Monthly Archives: March 2012

A few weeks ago, as we were sitting on the couch and prepping for dinner in our still-new home in Virginia Beach, we spied something interesting through our glass front door.

Roughly a dozen people clad in neon vests, technical T-shirts and other running gear were gathered outside the seafood restaurant across the street from us. Steve ran over to find out their deal—who they were, where they ran, how fast they ran, whether we could play, too—and reported back that he’d found us a new running group.

Before I lived in D.C. and ran with the Pacers Silver Spring “fun run” group, I had a bit of a phobia about running with others. I lived in constant fear of not being able to keep up with a given group, or of accidentally forcing the group into a faster run than it wanted thanks to my lack of an ability to pace properly. Three years later, I’ve learned that both of these things sometimes happen during group runs, but that neither scenario is the end of the world. More importantly, I’ve learned that these instances are actually pretty rare, and that running with a group can greatly increase my motivation, inspiration and enjoyment of a sport I love so much. Plus, I’ve learned that it’s a great way to meet fun new friends who consider Gu flavors and long-run bathroom strategies good dinner-table conversation topics.

Last night, I met up with the Hampton Roads Runners for the group’s weekly 4.2-miler around my neighborhood. The group runs between 8- and 10- minute miles—which basically describes every possible pace scenario for me. My Garmin tells me that my little sub-group ran about 8:50-minute miles on the big loop along the beach, through a park and back to the aforementioned seafood restaurant, where we gathered post-run for drinks and dinner. My heart tells me that the pace, the distance and the chatty, easygoing vibe of the run is just what I need right now. When I left, I told everyone I’d see them next Tuesday.

Better yet, the group’s Meetup.com page lists dozens of runs at various times and places around the area, from long runs on the beach to hill workouts at Mount Trashmore (literally a repurposed mound of trash—gotta love Virginia Beach for its lack of pretensions!). Score!

Do you run with a group? Why or why not?

I’m back. Back to regular deadlines, back to grocery lists and prescriptions to fill, back to bills and vacuuming and the other mundane tasks that fill most of our everyday lives.

The silver lining: I am also back to regular running. And it’s awesome.

While we were gone, winter changed its RSVP on the great evite of life from “maybe” to “no.” The ski season that was limping through the fake-outs that were January and February is now officially over, and if I don’t slather some sunscreen on my arms before heading out for my every-other-day 5-miler on the beach, I have a thick watch tan-line on my left wrist when I get home. It’s ideal running weather—warm enough to not bother with the half-zip, but not so hot it’s slowing me down or reducing me to a puddle of sweat before I even get out the door.

And now that I’m running more regularly again, my mind is turning to thoughts of upping the ante on the slow, easy recovery runs that helped my legs get through ski-patrol training this past season. I’m not actually speeding up or adding distance, just contemplating some events that might encourage both—the Frederick Half-Marathon in early May, the Virginia Beach Rock ‘n’ Roll Half Marathonover Labor Day weekend.

The Osmanthus Trail, where we did part of our run yesterday.

At the same time, I’m enjoying the simple pleasure of heading out for a run with no distance or speed requirements, as I did yesterday, when Steve and I explored First Landing State Park. The 19 miles of trails wind through cypress swamps, rolling dunes and pine forests. The morning was misty and a little bit cool, and after we finished the 5-ish-mile loop, I felt like I could’ve gone 10 miles more. It was the kind of run that made me remember why I love running to begin with, and the kind of run that makes getting back to a regular routine that much easier.

On Monday, March 12, we embarked on the Ed Reinink memorial ski tour with a lucky charm in tow: My dad’s favorite hat (a gift from me and Steve, as were the patches he sewed on it). It kept us company on the road to Arapahoe Basin, our first stop.

We couldn’t find any photos of him wearing the hat, but found lots of him in this pose—arms outstretched in an expression of pure joy.

We tried our best to emulate that pose, and that joy, throughout the trip.

My dad and I never got to ski Pali, a notoriously steep and rocky part of A-Basin, together while he was alive, but I certainly felt his presence there on this trip.

After a gorgeous, exhausting day at A-Basin, we moved on to Steamboat, where we stayed at the coolest little hotel, the Rabbit Ears Motel, named after the nearby Rabbit Ears Pass.

The next day, we did laps off the Pony Express lift, which services a big, bowl-like area interspersed with pockets of glades. We had a great ski day, but the intense freeze-thaw cycle (sub-30 at night, 60-plus by day) made us feel like we were skiing back home …

… so after breakfast at Winona’s, a Steamboat staple …

… we drove two hours to Winter Park for our last day. We enjoyed conditions that were as close to perfect as you can get without actually getting a powder day. The snow in the trees was soft and fluffy, even though Winter Park hadn’t gotten new snow for days. I hesitate to use the phrase “heaven-sent,” but …

The trip wasn’t complete until we hit up Beau Jo’s, an awesome little pizza place off I-70 in Idaho Springs, located between the mountains and the Denver/Boulder area. We honored my dad once more by toasting him with his favorite beer, Coors Light.

I wish the trip never had to end.  Luckily, my dad’s joy for life wasn’t limited to one trip, one season, or even one lifetime.

We were on our way to the airport for a ski vacation to the Alps a couple weeks ago when I got the call that my dad had been referred to hospice. We re-routed our trip to Florida to be with him and my mom.

The man who taught me to ski, to make a perfect pie crust and to parallel park; who helped me learn the meaning of hard work and who helped engineer my high-school senior prank; who instilled in me a love of the outdoors, reggae and lobster bisque; passed away in HPH Hospice on March 9 after a long battle with Parkinson’s disease. He took his last, peaceful breath while watching a Warren Miller movie, with Steve on one side of his bed and me on the other, holding his hand.

There’s so much to say about how tough my dad was, hanging onto life by a thread for eight days after the doctors told us that continuing to administer nutrition with a feeding tube was prolonging and worsening his discomfort. There’s a lot to say, too, about how he never pitied himself or complained during an illness- and pain-ridden past four years. I could write volumes about his incredible traits—his healthy sense of mischief (he helped engineer my senior prank), his sense of humor, his easygoing confidence, his kind, nonjudgemental manner. Somewhere in my brain, there’s an essay about what I’ve learned from skiing in my dad’s tracks over the years. There will be time for this down the road.

I’m writing this from a sunny porch in suburban Denver, where I’m spending the afternoon with some coffee, my laptop, a good book and some breathing room. Why Denver? Because once we’d done all there was to do in Florida, we realized we still had five days before we were due back home. We asked ourselves: What would my dad do with this time? Fly to Denver from Tampa for a memorial ski trip, of course. Tomorrow, we’ll head to Arapahoe Basin, and the next day, to Steamboat. We will attempt to ski in my dad’s spirit, which I hope will lead to living in his spirit in the years to come.