Tag: running

Yes, I know it’s November: “be still”

Bill PikeLeave a comment

My old body knows when I fail to exercise.

My body talks to me, “Bill, its been ten days since you have been for a run. What’s wrong with you?

I respond, “I’ve been busy. Life gets in the way.”

My body counters, “No doubt. That’s an easy excuse. I don’t like excuses. Go for a run. Now. Not tomorrow. Now. Go!”

On the morning of Friday, November 14, I went for that run.

I have a route that runs a neighborhood 5K course in reverse. The distance might be a bit more than a 5K, but I’m usually back at the house in 35 or 36 minutes.

This morning, I was inspired by our next door neighbor, Al Lockerman. As I was heading out to open up Trinity, Al was leaving for his morning run.

Al is a big guy. Yet, he runs like fast moving freight train. He goes all out on his runs. I admire his stamina.

When I return from opening up Trinity, I ready myself for my run. At the end of the driveway, I encounter Al again. With a cup of coffee in hand, Al is returning from walking their dog, Bambi.

I tell Al he inspired me to go for a run. He commented about the temperature. It is hovering at 33 degrees. That is about his limit with enduring cold weather runs.

Old man that I am, I have dressed in light layers for this run. That includes some worn knitted gloves and a stocking cap.

Al hopes I have a good run, and with that I’m off.

I note frost on the windshields of cars. This is the first real frost of the season.

Light frost on windshield (Photo Bill Pike)

Heading down Stuart Hall Road hill, at the intersection of Baldwin Road, the county is in the process of repaving.

The company doing the work has a massive asphalt eating machine. This contraption is called a cold milling machine or cold planer. The steel carbide tipped teeth of the milling machine peels back the top layer of the asphalt.

A good thing about the milling process is that the old asphalt surface is recycled. That planing of the top layer in some places reveals the foundation of the road— our pale orange Piedmont clay.

Milling machine’s work (Photo Bill Pike)

As I head up the hill, I turn left on to the front driveway at Trinity. On the front lawn, the pumpkins are gone. We conduct this annual sale to raise money for our youth group.

I admire the people who purchase our pumpkins. They are what I call heart buyers. These consumers could easily buy their pumpkins at a big box store at a much lower price.

At the bridge over the creek on Rock Creek Road, I wish I had a camera with me. Floating on the still creek surface is a pretty pattern of colorful fallen leaves. Also perfectly captured on that mirrored tranquil surface is blue sky with scattered clouds.

With the milling work on Baldwin, the road surface is uneven. The footing can be tricky, but I’m watching where my feet are taking me.

Occasionally, I see leftover signs from the November 4 election. I’m sure the mute button on the remote control for our television is thankful that campaign ads have stopped running.

The nonstop pace of those ads have now been replaced by incessant ads for Christmas. Of course, the big box retailers started telling me it was Christmas in September.

As I chug along, some front lawns still have Halloween decor. Others have rapidly transitioned to their Christmas theme.

Skeletons dominated many Halloween displays this year. I wonder if there will be a new big selling hero for Christmas on lawns this season?

Thankfully, I can block out those commercialized distractions with the brilliance of leaf colors along the way. The last few days, the trees seemed to have hit their peak.

Golden leaves from a Gingko tree (Photo Bill Pike)

At the corner of Horsepen and Devon, I come upon four young fathers who have finished up monitoring their sons and daughters at the bus stop.

I interrupt their discussion by gently shouting out, “Let me know when you guys figure it out.”

They laugh, and one of them replies, “We’ll be here a long time.”

I chuckle and keep trudging toward Westham Parkway.

My mind keeps reminding me this is November.

I know you know this is November.

However, just in case you haven’t noticed— when we hit November, the pace of the year accelerates.

That acceleration is like a pilot of a jet fighter plane hitting the afterburners. We are thrust, blasted, and hurled into a supersonic march.

From now until December 31, we are in blinding blitz. The G forces of the season pull, contort, and rush every fiber of our bodies.

Seasonal to do lists rush us. Retailers rush us to early Black Friday sales. Our overbooked calendars rush us to holiday events. And perhaps the most demanding, the pursuit of seasonal perfection rushes us.

We are overly consumed by this pursuit of seasonal perfection. And while we can deny the seasonal pursuit of perfection, truthfully, that relentless pursuit is our downfall.

In all of the hustle and bustle, I wonder if that pace results in an increase of pacemaker surgeries related to how this seasonal rush impacts our hearts?

At the stop sign on the east end of Rock Creek Road, I’m about to turn left on to Sweetbriar Road. That final straight stretch on Sweetbriar will bring me back to where I started.

In the whirlwind pace of November into December, I wonder how this season might be different if my human layers were stripped back and revealed by a human cold milling machine?

What would that human cold milling machine find in me?

Part of me thinks it would reveal that I need the first two words from Psalm 46:10: “Be still.”

With the reminding roar of November that zooms us into December’s blitzing sprint, at some point your body’s internal voice will remind you to “be still.”

Don’t ignore that voice.

Listen.

Take the time and “be still.”

Help from a stranger at the Stop, Drop, and Roll 5K

Bill PikeLeave a comment
Wearing rain gear, participants walk to the start line. (Photo Bill Pike)

Saturday morning, September 27, I found myself in a place I did not expect to be. Along with 99 other runners and walkers, I was inside the Summerfield, North Carolina fire station. We were patiently waiting for the ninth running of the Stop, Drop, and Roll 5K.

My wife and I were in town from Richmond, Virginia. By chance, I learned of the 5K from our oldest daughter who lives in Summerfield. Just after lunch on Friday, I registered for the 5K. Late that afternoon, I picked up my race packet at the fire station.

With a gentle rain falling over Summerfield, inside the station where shiny red firetrucks are normally parked was a good place to be. Participants wandered around the large open space. Some stretched, most chatted, and a few firefighter chefs watched over the last moments of cooking their famous chili. The chili was to be a post-race treat.

At 8:45, there was a kids fun run —a hundred yard dash around the fire station. With their youthful energy and spirit, it didn’t take long for for these sprinters to cross the finish line.

Old man that I’ve become, I made sure my bladder was content before heading toward the start line. After the playing of the national anthem, the race director gave the participants our final instructions.

With a blast from an airhorn, we were off. We made a right turn out of the fire station and headed toward the driveway in front of Summerfield Elementary School.

Past the school, we made a left turn and worked our way to the entrance of Summerfield Community Park. We followed an asphalt trail.

Peppered with wet fall leaves, the splotching of this surface reminded me of kindergarten students gluing seasonal fall colors to the frame of a paper tree.

Antique that I am, I slowed my already slug pace on the downhill stretches. Coming out of the park, we were on a road that ran behind the elementary school. Eventually it took us through a neighborhood of homes before we hit a turn around spot where there was a water stop.

Along the way, orange traffic cones and volunteers marshaled the course. Some were students who were members of the Civil Air Patrol.

A few of these students were energetic with their encouragement as they blasted away on their kazoos and shouted out “you got this!”Proceeds from the 5K are going to help this organization.

Running close to me was a young mother who was pushing a stroller with her daughter tucked away from the raindrops. Sometimes, she would pass me, and sometimes I would pass her.

As we prepared to re-enter the park, I veered to the next left turn too soon. This kindhearted lady noted my mistake, and cordially shouted out to me “wrong way!” I quickly corrected my steps.

From past experiences, I know events like this don’t happen without volunteers. Working my way back to the finish line, I called out to the volunteers thanking them for being out on the course.

Summerfield Fire Department volunteers (Photo Bill Pike)

Heading out of the park, walkers and runners are greeted with one final challenge—a steep hill. With steady determination, I chugged up the incline.

Back at the elementary school driveway, the three mile sign marker came into view. Now, I had one tenth of a mile to go. Like a horse sensing the closeness of the barn, my old body picked up the pace, and I crossed the finish line.

While the chili cast a tempting aroma, I opted for a bottle of water and some orange wedges.

I sought out the mother with the stroller who corrected my turn. I thanked her. She gave me a high five, and said your welcome.

In America today, a person will make a wrong turn. For some that turn might become a tragedy.

On Sunday, September 28, Americans received more devastating news.

Late on Saturday evening, in Southport, North Carolina, a man killed three people and wounded five in an attack on a popular waterfront restaurant.

Then on Sunday, a gunman killed four and injured eight on an attack of a church in Grand Blanc, Michigan.

In these too frequent American tragedies, I always wonder what pushes the attacker to make such a devastating choice? I want to know if someone could have changed the attacker’s decision to harm innocent people?

The book, “Somebody Told Me,” is a collection of newspaper stories written by Rick Bragg. In writing about the 1995 Oklahoma City bombing, Bragg hears these words from people he interviewed: “This doesn’t happen here.”


America, we have work to do.

Our challenge is to help people from making those wrong turns.

“This doesn’t happen here,” must become a reality.

Old American who needs to get to work. (Photo Betsy Pike)

Marathon Key Day 12: Goodbye

Bill PikeLeave a comment

On Friday, January 31, 2025 at 5:51 a.m. the temperature was 72 degrees. Humidity was 82%. Wind was out of the southeast at 10 miles per hour. Visibility in Marathon Key, Florida was 10 miles.

Of course, the last day of your trip, when you’re packed up, and ready to fly back home is always the prettiest.

Our last morning in Marathon Key (Photo Bill Pike)

With a late afternoon flight out of Miami to take us back to our Middle Atlantic homes and more winter, I opted to take one more run. I knew it would be months before I could take a run wearing shorts and t-shirt.

Most of the packing took place on Thursday afternoon. I had a few details to finish up, but there was time for the run.

I ran toward the Seven Mile Bridge, a bridge that none of us will forget. That bridge takes travelers further south to the next set of Keys, but more importantly, the bridge gives visitors multiple opportunities to see the water and the land from a variety angles.

The Overseas Highway on my left was already awake. Traffic moved in all directions. I don’t think this highway has many quiet moments.

Restaurants were in the final stage of prep for customers who needed a jolt of coffee or breakfast.

As I made my way out to the bridge, I encountered a few other early risers. Some were walking, biking, or puttering along in their running shoes.

The views from the bridge were just as expected— pretty.

Yet in nature’s appealing charms, I had a bit of sadness—my next run in Richmond would not have these views. And that’s ok. That’s what memories and photos do for you.

They allow you to hold on to the past. If I’m still vertical in ten years, I could look back at a photo and say, “ah the magnificent Seven Mile Bridge, that was a fun run out to the bridge and back.”

When I returned to the condo at Tranquility Bay, my pals were in a subdued motion. They knew we were heading home.

Seems that by ten we had cleared the checkout hurdles.

Next, all that luggage and our creaky bodies were crammed back into the SUV.

At some point on Thursday evening, I whined. I realized that we hadn’t visited any of the local craft beer breweries.

But my patient and accommodating pals, said not to worry. We could make a stop in Islamorada at the Florida Keys Brewing Company, and we did.

This colorfully bright brewery sits on the Old Highway that runs parallel to the Overseas Highway. But the brewery’s property also intersects with the Morada Way Arts and Cultural District. This is an eclectic mix of local shops and galleries.

At the brewery, Dan, Butch, and I ordered a flight of beers. We found a table out in the beer garden and sampled the well made beers from The Florida Keys Brewing Company.

My accommodating pals (Photo Bill Pike)

Soon our wives joined us from their exploring of the Morada Way shops, and then we scrunching ourselves back into the SUV.

We opted to have lunch at the High Tide. This was restaurant in Key Largo where our adventure started on January 20.

A good lunch time crowd was in place, but the staff squeezed us into the same table for six where we sat during our first visit. Again, the accommodating staff, and the homemade meals hit the spot.

Back in the car, we continued our trek north. The scenic landscapes of the Keys gradually disappeared. Miami and its sprawl were soon upon us. Dan and Butch continued to drive and navigate us toward the airport.

Like the pilot that he is, Dan navigated us into the chaos of the twists and turns of airport traffic. He nudged us into a good spot to unload. We pried ourselves and the luggage out.

This time, we opted to work with a sky cap who managed getting our luggage tagged and on its way to our airlines.

Now, our attention shifted to navigating the terminal. We wove our way through the wide hallways. Other tourists like us were doing the same thing. Gradually, we arrived at our departure sites.

Fortunately for us, goodbyes with this group of friends is really never goodbye. For the remainder of the afternoon and late into the evening, we would track our returns to Maryland, North Carolina, and Virginia.

Somewhere in that tracking, I marvel at these friendships. Friendships that date back to the fall of 1971 at an unlikely starting point Greensboro College.

The Callows and Sherrills had earlier departure times.

It was almost midnight when our plane landed in Richmond. Raindrops covered my window as I looked out at the lights reflecting on the rain slick runway leading to the terminal.

Landed in a rainy Richmond (Photo Bill Pike)

Grabbing our luggage, locating the shuttle to our parking space, and driving home were ahead of us.

At many points during our two weeks in the Keys, I had multiple self-talk reminders: “My gosh are you lucky. Lucky to be able to take a trip like this with a wife who still tolerates your imperfections, and friends from college who also still endure your imperfections.”

Earlier in the afternoon as we maneuvered through the Miami airport, I saw the words: “Peace and Love” displayed on a large wall.

Words for pondering and action Miami Airport (Photo Bill Pike)

I wonder how many people pass by those words everyday?

Sadly, no matter how hard people around the world attempt to embrace “peace and love,” we are unable to fully commit ourselves to make this a reality.

I hope someday we will wise up and let “peace and love” lead our hearts for the good of all.