab a bottle of water and gulp the entire thing.
This whole occasion—the return of spring, the kids learning about fitness, the fact that I finished the course—somehow becomes for me an affirmation of life. We’re all still here, after all, my friends and I. We’re hanging in.
And when I get home, there’s a topper--an email from Del. She’s attached an article from a Naples, Florida, newspaper about her mother, the redoubtable Mary. Like Carla’s dad, Mary is past ninety, but she golfs regularly, even though she doesn’t see well. She has a partner, another woman in her nineties, who helps Mary line up her shots. Last year, the article tells me, Mary made a hole in one.
I’m experiencing some post-race soreness, but the muscles that really ache are the ones in my face. From smiling.
WillA nice little slice of life from 67. Well-written and personal.
I am also from Wisconsin--Owen, Wausau, Marshfield, Madison, Menomonie--with a semester teaching at UW Eau Claire. While I like cheese and have followed the Green Bay Packers, I have never been to a game. I Escaped to Wisconsin whenever I can, but can no longer tolerate winters there.
My first walk for a cause--50 miles for President Kennedy and physical fitness--in college, lasted 11 hours with several waits for others to eat, etc., until I left them and came in a half hour ahead of all the others. The problem with that generation and the baby boomers that followed was lack of exercise and food, leading to the epidemic of related maladies today requiring all kinds of causes and medical treatment. My only walk for a cause was when my university president had a mild heart attack and had us all doing a Heart Walk on campus. I was the last one in because I was limping very badly by that time and couldn't keep up. Fortunately, the most beautiful coworker there decided to accompany me. Making me feel like I came in first.
My mother, 90, still resides in Wisconsin and has type II diabetes, a twice replaced hip and has great difficulty walking.
I walked extensively until I could no longer and got into an electric wheelchair 22 years ago. I don't waste time on "wheelchair" walks but have donated for those that do and the MS 150 bicycle run in Texas. I'd much rather wheelchair where others fear to tread and enjoy nature whenever I can. Like seeing the cow statues in Cincinnati.
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