Hey, Sports Illustrated, Want to Get Out of the Porn Biz? Check Out ESPN’s Body Issue

Posted on July 27, 2014 by gretchenwing

I used to subscribe to Sports Illustrated. ME, not my husband. This fact always used to surprise my 10th grade English students, when they read my name on the back of the magazines I used to bring to class.

[Side note to teachers: teaching figurative language? SI is the perfect tool! If you think about it, their writers have to be at the top of their game, since “so-and-so beat so-and-so” would otherwise be a pretty boring story line.]

So yeah, I loved the writing in SI. In every issue, I could usually count on one story to make me cry with an account of some athlete’s heroic struggle against poverty or injury, or some small town’s support of a beloved coach with cancer.

Then came that week in February. The Swimsuit Issue. After the first year when I “read” it through, in horrified curiosity, I tossed it straight into the recycling. Later, after protests from readers like me, SI offered an opt-out option for a reduced subscription. I took it.

But I couldn’t pretend I wasn’t supporting a magazine that indulged in pornography once a year. Yes, I KNOW that SI also supports a sports industry that is rife with drug use, abuse, and corruption…but those things are all at least related to SPORTS. Women in ridiculous “f— me” poses wearing ridiculous non-swimwear…that just upset me. Pissed me off. And finally drove me to drop my subscription.

Enter ESPNs Body Issue. It finally does what a sports magazine SHOULD do: celebrates the bodies of ATHLETES in all their hard-won glory. Porn? Hah! The cover photo is not stunningly gorgeous (and aptly named) Venus Williams standing in white sand dunes, drape blowing as befitting a Roman goddess–it’s baseball player Prince Fielder (also aptly named). Prince’s body? Let’s call it…ample. And tattooed. The man is STRONG. But I doubt anyone’s going to be misusing his photo in inappropriate ways.

This blog post has a lil’ problem now, of course: a photo is worth 1,000 words, and ESPNs photos are all copyrighted. I could take a page from my own book and use my figurative language skills to DESCRIBE to you the way hockey player Hilary Knight’s abs stand at attention as she pulls on her skates (and nothing else). Or the way the curves of boxer Danyelle Wolf’s biceps mirror those of her glutes. But if I were you, I‘d just click on the link to see for yourself.

(orig. image courtesy Wikimedia Commons)

My POINT is, though, I had never heard of boxer Danyelle Wolf. I don’t like boxing, but I do like living in a world where women can do it if men can do it. And because of Danyelle Wolf’s hard work, I admire her beautiful body, and in so doing, I read her words:

“Bleed and sweat now so you don’t have to in the fight.” That’s what I tell myself whenever it gets tough. I want to be dead-dog tired during my training session and I want to push myself because, when it comes to fight day, you want to push through all those mental blocks.

I picked up my first pair of boxing gloves just five or six years ago. When I started training to be a triathlete, people would stop me and ask if I was a fighter. One day some guy asked, “What gym do you fight out of? Because you have the build of a fighter.” So I met him at a gym the next day, he showed me some punches and some basic combinations, and it was a very humbling experience. I said that day, right when I put those gloves on, “This is the sport I’m going all the way in on.”

I’m pretty sure I never read an interview like that from a “swimsuit” model.

Way to go, ESPN. Maybe you can teach SI a thing or two about sports magazining.

What do you think about the Body Issue? Or Sports Illustrated’s “swimsuit” issue? Even if you’ve not seen it, do you think ESPN is doing the right thing by highlighting the bodies of athletes?

Okay, David Mitchell, Only You Can Get Away With This: The Tweet-Story-Novel-Promo

Posted on July 24, 2014 by gretchenwing

It was inevitable: someone was going to write an entire short story via Twitter. Probably it’s already happened, but I’ve managed to ignore it because, hard as I try to be all with-it and trendy,*I…I just can’t help myself. I find Twitter ANNOYING.

(*and by “try hard” I mean, kinda-sorta-give-a-nod-to-Twitter-now-and-then trying hard.)

But when my friend Lorna sent me a link to a story on the Huffington Post about David Mitchell’s tweeted short story, “The Right Sort,” I paid attention.

David Mitchell is my “it” author of the past year. Cloud Atlas led to the best discussion my book group’s had in 11 years. And The Thousand Autumns of Jakob de Zoet? Are you kidding? Best book I read all last year. (I’ve blogged about both; click on the titles if you want to read about them.)

According to the Huffington Post, Mitchell began his Twitter story in July as a promo for his forthcoming novel, The Bone Clocks. It took him six days and approximately 270 tweets.

And this from a guy who, apparently, usually uses Twitter about as much as I do! That must have been quite a stretch. My respect grows. (Wonder if it was Mitchell’s idea, or his publicist’s? Wouldn’t that have been an interesting conversation to listen to? “Hang on–you want me to write what?”)

(orig.image courtesy Some.cards)

Since “The Right Sort” is narrated by a teenage boy tripping on his mum’s Valium, the trippy little bursts that we call tweets are actually a perfect medium. I just hope other authors don’t think they need to try the method themselves.

Are you listening, other authors? David Mitchell: yes. You: no. He can tweet whatever he wants. He can even tweet his whole novel if he has the digital fortitude. But you? Don’t even think about it.

Except maybe you, Kate Atkinson.

What do you think of the Twitterization of fiction? How about Twitter itself? ~~Are you a Twit?~~ Do you like to tweet? Or are you as yet untwitterized?

To Market, To Market: What’s a Nice Author Like You Doing in a Farmers’ Market Like This?

Posted on July 21, 2014 by gretchenwing

“You’re selling your book at the Farmers’ Market?”

I could try for a real metaphorical stretch here.

“See, my book, it, like, grew from my imagination, and I, uh, watered and tended it through several drafts, and, like, weeded the extra words out, and then, like, harvested it and cleaned it up all nice. So, yeah. It’s really fresh, and, oh! Totally organic. And local. And gluten free. Want to try a sample?”

But I really don’t have to go there. Let me refer you to the Lopez Island Farmers’ Market Vendor Guidelines: “…products must be produced, grown, gathered, created, hand crafted or prepared by the vendor.”

Produced–check. Created–check. Crafted–check, though not EXACTLY by hand. And…prepared? All those drafts, you kidding? Most definitely Check.

Gotta give credit where credit is due: I never would have thought of book-selling at our Market, much as I love it. My friends Ty and Nora, fellow garden fairies, gave me the idea.

What a blast!

The first time I went, over July Fourth Weekend, I sold 15 copies. Granted, seven of those were to people I knew, so that probably won’t happen again. And of course I bought some stuff: eggs. A bunch of lavender. Salmon-and-goat-cheese crepe. (Did I mention our Farmers’ Market ROCKS?)

But still, even with the Market dues, I came out ahead, financially. And socially? Off the charts.

I brought my guitar and sang away, quietly, as people strolled by. Pretty soon I realized the horrible acoustics of the Great Outdoors meant I could sing as loud as I wanted to. Bingo. People heard me, smiled, stopped. The songs provided a bridge between us: no uneasy eye contact (“Oh shoot, if I look at her she’s going to try to sell me something!”). Plenty of time for folks to peruse my display, reading the words from Amazon reviews which I’d enlarged and posted (on fluffy paper “clouds,” since my book’s about a flying girl 🙂 ).

Most of all, plenty of good feeling. They immediately liked this person, sitting there singing-not-“selling,” and felt good about talking to her. After we’d chatted a while, even if they had started out thinking, “What in the world would I want with a Young Adult book?”, they might then think, “Y’know, the neighbors’ kid likes to read…I’ll get this for her.”

Thanks, Ty and Nora! And thank you, Kristen Lamb, for the reminder: buying a book from someone you don’t know is a risk. These days, it’s an author’s job to reach out and take that risk away.

Who knew it would be so much fun?

I’ve met folks from Belgium, Japan, Mexico, and Australia. I’ve talked to random strangers about their flying dreams. (“In YOUR dreams, do you fly arms-out like on my book cover, or do you have wings, or…?”) I’ve sung harmony with other music friends who happen by. I’ve had my own, private Cute Dog Contest, watching the pooches stroll by (puppies win by default).

So I feel just fine about busting into this new gig, selling my “produce.” And hey. Did I mention my book is also gluten free?

Want to weigh in on Farmers’ Markets? Do you think they should just be for farmers? Or do you like having craftspeople there? Ever sold anything at a market yourself? Or…if you could, what would you sell?

Why Michael Sam Makes My Husband Cry…OK, and Me Too

Posted on July 18, 2014 by gretchenwing

One of my favorite things about my Mate is that he’s a total softie when it comes to sentimental stories. The fact that most of his choke-up moments come while he’s watching TV sports means nothing; that’s pretty much all he watches.

Since I’m a total softie about almost everything, all he has to do is call me in, “Oh, you gotta see this,” and pretty soon we’re both wiping our eyes and laughing at each other.

The other night, Michael Sam got both of us. I blame the ESPYs.

For those of you who may not know: Michael Sam is the former University of Missouri linebacker who announced in February that he was gay. The ESPYs are ESPN’s version of the Oscars. “Best Athlete,” “Best Team,” “Best Moment,” yeah, those are fun, lots of great highlight film. But the real meat of the evening, for people like me (and I imagine most others, else why would ESPN devote so much time to them?), are the handful of inspirational awards.

Like the Arthur Ashe Award for Courage, awarded to Michael Sam. A mini-documentary walked the audience through Sam’s childhood–single mom, a brother and a sister dead, two brothers in prison–adversity that would be mind-boggling if it weren’t so wretchedly common among Black American boys.

Then, the clincher: in college, where he went to play a sport he identified as life-saving, a sport emblematic of macho, homophobic culture, Sam discovered the truth about himself. He was gay.

At the end of his junior year, Sam revealed his truth to his team. And they embraced him.

Sam played like a demon his senior year, a consensus All-American, winning the 2013 SEC Defensive Player of the Year. All through these months, he kept his truth within the Mizzou “family.” Until February, when, knowing the spotlight of the NFL draft would soon be upon him, Sam announced to the national media that he was gay.

In May, the St. Louis Rams drafted Sam…just barely. He was the among the final eight of over 200 players drafted. His emotional reaction, sobbing into the phone when he finally, finally–after three days of waiting!–got the call, had me and the Mate in tears.

But that was nothing compared to his acceptance speech of the Arthur Ashe Courage Award. I’m going to let Sam’s words say it all:

“This year I have a lot of experience being part of something a lot bigger than myself. At times I’ve felt like I’ve been living in a massive storm, and I know the storm will end. I’m here tonight to tell you that the lessons I learned about love, respect, and being true to yourself will never leave me.

The late great Arthur Ashe wasn’t just courageous, he was brilliant too. He put all the wisdom in the world into three great sentences: ‘Start where you are. Use what you have. Do what you can.’ Those are words to live by whether you’re black or white, young or old, straight or gay.

…’Use what you have.’ What I have is the privilege to play a game I love with all my heart. Football raised me, taught me about hard work, about discipline, and about teamwork. Whatever passion or talent you have, follow it. I followed mine and it got me all the way to this stage here tonight so I can look out and see so many of my heroes looking back at me.

Finally, Arthur Ashe said ‘do what you can.’ Those have been very meaningful words to me, and the way I see it, my responsibility at this moment in history is to stand up for everybody out there who wants nothing more than to be themselves openly.

To anyone out there, especially young people feeling like they don’t fit in and will never be accepted, please know this, great things can happen when you have the courage to be yourself.

Recently a friend asked me to talk to his sister, a young woman who was considering killing herself, rather than sharing with her loved ones the fact that she was gay. When we spoke she told me she would never consider hurting herself again and that somehow my example had helped her. It’s amazing to think just doing what we can we can call touch, change, and even save lives.”

The day after watching this speech and analyzing my own emotional reaction, I came up with these truths:

1. Seeing other people suffer makes me cry. For far too many, for far too long, gay and lesbian folks have had to suffer rather than be themselves. Sometimes the suffering is emotional, sometimes physical. It’s suffering, either way.

2. Seeing a wrong finally righted makes me cry. The fact that the Missouri Tigers and their fans, then the St. Louis Rams, and then the larger, glitzy, TV sports community itself, celebrate Michael Sam’s courage instead of bashing him…it’s right. Just like Jackie Robinson slowly becoming a hero for breaking the color barrier, something wrong is finally becoming right.

3. Redemption makes me cry. Knowing suffering has not been in vain, knowing all those gay kids’ futures will be easier because people like Michael Sam have stepped forward…I feel hope for my country.

The Mate and I weren’t crying about football. We weren’t crying about sexual identity. We cry about freedom, love, acceptance, harmony, possibility. If a Black, gay football player is honored for courage–what else can we accomplish together? That’s OUR America.

Do you cry from joy? Hope? Relief? Or are The Mate and I just weird that way? (It’s okay; we already know.)

Gone to Carolina in My Mind…But My Body’s a Lot Happier Here, Thanks

Posted on July 15, 2014 by gretchenwing

Who knew? I’m part of a tribe: GRITS. Girls Raised in The South.

I just learned that from a bumper sticker, back in my home state of North Carolina on a visit with my besties from high school. The fact that I never heard this term when I lived there, 24 years ago, tells me something.

Roots change. Or rather, our sense of where we come from, and how we feel about it–that changes. Continuously, it turns out.

When The Mate and I moved, in 1990, it was largely out of frustration. North Carolina had just re-elected Senator Jesse Helms for a SIXTH term. A baldly racist campaign, playing on white fears of preferential treatment for blacks, left us feeling shaken and soured. So much for the “New South.”

Then there was the weather. We were both distance runners. The only way to get our workout in during the summer was to be out the door by 6 am. That got old real fast.

In the Pacific Northwest, we found a home, both culturally and geographically. I developed a mantra for explaining to people how I felt about the South.

“I only miss five things,” I’d say. “My parents, Tarheel basketball, big ol’ oak trees, fried chicken, and BBQ.” For years, I said that.

Now, thinking back over the sweaty weekend I just spent with my girls on the coast, I realize my non-nostalgia is more nuanced. Here are some other things I’ve missed:

#1. Flat-out Wackiness. The South has a special affection for “characters.” Despite its insistence on conformity in most issues of dress and religion and Livin’ Right, if you’re a “character,” you can not only get away with quite a bit, you’re loved for it. Example: The Mary’s Gone Wild Folk Art compound we discovered. Part connected treehouses, part structures of bottles stuck in mortar–think End of Star Wars III meets The Burrow from Harry Potter, with a little Gothic Pippi Longstocking thrown in.

Building inspectors aren’t too picky in Supply, NC.

Mary’s Gone Wild! But she’s good folks.

#2. Summer Veggies. Having not been back in the summer for years and years, I had forgotten about SWEET sweet corn, velvety slabs of ripe tomato, basil bursting weedlike out of gardens. And the watermelon? Makes me feel like crying just thinking about it. We don’t get enough sun here in the Pacific Northwest to grow hot-weather crops that taste the way they were meant to.

#3. Quaint vestiges of respect built into conversation. “Yes, ma’am, these peaches are ripe.” And my mom, who tutors a guy older than me who’s finally learning to read, says he calls her “Miss Martha.”

#4. Did I mention wackiness? These ironic flamingos decorated our rental house:

Is that even legal?

#5. Boiled peanuts. Just try ’em, ok? You’ll see what I mean.

#6. Fried pickles. Ditto.

Of course I bumped into several items to add to my WHAT I DON’T MISS list, namely:

#1. Smoking. YECCCCCCCCCCCCCCCHHHHHHHHHH. People still smoke a lot more in NC than they do here. And there’s still tobacco growing every old where.

#2. Billboards. Everywhere. Turning otherwise pretty land into pretty ugly land.

#. Humidity. Yeah, that one’s not new. But I had forgotten how much my HAIR hates it. I turned into a sticky, grumpy Mufasa. “Muuu-FASSS-ahhhh!”

But enough with the lists. I’m home now, and I’m curious about your own love-hate relationship with a place you once called home. What do you miss? What do you NOT miss? Share!

Girls Gone Wild-ly Paddling

Posted on July 11, 2014 by gretchenwing

I’m not here. I wrote this several days ago. I’m with my Girliepeeps.

How many of you over-20 folks get together with old friends on a regular basis? If you don’t, I’m here to tell you: it’s never too late to start.

My three best friends and I graduated from high school in 1979, ’80, and ’81. We went to college–off and on, some of us–staying in vague touch here and here. We went to a couple of each other’s weddings (only 2 of us 4 had them).

Then we lost touch, pretty much. For 15 years.

In 2002, I commented to my Mate that a friend of mine had annual get-togethers with her childhood friends. Another did the same with friends from college.

“You could do that,” he said.

“Yeah, right. We’re way too scattered. North Carolina, Georgia, Michigan, Washington–where would we all meet? It’d be way too expensive.”

“But worth it,” he said.

I love my husband. He values family and friendship above anything. Is it expensive for us to fly once a year for “nothing more” than 3-4 days catching up with each other? Yes. It’s also priceless.

Reunion #1, Michigan, 2002: we spent 48 solid hours talking, with short breaks for sleep. We all got sore throats.

Massachusetts, 2003 (where one of us has a sister with a home we could borrow): We kayaked on the Deer River, establishing a tradition of paddling which we’ve stuck with every year since. (OK, that one river in Georgia was too low for paddling, so we tubed…but close enough.)

Rivers, oceans, we’re not picky–just give us paddles. And picnic lunch.

Washington, 2007: one of us brought recipes she wanted to share, establishing another tradition: cooking for each other. Champagne peach soup, anyone? Sweet potato gnocchi?

Georgia, 2009: the host gave everyone little tea infusers, establishing the custom of host-gifting. (I already have my idea for next year, but it’s a secret.)

We’ve developed a few other traditions along the way. We try to have one evening with the spouse/partner/family of the host. We try to do something cultural: poetry reading, kangaroo rescue center (no, I am not making that up).

Seriously–a kangaroo sanctuary in north Georgia!

Who knows what new tradition is developing RIGHT NOW, as you are reading this and I am with my girliepeeps on the North Carolina coast?

I’ll get back to you on that.

So, reunions, anybody? Do you have them? With family, or with friends? How often? What are your traditions?

Potterheads (Not) Anonymous–Not Even (Completely) Embarrassed

Posted on July 8, 2014 by gretchenwing

Hi, I’m Gretchen and I’m a Potterhead. It’s been four years, two months, and five days since I last re-read Book Seven…but I’ve been thinking about a fourth re-read lately.

On Facebook today, the “Trending” story didn’t help any: J.K. Rowling has written a short story about grown-up Harry, Ron and Hermione at a Hogwarts reunion! (!!!!!!!!!!!!!)

My quickened pulse and heightened breathing tells me I need help. But I don’t want it. I love being a Potterhead.

“It’s a BOOK, you dodo. What is so all-fired addictive?”

Of course it’s the adventure, the humor, the pretty-darn-good-writing-that-got-better-from-Book-One-with-its-limited-verb-usage-that-turned-into-practically-poetic-stretches-by-Book-Seven (“OK, OK, English teacher, we get it.”). Even more, it’s the astounding depth of the plotting, with tiny details from Book One surfacing as epiphanies in Book Seven. But mostly, it’s the perfectly flawed characters, and the way their flaws clash and mesh, creating their own sub-drama.

I think most of us Potterheads can relate to these reasons. Throw in a little escapism, maybe some Anglophilia, or a deeply-held childhood longing for magical powers–that’s us. But I have one, singular reason for my own Potterheadity that no one else can claim:

My son IS Harry Potter.

Well, at least Harry as played by Daniel Radcliffe. Like Daniel, Mac’s eyes are blue, not green as Harry’s are described. But the unruly black hair, the round glasses, the solemn face, the skinny frame–check.

It wasn’t just his family who saw the resemblance. Someone in a passing car once yelled to Mac, “Hey! Where’s your broom?”

It helped that Mac was exactly the same age as Harry, as the movies came out, one by one. Mac was 11 when “The Sorcerer’s Stone” debuted, with 11 year-old Harry first discovering his wizard identity. I WISH I had a digital version of a photo I have, which shows Mac in a Hogwarts gold-and-burgundy scarf, standing in front of a poster of Daniel Radcliff wearing same. They look as twinned as Fred and George Weasley. Unfortunately, though, I did not own a digital camera then, and I don’t own a scanner.

Two Halloweens in a row, Mac’s “costume” was a bathrobe, a chopstick, and a piece of tape on his glasses.

Around age 17, Mac grew, and stretched, and so became, in my opinion, more what Harry really looked like than how he was depicted by Mr. Radcliffe, whose height remained stubbornly fixed, and whose body, to compensate, became rather blocky. Not unattractive, but not well suited for late-teen Harry, who was always supposed to be on the skinny side.

I did start taking digi-photos in 2007, when Mac was 17, and you can still see some of the resemblance:

By the time the final movies were made, Mac was in college, no longer turning heads at quite the same rate. But I still liked thinking that he looked more like the “real” Harry.

So call me sentimental. Call me a mom who can’t quite let go. (Can you name me a mom who can?) I love Harry because he’s Harry–but I also love him because he reminds me of my own kid, and all those delicious hours we spent together, reading Harry’s story aloud, discussing plot twists, arguing over clues. We grew up as a family together, Mac and his brother Casey (who does NOT look like Ron, and is much too friendly to be Malfoy) and Harry and I. (My husband was good about it, but never got bit by the Potter bug.)

How about you? Any movie parallels in your life which give added meaning? Did your brother look like Westly in The Princess Bride? Did your mom look like Princess Leia? Share!

Happy “Independence” Day to All You Small Business Owners…Bless Your Hearts!

Posted on July 4, 2014 by gretchenwing

When I left teaching to become a baker, some of my former students were confused. “How’s your bakery?” I would sometimes see on Facebook.

Well, they were half right. I do feel like it’s MY bakery, especially when I unlock the doors at oh-dark-thirty and turn our oven on. But in truth, Holly B’s Bakery (“Holly’s Buns Are Best”) is not MINE…for which I thank my lucky stars. Especially at this time of year.

For a little bakery in a town with a tourist-dependent economy, July Fourth is Black Friday and the post-Christmas sales all wrapped up in one buttery croissant. Or make that 250 croissants.

Our kitchen is TINY. Three bakers have to squeeze past each other. We have only one oven. But the food must be baked! Here, I’ll try to give you some visuals:

Can you imagine the planning all this bounty requires? The ordering, the scheduling, the storage? What if you get it wrong? What if you run out of chocolate chips? What if you bake too many pesto baguettes and not enough of the olive tapenade? What if you make too much? What if you don’t make enough?

How does Holly ever sleep in late June (let alone continue to be the World’s Nicest Boss)???

Holly’s oldest son, Ty, is now co-owner (and the World’s Second Nicest Boss). Maybe it eases the stress to have someone to plan with. I sure hope so!

I LOVE my job. I love “my” bakery. But around Independence Day, I am extra-super grateful that I’m fairly “independent” of the stress of being in charge, and I take my hat off to all those brave souls who carry that load.

Happy Independence Day, business owners! Now go get some sleep.

How ’bout you? Do you own your own business? ARE you your own business? Or do you have that in your family? How do people COPE????

My Goddaughter the Triathlete: Why I Can’t Wait For the Fourth of July

Posted on July 1, 2014 by gretchenwing

Last year I wrote about my “godkid,” Allison Snow. My theme was the word itself, the concept. Today I want to write about Allison herself—or Al, as I call her. I’m busting with pride.

I first met Al when she was a student in my 10^th grade Honors English class. She was a competent, but not a terrific writer; a careful, but neither avid nor outstandingly insightful reader. In short, I enjoyed her as a student, but would never have identified her as one of my faves. One snippet did catch my attention, however: she wrote her “Turning Point in my Life” essay about the death of her father when she was twelve. I did the math and realized that she was only fourteen, a full year younger than most of her peers.

The following year, I and five of my braver colleagues started a pilot “school-within-a-school” half-day program called International Business and Global Studies. Project-based, with a fully-integrated curriculum and student-centered learning (are you glazing over yet?), IBGS attracted students who were bored with traditional classrooms. To my surprise, Al signed up and became an IBGS star. I still remember Al’s semester presentation on Greece, which included artifacts from Tacoma’s Greek Festival, which she had attended, on a weekend.

Even more surprising, Al became a cheerleader. That serious young woman, shrieking “Card-inal Pow-er!”— really? Should’ve tipped me off: in her quiet way, Al made her own decisions about what course to pursue, regardless of expectation. Motivated. Purposeful.

Her own family learned this during Al’s senior year. I was on leave in New Zealand (let’s hear it for spouses with paid sabbatical!), and Al announced to her mom that she would like her graduation present early: a plane ticket. Then she got on the school’s office email (not having her own—remember those days?) and asked me for permission to come visit.

“A cheerleader?” my husband asked. “For ten days?” (Not that he was being judgmental or anything.) Little did he know that visit would turn into three weeks.

Once Al arrived, she realized how ridiculously short her trip was for coming such a distance. In a super-long-distance call, she talked her mom into letting her change her return ticket. She used that time to explore most of the South Island with us, babysitting our young boys. By the time she left, she was family…

…except in one regard. Although fit, Al was never what I’d call an athlete. Yes, I KNOW cheerleaders have to be in good shape, but the mentality is different: they don’t train like competitive athletes do. Although The Mate and I had mostly retired from racing, we still considered our daily workout the same way we considered meals: essential. I don’t remember Al ever offering to go for a jog with me. Motivation and purpose didn’t seem to go there.

Fast-forward ten years: Al, now a young teacher (like me—I know, right?!) decides to try triathlon. The results: one and three-quarter hours. 167^th in her age group. Proud of herself.

Aha. Motivated. Purposeful. Here’s what happened next:

In 2007 and ’08, more Triathlons. Her times come down. 2009, three of ‘em. 2010: four.

In 2012, Al becomes an Ironwoman, in a race that took 12 ¾ hours.

And in 2014? Personal Best by thirty minutes in a half-Ironman. Thirty minutes! And last week: First place female.

I’m leaving out a whole huge category of pride here, over Al’s career as a star elementary school teacher. Today I’m celebrating Al the Athlete, entirely self-created.

When I became a semi-elite runner, I had an athletic family pushing me, college coaches, a track club. Al has a coach now, and a team, but only because she went out there and got them, all on her own.

On July 4, I’m going to run our little island’s 5k Fun Run, the only “racing” I do these days. Al’s going to run it with me…and she’s going to kick my butt. And I can’t wait.

Commuting: Let’s See If We Can Spice That Boring Word Up, Shall We?

Posted on June 28, 2014 by gretchenwing

I’ve been thinking about the word “commute.” Could there BE a less descriptive word?

My friend Iris just posted a very moving piece about her morning commute, which happens to include a ferry ride that most folks would pay to take. (Congrats again, Iris, on the latest step in your retirement from a long nursing career!)

I used to have a 25 minute commute to my school, mostly ugly interstate, which I blanked out by listening to the news. Gotta admit, I hear less news now. Somehow the world manages to turn anyway.

(orig. image courtesy Wikimedia Commons)

My former principal and his wife used to commute an hour and a half each way to their jobs in Tacoma…jobs which started at 6:45 am! Those are practically baker’s hours.

I know about baker’s hours now. I’ve noticed that folks gasp and shake their heads when I tell them I get up at 3:45 for a regular shift, or 3:15 if I’m head-baking and want to get a head-start. (Next week, as the bakery gears up for July Fourth, which is like Black Friday for retailers, some of us bakers will be getting up at 2, and on the Fourth itself, starting work at 2.)

(orig. image courtesy Wikimedia)

Thing is, though, this is only a part-time job for me. Getting up before sunrise on the daily? No thanks. But three times a week…turns out it’s kinda cool.

So I’ve been experimenting with biking to work.

I used to do that only when I worked up front at the counter–i.e., during daylight hours. People would admiringly ask if I did that when I baked and I would respond, politely, “No, I need more sleep than that,” all the while thinking, “Are you NUTS? Bike at 3:30 in the morning??”

Guess what? I AM nuts. I LOVE biking at 3:30 in the morning.

3:20, to be exact. If I leave then, I arrive @ 4:15 (taking the most direct route, which I usually avoid due to traffic, but at 3:20, it’s just me and the deer). That gives me enough time to change clothes and slurp down a bowl of yogurt before diving into the dough.

I have great bike lights, rear and front (except when I forget to charge my headlamp and it goes out on me–but that’s another story). When it’s starry, I have stars to gaze at, though I really do need to keep my eyes on the road because our deer are legendarily STUPID. I do NOT fancy hitting a deer in the dark. Last month I had a big, fat, lopsided pumpkin of a moon off to the west. Hints of sunrise beckon in the direction of my ride. And now, at midsummer, the sun’s doing more than hinting, it’s coloring the bay pink and purple as I speed down the hill toward the village.

Am I more tired at the end of a baking shift if I’ve biked in? Sure–but I’m infinitely more satisfied. And, once I get myself home–okay, I’ll admit, biking home is the hard part, when fatigue is riding along with me–I don’t have to worry about waking myself up later for a workout. I am DONE. Best. Nap. Ever.

Don’t get me wrong: I won’t be doing this every day. Biking takes 40 more minutes than driving, and those 40 minutes would pack a cumulative wallop of sleep deprivation if I missed ’em too often.

But those days when I do bike in? I’ll be baking with a big, smug smile.

(orig. image courtesy Wikimedia)

What does “commuting” mean to you? Is there any opportunity to be gleaned from it? Favorite radio show, music, digital books? Kid time? What’s the coolest commute you know of? How do YOU make that boring word a little more descriptive?