Training Yourself…Racing for Others (1)

by Dave Presby

I:  Building a Base

It was a sunny September afternoon on Mount Desert Island, just off the coast of Maine.  The village of Bar Harbor was swarming with tourists who’d spilled off of three enormous cruise ships docked in Frenchman Bay.  After enjoying a quick lunch at a local tavern, Dad and I were passing the time browsing the countless number of gift shops in town, most of which sell the same generic collection of t-shirts, mugs, post cards, hats, and maple syrup.  We were about to exit the souvenir department in the basement of a pizza joint when I happened across a unique collection of items that I hadn’t seen elsewhere…  a series of winter hats designed to look like various furry animals.  I pawed through the collection and reached for the hat that most resembled…  cat.

Hmmmm…  I thought to myself, carefully examining the peculiar article.  I could pull this off.

My eyes settled upon the garment care instructions, where I noticed the label, “Women’s Furry Hat”, just south of the dryer temperature recommendations.  I frowned and groaned in disgust, garnering the attention of the elderly couple next to me.  Their current sundry of interest was an oddly-shaped pair of moose dung earrings, which they were eying curiously.

“Women’s furry hat,” I read out loud.  “That’s sexist.”

“Why…  You’re right,” the gentleman piped up, as he returned the fecal bling to the display rack.  “Some men would be proud to wear that hat.”

“Exactly!” I exclaimed.  I donned the knitted feline cranial pouch and adjusted it carefully upon my head.  “Hey, Dad.  What do you think?”

“Well…  It’s definitely you,” he responded.

“Is he yours?” asked the gentleman, gesturing towards me gracefully with an open hand, as if I were a grand spectacle to behold.

“Yes, he is…  Although some days I can’t believe it.”

This comment earned a hearty chuckle from the gentleman’s wife.

“Are you two up here on one of the cruise ships?” she asked.

“No, we’re actually camping,” said Dad.  “And I was here to watch Dave run a half marathon this morning.  He took fourth place!”

“Well, congratulations,” she responded.  “That’s wonderful!”

“He had such a great race,” Dad continued.  “You should have seen him come sprinting out of the woods during the last mile down the final straightaway towards…”

And he’s OFF!

For the next fifteen minutes, the unsuspecting couple beheld that which is Dad’s greatest gift…  talking, chatting, and reminiscing incessantly about whatever he finds inspiring at the particular moment.

In today’s electronic age of texting, Tweeting, and haphazard hashtag-lobbing, Dad is somewhat of a relic, hearkening back to a forgotten generation of yore.  He has a laptop on which he can check his email, in theory.  But that changed five years ago when he neglected to run a series of updates, accidentally downloaded a few thousand extra messages from a tutorial database, and failed to install the patch necessary to bring the email program up to speed.

He actually owns a working cell phone, an old flip phone, which he can use to place a call in case of an emergency.  Unfortunately, he never turns it on, and it took him two years to figure out how to answer a call.  Those of us in his inner circle also know not to bother leaving a message, as he doesn’t know how to set up his voicemail.

In spite of his technologically-challenged existence, he still prods and needles me about my outdated iPhone 6 from time-to-time, wondering if he needs to upgrade.

“David, are you happy with your device?” he queries, when he notices me checking my email or playing a turn on Words With Friends.  “Do you think a personal device is something I’d find useful?”

“I like it.  But I can’t imagine you’d use it enough to justify the purchase…  or the contract.”

  “Maybe I should get a pay-as-I-go plan,” he replies thoughtfully, stroking the end of his thinly-bearded chin.  “What do you know about Cricket Wireless?”

“Nothing.”

“Well, have you heard anything about the plans Wal-Mart offers?”

“Nope.  I’ve always just had a contract with Verizon.”

“You’re right.  I probably wouldn’t use a device enough to justify a contract.  But it sure would be nice to have a device to use with the wireless network at home.”

Gently, I remind him that he should consider running the approximately seven hundred necessary updates on the device he already owns and use that with his wireless network.

“I would,” he says, “but I’m not familiar with some of the basic functions on my laptop.  I mean, for instance…  How do you remove a file or a document?”

“… really?”

“David, I’ve tried, but I just can’t seem to figure it out!”

“Are you taking notes?”

“Never mind, I—”

“First, you find the document on the desktop or folder where it’s saved.”

“Ok…  ”

 “Then…  You right-click on it.”

“Alright…  ”

“Finally— and this is the important part…  you choose ‘Delete’ from the drop-down menu.”

“…but every time I point and click on a document, it just opens it up.”

“That’s because you’re hitting the left-click button on the mouse.  Instead, try the right-click button.”

“The right-click button?  Where do I find that?”

“It’s just to the right of the left-click button.”

“Maybe I could have you down some weekend and you could give me a computer lesson.”

So far, Dad has scheduled no fewer than four-dozen computer tutorials over the past ten years, all which have yet to materialize.  At this point in his life, the rest of us have generally accepted that he will never be a “device” person.  Instead, he prefers a phone call on the landline, a game of bridge or cribbage, a conversation over lunch, or an old-fashioned, hand-written letter.

On this occasion, in the cramped, darkly-lit bottom floor of a souvenir shop in Bar Harbor, he was regaling our newest acquaintances with every detail about my half marathon earlier that day…  from the foggy weather, to the hilly course, to my final sprint to the finish.  As usual, any discussion about running ultimately finds its way to an account of his fastest marathon.

“You wouldn’t know it now,” he says, patting his belly enthusiastically, “but almost forty years ago when I was thirty pounds lighter, I ran a 2:47 at the old Skylon International Marathon which started in Buffalo, ran across the Peace Bridge, and finished in Canada.”

Even those only slightly familiar with the marathon are well aware that this is a pretty fast time.

“I look back at my training log from that year, and…   I’m just…  completely amazed at how many miles I ran.  Golly, that seems like a lifetime ago.  I don’t know how I did it.  But that was my Olympics.”

Dad’s public seminars certainly weren’t limited to the confines of Bar Harbor.  Back at Mount Desert Campground on Somes Sound, he was becoming quite popular, making a name for himself with over a dozen other campers.  Our campsite bordered a heavily-traveled footpath, which led campers down the coastal embankment beneath the towering evergreens to a long, wooden dock that snaked over fifty yards into the peaceful tidal waters of the sound.

All day long, scores of campers wandered down the path to the docks…  young couples looking to kayak or canoe at high tide, exuberant kids with their nets and baskets hoping to catch a few crabs, or acquaintances old and new, just looking to enjoy the view across the sound to Somesville harbor, which was littered with boats and watercraft of all shapes and sizes.  At high tide, patient observers would often be treated to the sight of a harbor seal surfacing stealthily from below the water, or perhaps a hunting clinic conducted by a pair of osprey, dive-bombing the sound from hundreds of feet above in search of unsuspecting fish.  As we were visiting during an off-season month when the campground welcomes dogs, we were also treated to a continuous parade of furry canine companions of all shapes and sizes.  There was never a shortage of sights and sounds to enjoy at this section of the campground.

As such, our campsite was prime territory for Dad to reel in unsuspecting campers.  Anytime a fellow camper walked by, he’d pipe up and cast his reel.  On this particular trip, he was fixated on…  the toll.

“You know about… the toll…  don’t you?” he’d ask dramatically, anytime someone walked by.  Without fail, each camper would bite the worm.

“The toll?”

“You have to pay a toll to walk down the path to the dock.  Otherwise, the troll will come out from under the dock and block your way.”

Dad’s mysterious explanation won him a wide variety of reactions, some more memorable than others.  Most people simply chuckled; a few others broke out into uproarious laughter.  If Dad was lucky, some would even counter with a witty response.

“Put it on my tab,” one gentleman said.

“I have E-Z Pass,” a young girl responded.

“I work for the government,” a middle-aged woman retorted.  We actually think she may have been telling the truth.

“Who’s THAT trip-trapping across MY DRAWBRIDGE!?” a few even bellowed, appreciating his attempt to channel the classic Norwegian fairy tale, “Three Billy Goats Gruff”.

Invariably, a small percentage of unsuspecting folk would actually stop and cross the official property line, most likely out of morbid curiosity.  Once that happened, there was no turning back.  One by one, and sometimes in small groups, innocent campers were held captive by Dad’s lengthy dissertations about the history of Mount Desert Campground, the history of Mount Desert Island, and the history of Acadia National Park.

Of course, Acadia National Park and Mount Desert Island do have a fascinating history…  from the institution of the park in the early 1900s by recognized founder George B. Dorr…  to the generous contributions of John D. Rockefeller, who donated both money and land…  to the fire which destroyed nearly half the island in 1947.  Without fail, Dad would thoroughly cover every excruciating detail.

What’s more, he’d never neglect to discuss the campground itself, which has been a fixture on the northeast corner of Somes Sound for the past sixty years, attracting multiple generations of campers every summer.  He’d take his captive audience on a journey through the campground’s history…  from its inception in 1958 by original owners Marie and Arnold Allen…  to the sale to the Craighead family, the current owners since 1984, who were long-time visitors to the campground themselves.  His closing argument would typically include a detailed summary of all the improvements that have been made to the campground over the past twenty years, including the rebuilding of the docks, the refurbishing of the tent platforms, and the addition of The Gathering Place…  a charming, rustic storefront where campers can buy coffee and baked goods in the morning, ice cream in the evening, and access WiFi any time of the day.

On this particular trip, Dad’s guests were treated to a bonus story, as our campsite was less than fifty feet away from the jagged granite outcropping where he knelt down and proposed to Mom.

“I asked my first wife to marry me over there on those rocks,” he’d say, pointing towards the granite ledge just above the dock, which rose about twenty feet above the waters of the sound.

Dad’s memorable proposal was only the beginning of our family’s love affair with Mount Desert Campground.  In 1973, Mom and Dad welcomed my sister into the world.  Finally, our family was complete when I, the obvious apex of human evolution, entered into existence four years later in 1977.  I’d barely reached my first birthday when Mom and Dad loaded our ‘78 Plymouth Duster with all of our camping gear, herded my sister and me into the back seat, and drove us up north for our first fun-filled family vacation at Mount Desert Campground.

For close to twenty years, this was our annual summer ritual.  By day, we’d spend our hours swimming at Echo Lake and Sand Beach, hiking one or more of Acadia’s twenty-six mountain peaks, or scrambling up and down along the rocky, surf-swept coast, looking for sea shells, exploring tidal pools, and peeking under bundles of slimy seaweed in search of crabs.  By night, we’d return to the campsite and prepare a full-course dinner on our camp stove, or over a roaring fire, if we were feeling creative.  As the sun went down, we’d sit around the picnic table and play Scrabble by the light of Dad’s gas-powered lantern.  Once or twice during each trip, he would drive us into Bar Harbor to enjoy a seafood feast at a local restaurant, followed by dessert at the Fudge Factory, our favorite ice cream establishment in town.

The highlight of every trip was definitely the handful of hikes on which we embarked all over Acadia’s twenty-six mountain peaks.  Every summer, we’d repeat many of our favorite, familiar hikes, but we’d always discover a new and exciting trail each trip.  When my sister and I were younger, we’d hike some of the more modest peaks on the island…  Acadia and Gorham Mountains, along with North and South Bubble.  As we grew up and got stronger, we tackled some of the islands highest peaks…  Sargent, Champlain, and Cadillac, to name a few.

I’d heard Dad tell the same story about our family’s love for the campground countless times.  And yet, it was always touching to hear him tell it again for the first time to a new audience.  Inevitably, my emotions would turn to the bittersweet when he revealed that we’d lost Mom several years ago and missed her terribly with every subsequent visit.  As Dad would say, the footprints she left all over the island during the course of her lifetime were permanent.  Over seventeen years later, we’re all still acutely tuned in to her presence each time we return.

Of course, every conversation with friendly strangers eventually found its way to the half marathon I ran that morning.  While Dad was an accomplished runner in his day, nothing brought him more joy than recounting to others the running-related endeavors of not only his own two children, but more recently his two grandsons, as well.  On this particular trip, he told so many campers in the days leading up to my race that we attracted a crowd on Saturday afternoon, all wanting to know how I’d fared that morning.

Next Up

II. Warming Up