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Trees can get sick, too. Since the descent into quarantine, isolation, social distancing, buying weeks’ worth of groceries at a time, and many other anti-communal activities, I have run solo a lot. In doing so, since conversation is limited to my occasional Tourette’s outbreak, I find myself admiring the scenery. Looking at trees along a run, one cannot help but be amazed at the way they grow, spreading branches, leafing out, producing flowers and tons of pollen. Yet they, too, are often victims of infection. Diseases that infect trees include bacteria, mycoplasmas, fungi, viruses, insects and other plants, like mistletoe or ivy. Some of the names of these diseases are whimsical, such as Drippy Nut of of Oak, Crown Gall, and Lucidus Root and Butt Rot. The American Chestnut has been completely wiped out by Chestnut Blight, a fungus. Dutch Elm Disease, another fungus, has killed a large percentage of Elms in the U.S., by obliterating the tree’s vasculature. My purpose here is not to do a treatise on tree diseases, but to appreciate these tall, sappy plants that provide awe and shade as we run.
Redbud in Bloom
Trees have nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. But they have developed amazing defenses against nature’s tree enemies, allowing them to survive, some for centuries.
Sugar Maple leafing out, with a fig just beginning to leaf out in the foreground.
Some can be old and massive.
On Bancroft School Grounds, Haddonfield, New Jersey.Some get modified to fit our environment, and manage to thrive.Some modify themselves. Here the trees are reaching for sunshine.Reflected trees with a family of geese, goose, gander and goslings, in Newton Lake Park.Some are home to birds; see the horned owl?Or provide an egret a roost.Not all trees have green leaves.A domesticated tree turned wild, uprooting a sidewalk and caving in a roof.The same storm took down many trees in our neighborhood.Some just collapse. Perhaps this was a sick tree that died. Trees grow where they’re planted, and some, like this one, are awe inspiring. The ducks and I share the path.
Admiring the trees, their hardiness, beauty, longevity, and variety are inspiring as I run alone, waiting for Covid to be gone.
East side entrance to Newton Lake Park, Collingswood, NJ
We’ve been encouraged to continue to exercise in this time of Covid. For a runner, it means getting outdoors and running familiar routes, but staying clear of others out on the trail. I’m fortunate to have some rather beautiful parks to run in, and thankfully they have not been closed. What I’m finding, is that, for the most part, walkers, strollers, families with baby carriages, and other runners are definitely aware of the rules of separation, and are complying with them. As I approach a person or group, we give each other wide berths, more than six feet, and continue on our way. While I am a strong proponent of wearing a mask while in public, one just cannot do that and still run. Plus, the mask would soon get wet with the humidity of my expired air (perhaps I should have used a different word than expired…). I have seen far fewer people out on the trails than normal, and that, too, helps with social distancing. There is the occasional yahoo who walks right down the middle of the path without a mask and without moving to an appropriate distance. Those I give even more room.
I think the most common person I come across on my runs now is a fellow runner, followed by a dog walker, then a single person walking, then a person or couple pushing a stroller. It must be particularly frightening to be raising a young family at this particular time.
The trees are in bloom, with cherry and pear blossoms everywhere. Other trees are just now starting to leaf out, which of course means a great deal of pollen everywhere. I learned in an obituary today of the death of William Frankland, at age 108, scientist and renowned allergist, who developed the idea of the pollen count, among many other accomplishments. I highly recommend reading the linked obituary, which is very interesting and entertaining. Pollen makes my nose run like crazy, and makes me cough when I finish a run. It makes me a bit of a pariah today. Fortunately, my wife is aware of this and does not get scared.
In the course of my run I came across this beautiful egret in the bushes.
Egret in Newton Lake Park, with a nice reflection in the water. There is also a goose in the photo. Can you spot him?
Today, these plants bursting from the ground had a paleo-biological look to them, in the wet runoff leading to Hopkins Pond.
Plant life in early spring, Hopkins Pond, Haddonfield, NJ
Now for the reward. Running has its benefits, good health, cardiovascular fitness, the opportunity (when this is all over) to participate in races, but one of great importance is breakfast. After I ran this morning I treated myself to pancakes, made from Gormly’s Buttermilk Pancake mix, and, of course, some Vermont maple syrup.
A good friend of mine, Simon, who lives in London, contracted what is probably Covid, although he was not tested, just told to hole up in his flat until he got better. After being inside for more than two weeks, and suffering a lot, he took a walk along the Thames today in the sunshine and said it felt great to be outdoors. A bit of good news, to counteract the really bad news we’ve been inundated with.
One of the most pleasant times to run is as the sun is setting on a cool autumn day. This evening was just such a run.
The first stretch takes me through Saddler’s Woods. This is a 25 acre square of old growth trees right in the middle of a well-developed suburban area. It has a fascinating history. Joshua Saddler was an escaped slave from Maryland, who was sheltered here by a Quaker family. They bought his freedom, and he established a small farm, ultimately repaying the cost of his freedom. The tract called Saddler’s Woods is now a conservatory, dedicated initially by Joshua Saddler as an area where none of his offspring were allowed to cut down any trees.
This giant old tree in Saddler’s Woods was felled by nature.
Back on the road, having passed through Saddler’s Woods, I had to cross a busy boulevard to get to the next park. Newton Lake park is a beautiful chain of lakes bordered by running trails and weeping willow trees. There are lily pads along the littoral edge, ducks and geese, and the occasional heron or egret can be spotted. The paths are well-used, as this is a great place to walk, push a baby carriage, run, ride a bike, or throw a ball for a dog.
Fishermen in Newton Lake.
A pleasant aspect of running in autumn, especially in the evening, is that the cicadas are quiet, and the cricket’s songs can be heard. There are leaves on the ground, and they crunch a bit underfoot. Other than the padding of my shoes, and the occasional chat of walkers as I pass them, it is pretty quiet along this route. While I am no fan of the hoards of geese we see in our parks, watching them as the pass with a subtle throbbing noise in their “V” formation and alight on the water is a beautiful sight.
Geese in the distance, lily pads.
When I got a little past three miles into my run, I turned and headed back along the opposite side of the lake. Getting close to the end of the path I could see a three-quarter moon rising.
Heading back towards the east, as the moon rises.
I got my six miles in, but a lot more, having enjoyed the run tremendously.
Portrait of Walt Whitman, by Thomas Eakins, 1887-1888, in the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts, Philadelphia
I was reading an article in the Guardian a couple of weeks ago, and came across a mention of a Walt Whitman quote, “I contain multitudes”. I had to search a bit to find the whole quote. It is from a long poem, “Song of Myself”, part of his work “Leaves of Grass”. The full quote, from stanza 51 of the poem, “Do I contradict myself?, Very well then, I contradict myself, (I am large, I contain multitudes).” I had not heard this before, and certainly had never taken on the daunting task of reading Leaves of Grass.
Finding it interesting to read a bit about Walt Whitman, I tucked this information away for later study. Then, on Thanksgiving day, my son, who is well into adulthood, said, off the cuff, “I am multitudes”, while entertaining the rest of the family. I was awestruck. I just had read about this, and to my recollection, had not heard it before I read about it a couple of weeks earlier. I asked him, “do you know where that comes from?”. He wasn’t sure, but when I mentioned it is from Walt Whitman, he had some idea he had heard it before.
Way back in high school, some guy I didn’t know very well called me a cowboy jock. I was taken completely off guard. First of all, I didn’t see myself that way. I never did rodeo, and while the people who compete in rodeo are terrific athletes, I was not one of them. I think he meant I was a cowboy and a jock. Again, completely not how I pictured myself. True, we had horses. We had three horses at one time in our backyard in Scottsdale, Arizona. Where we lived, this was not unusual. We lived on the edge of the wide open desert. If we had the urge, we could have ridden from our house all the way to Flagstaff. I was also on the swim team. But, if you put together recreational horseback riding and a sport that was utterly not like football, it doesn’t add up to a cowboy jock. Maybe he was jealous of something, but I don’t really know why. Clearly it made an impression on me, since I remember it so many years later. I’ve grown to accept it as who I am. Sometimes.
Birthplace of Walt Whitman (May 31, 1819), Huntington, long Island, New York.
Clearly not my entirety, and not in complete agreement with the other parts of me. Getting back to Walt Whitman though, what a fascinating and prolific person he was. We live in his stomping ground. It was his for part of his life, anyway. He was born in Huntington, New York, an early town founded in the 1600’s 0n Long Island. Anyone wishing to learn more about Mr. Whitman can find numerous biographies, telling of his life from multiple perspectives. He really was multitudes. I don’t wish to tell his life story here. That the reader can do for them self. But he spent his last years in Camden County, living in his brother’s house, later in his own house, in the city of Camden, New Jersey, while spending time in the bucolic countryside of Laurel Springs, from 1873 until his death in 1892.
I often have conflicting beliefs, although not as wide ranging as Mr. Whitman’s. One of my favorite quotes comes from a sociology professor I had in college. He said to the class, ‘the purpose of education is to make you confused when you were once certain.” Perhaps this is the basis of being multitudes. One must have an open mind, curious, intellectual, and aggressive in acquiring new knowledge, in order to become multitudes.
Two weekends ago, members of my running club were planning a great long run, which I call the Colonial Run. It begins in my town of Haddonfield, New Jersey, goes through Camden, over the Ben Franklin Bridge, and then courses through colonial streets of Old City Philadelphia. We run up Elfreth’s Alley, the oldest continuously inhabited residential street in the USA, built in 1702. We run by Betsy Ross’ house, the Christ Church, Ben Franklin’s grave site, and of course, the Liberty Bell and Independence Hall. Then we continue on, through the famous Philadelphia City Hall, with William Penn’s statue on top, to the Ben Franklin Parkway, and finish up the steps of the Philadelphia Art Museum. We were stymied, though. It snowed the day before the run, and the pedestrian walkway on the Ben Franklin Bridge was closed. We changed our plans, and ran the “drives”, the West River drive and Kelly drive, and were still able to finish on the steps of the museum. However, after reading about Walt Whitman, when we do reschedule this epic, 14 mile run, I intend to take the course past the Walt Whitman house in Camden. We may even run past his tomb in Harleigh Cemetery, also in Camden.
I came across another “multitudes” quote just recently. In “Delusions of Gender, How our minds, society and neurosexism create difference,” by Cordelia Fine, Honorary Research Fellow in Psychology at the University of Melbourne, Australia, she writes, on page 7 (yes, early in the book), “…even if your personality offers little to hold the interest of a shrink, there is nonetheless plenty in there to fascinate the social psychologist. This is because your self has multiple strings to its bow, it’s a rich complex web, it has a nuance for every occasion. As Walt Whitman neatly put it, ‘I am large: I contain multitudes’.”
The Walt Whitman House, 330 Martin Luther King Blvd., in Camden, NJ.
Walt Whitman (per Wikipedia) held opinions on many aspects of life, such as drink (against), slavery (against) and equal rights of men and women (for). His Leaves of Grass, and in particular, Song of Myself, were harshly criticized for his expressions somewhat covert, of sexuality, including references to homosexuality. He extolled the virtues of sunbathing nude. He was nationalistic and patriotic, but wrote in a way to praise liberalism and democracy. He wrote in a free form style, criticized by some, but praised by Ralph Waldo Emerson. He respected all religions, but did not believe in them himself. He is described variably as immanent (feeling that god is within everything), or transcendent (that god is external to everything), or more of a pantheist.
In spite of these views outside of mainstream, or socially acceptable thought, in spite of writing in free verse, of challenging the norms of religion, he is revered as the American Poet. When he died more than one thousand people came to his home to pay their respects. There is a bridge over the Delaware River named after him. Being aware of the many works of Walt Whitman, knowing about his life, may come as no surprise to those who studied him in college, or just through curiosity. But, I was not informed about his life and writings and will do my best to make up for that deficit. First, though, I must sit down with Song of Myself, and see how much I can understand. It is tough reading.
Walt Whitman Tomb, Harleigh Cemetery, Camden, NJ. Photo by iirraa on flickr
In the spirit of the season, Happy Holidays, Merry Christmas, Happy New Year. May 2018 be better than 2017.
Hi, Buckaroos. Marathon training time again. Gonna try to slide one by once more.
Yes, I got out early this morning. I hit the pavement at 5:45 AM, to start my 20 miler today. My plan was to get around seven miles in before our 7:00 AM group run, which is 12.5 miles, roughly, and have a half mile extra to do at the end. I am training for the Twin Cities Marathon, Minneapolis and Saint Paul, October 1, 2017.
When one starts out that early on a Sunday in late August, the sun has not yet come up, and it is nice and peaceful. No lawn crews with their gas-powered leaf blowers sending dust up into the air. Very little traffic. The houses are silent as the occupants slumber, completely unaware of the runner going by. Even the locusts have dimmed their din. A couple of crickets are still at the party.
What does occur is the senses, hearing, smelling and seeing, picking up little things that would ordinarily get missed. As I stepped out on my front porch, I took a sip from my water bottle, set down my back pack and second running shirt on top, switched on my Garmin, waited for it to register the numerous satellites it follows, and headed out. For the first mile and a half, things were very quiet. At about that point, though, the first big olfactory hit came my way, which was the smell of someone starting up a barbecue. I wasn’t sure where it was coming from, but guessed it must be someone planning to do some serious smoking, maybe beef brisket or a pork loin, and needed to get things going early. It would be pretty nice to be around when the cooking is done.
I noticed a few birds and squirrels, but not the usual number one sees later in the morning. Clearly, these were those looking for a competitive advantage. I wondered if they also were selective favorites for procreation, or did the lazier of their ilk happen upon willing mates while the others were out foraging. While the early bird gets the worm, the later bird may ultimately contribute more to the gene pool.
I could hear each foot strike on the pavement. If one focuses too much on that, the monotony becomes mesmerizing, and takes one’s concentration away from important acts, such as looking for potholes in the road, and listening for the occasional car. Should cops need an opportunity to fill their monthly ticket quota, I suggest they set up very early on Sunday. While there are few cars on the road, to a one, they were all exceeding the speed limit by a hell of a lot. I had on my reflective vest, with a blinking red light in the back, but when I heard a car coming from either direction I hopped on the sidewalk, since they invariably came speeding by, ignoring road signs and the double yellow line. One car I saw this morning was a Corvette, driven by a guy with a reflective vest of his own on, but there our similarities ended.
I saw as I ran down Park Blvd. that the giant trees that had been uprooted by our last major storm, pulling the sidewalk to a 90 degree angle, had finally been removed. Where they had been was now dirt, awaiting sidewalk repair. This is a narrow street, with cars parked along the curb, and neat homes from the 1940’s and ’50’s. Normally, I would need to run on the sidewalk since it is too narrow and busy to run in the street. But this morning, I made it a full mile before a car approached. I darted up on to the sidewalk as it passed, then got back into the street. As one runs farther down the street, the houses get older, into the 1880’s and even earlier. It is a measure of how the farmland got transformed into housing developments. This part of the run is through Collingswood, a town named after the Collings family. Collingswood was their farm. Being Quakers, the town has always been dry.
Heading into Knight Park, I passed close to the Collings-Knight Homestead, the home of Edward C. Knight, benefactor who donated the land for Knight park. One week earlier I ran through this park early Sunday morning, when a large dog, saliva dripping from his jaw, ran at me barking and snapping. I turned and faced him, palms up and facing the dog. Its owner was nearby, a woman standing with a couple of other dog owners, all of whom let their dogs run leash-less. She called to the dog to “c’m’ere”, reassuring me that the dog was a friendly dog and would do me no harm. The dog did stop a few feet from me, then turned and went back to her. She repeated several times what a friendly dog it was, and how I shouldn’t worry. So, this was on my mind this morning, and fortunately, I had arisen early enough to beat this woman and her “friendly” dog to the park. I was certainly relieved.
Reaching the end of the park, I headed to Haddon Avenue, and started to run back towards my starting point. For anyone not from this area, Haddon is a common name. Elizabeth Haddon was the daughter of John Haddon a Quaker in London who purchased 500 acres in the area that is now Haddonfield and Haddon Township. He bought the land to escape religious persecution, but due to ill health, could not make the journey. He sent his daughter, Elizabeth, instead. She arrived, a single, young woman, apparently confident, and in 1702 asked John Estaugh, a Quaker minister already in this colony, for his hand in marriage. Elizabeth Haddon was the founder of the towns of Haddonfield and Haddon Township.
Running up Haddon Avenue, I passed the numerous shops and restaurants in Collingswood. While a dry town, there is a very vibrant restaurant scene, since one can bring wine or beer to the restaurant. The restaurants have turned Collingswood from an aging, decaying town, with out of date stores like vacuum cleaner repair and hardware stores, to a busy, hip place, especially on Friday and Saturday night. I pass the parking spots. These used to be meters, but now are marked with poles labeled with notices that one must pay at the pay station. Parking is paid seven days a week. This morning, there are no cars parked here. Leaving Collingswood and entering Haddon Township and Westmont, one enters the bar scene. Capturing the revelers which Collingswood missed, this stretch of Haddon Avenue has numerous bars which are busy usually every night. Again, in the early morning, they are shuttered and quiet, awaiting the opening gong much later in the day.
I turned back into the neighborhood streets for the last mile or so of my run. I was again aware of a strong olfactory stimulus, this time, bacon. The smell of bacon cooking is, first of all, unmistakable. We have two eyes which can see various colors. We have two ears to hear a wide range of sound. But we have about 800 genes in humans each coding for a different olfactory receptor. Most scents stimulate multiple receptors, which is how we can be so discriminatory identifying different odors. The smell of bacon also is a strong motivator. It motivates one to eat bacon, which I was, unfortunately, not able to do at that moment.
By this point, the birds were starting to become active and sing to each other. To us, it is an entertaining bird concert, with different songs coming from different directions. To the birds, it is the result of sexual selection at work, a subset of Darwin’s natural selection, establishing the male’s dominance for his territory and mate.
I made it around the last corner back towards my house, the sky now a mix of grays and rosy pinks. I stopped by my house briefly, to change to a dry shirt which I had left on my front porch, grab my backpack and water bottle, and head out to meet the usual Sunday morning runners at 7:00 for our 12.5 mile loop, with 7 miles in already.
By the finish of the morning run, I got my 20.2 miles in. One of my good running friends, Kealan, ran the 12.5 miles with me, and even the extra half mile I needed to get to that 20 mile mark. Our conversation the whole way made the run seem much shorter.
I’ll leave you with a link to the song running through my mind as I was running the dark streets in the early morning of last Sunday:
Frank relaxes at Starbucks with his running friends, 20.2 miles in the training bank.
As I was digging up our carrots from our garden, having left them to grow the whole summer, I was pleasantly surprised to find the above carrot couplet you see on your left. Why, it looked like an adoring couple, snuggling together, spooning. I was quite taken by this natural representation of love, so I set the carrots on our counter in the kitchen. There they stayed for some time. When I again discovered them, hiding out behind other stuff that got piled around them, they had changed. Yes, they were still in that loving, gentle embrace, but they lost their hair. They became shriveled. Their bright orange color was gone. The embrace had lost some vital turgor. In a matter of a few weeks, they went from being youthful and attractive, to stereotypes of the aged.
I am feeling this way, struck by the evil vicissitudes of my aging body. It seems to have come on rather suddenly, as if a switch was turned. I was still able to manage a decent marathon in 2015. But this past year, my times for various races rose like hot air balloons. What happened to the speed? Also, I’m feeling pains I used to only feel the day after the marathon. Now, when I wake in the morning and head downstairs to make coffee, I find myself relying on the banister, as my thigh muscles put out little protest yelps of pain.
I suspect some of this has come about due to my daily schedule and obligations leaving less time for training. I know, people say, “you have to make the time.” “There’s no excuse.” But long work days and, during the winter months, short daylight hours, make challenges to getting out there and maintaining the fitness. The other aspect, though, is what to expect as we get older. Listening to the broadcasts of the Australian Open tennis tournament, the announcers stated over and over how shocking it was that the finalists, men and women, were all older than 30(!), and some over 35 (shocking!). One can only imagine the losses in strength and ability to recover when one is over 60. One estimate I read is that one loses about 0.6% of one’s overall strength and fitness for each year over 30. I think that percentage applies to the previous year’s fitness, so that the 0.6% is subtracted not from the level at 30 each year, but from the last year’s level.
When I was 48 I got a book by Joel Friel, called “Cycling Past 50”. While published in 1998, I think it has a lot of excellent information and advice which can be used in any sport, and certainly beyond 50. He starts with some graphs showing how our bodies lose muscle, strength, and aerobic capacity as we grow older. He also shows, in graph form, what happens if one allows extra body fat to accumulate, and it is not a pretty picture. V̇O2max drops much more by the age of 70 if the percent body fat is 30% as opposed to 15%. He addresses “task creep”, which he states refers to accumulating more work and responsibility as one hits the peak of one’s professional years in the 50-65 age group. Beyond cycling specific information, he addresses recovery, nutrition and injury avoidance, all taking on greater importance as we get older but still wish to train and compete. I also just ordered “Running Until You’re 100”, by Jeff Galloway. That’s the way to take the long view….
While I feel like that carrot on the right in the top photo, I believe I can persevere and even get a few good races in, in the coming years. At the same time, I want to continue to enjoy the benefits of aging, such as more freedom to travel, offspring who have become successful in their own lives, and an appreciation for life in general. Anyway, see you out on the road.
Missoula, Montana has a nice ring to it. A bit alliterative, it is a slightly liberal town in an otherwise very conservative state. The region of Missoula is a relatively flat area which was once a glacial lake. Remnants of that large lake exist today, in Flathead lake and Lake Pend Oreille. As long as 12,000 years ago, people inhabited this area, including Salish, Kootenai, Pend d’Oreille, Blackfeet and Shoshone tribes, although known settlements date from around 3500 BCE (Before Common Era). French fur trappers discovered it and found that they were not necessarily welcome. In fact, the eastern valley entrance to the region was referred to as the “Porte d’Enfer” or gate of hell, due to the many human skeletons lying about from killed trappers and explorers, and aboriginal people embroiled in battles. Lewis and Clark explored this area in 1805. By 1860, a small settlement was established five miles west of present-day Missoula, with the name Hell Gate Village. In 1866, the center of town moved east five miles to be closer to a water source for lumber and flour mills. The name Missoula comes from a Salish word, “nmesuletkw”, apparently pronounced “Nemissoolatakoo”, and meaning “the place of frozen water”. The area was seen as an ideal route for a train to pass through to the west coast. In about 1870, construction of the Northern Pacific Railway began and the final golden spike was driven by Ulysses S. Grant in Western Montana, September 8, 1883. It extended from the great lakes through Missoula and ended at Puget Sound near Takoma, Washington. The story of the railroad is filled with adventure, hardship and conflict. The railway led to rapid development along the entire line.
Missoula was granted the right to become the home of the University of Montana by agreeing not to challenge Helena to be the state capitol. It was established in 1893 on land on the south side of the Clark Fork River. When I visited in June, 2016, I was told by a number of locals that the university is what makes the town different from other places in Montana. Of particular note, the first woman elected to US Congress was from Missoula. Jeannette Rankin, born in Missoula in 1880, was elected to congress in 1916, before women had the right to vote. She was a pacifist, and during both her first term, and again after election again in 1940, she voted against entering the first world war and the second. She stated that she could not go to war, and so she would not vote to send any one else. She was a fighter, though, for the right for women to vote.
I and my whole extended family traveled to Missoula in June, 2016 for the wedding of my nephew, Greg. I had not been to Montana before, and did not know what to expect. While there is an airport in Missoula, my wife and I decided to fly in to Spokane, at the eastern edge of Washington. We drove north from Spokane, around the northern shore of Lake Pend Oreille and the town of of Sandpoint, Idaho. From there, we drove southeast, following the course of the Clark Fork river all the way to Missoula. This is a beautiful drive, with scenic mountains in the background, some snow-capped, and the rushing river to our right.
Scenic view of Clark Fork River upstream from Missoula.
Even though Greg would be getting married in a couple of days, he was very happy to go for a run with me the morning after we arrived. Our first run was along the Clark Fork river, and past the campus of the University of Montana, home of the “Grizzlies”. There is a nice trail along the river which goes for miles, and makes for a great running trail. There is a very large “M” on a hillside above the campus, with a switchback trail leading up to it. It is a favorite of visitors to the campus to go for a hike up this hill. We, my family, considered it, but thought it looked a bit unrewarding just to go see the “M”. We still wanted to enjoy the trails around Missoula.
University of Montana “M” trail.
Instead, we decided to climb up Waterworks Hill, a not-too-steep trail on the north side of Missoula overlooking the town. We all gathered together, no small feat for us, and headed through town to the base of the trail.
At the entrance to the Waterworks Hill Trail.
The trail goes up a rolling set of hills, with grass and native flowering plants along the way. One gets the feeling this is a sensitive ecologic zone. The hillside is covered with these plants, but if they were not there the whole side of the hill could come sliding down in a heavy rain and inundate Missoula. It is also a risk for avalanches onto the the homes below during the winter months. Sheep are used at various times during the year as a means of keeping some of the invasive species down. How the sheep know the right plants to eat, I am not sure. As we ascended, the surrounding hills came into view.
On the way up Waterworks Hill.
A few man-made objects presented an opportunity for the group to look like the cast of a Shakespeare Play.
That guy in the middle is the main character.
Nearing the top of the first hill, one is greeted with a great view of Missoula and the surrounding mountains.
Missoula as seen from Waterworks Hill.
This brings me to my main topic. One can see the train stretching across the scene in the photo. Trains of several hundred cars up to a mile and a half long pass through Missoula many times a day. When the Northern Pacific Railway began, the freight was wheat, farm equipment, and passengers. Since 1970, it was incorporated into the conglomerate known as Burlington Northern, and it carries a different cargo today. On our way back into town, we were stopped by the train heading eastward back to its origin. Empty coal cars rattled and screeched as the train passed eastward through the town, and automobiles idled at the railroad crossing. Finally, the caboose was in sight, passed by, and the gates opened. I was moved to find out more about these trains and their cargo. I asked my cousin, George, who moved to Montana a few years ago from Los Angeles, and now lives in Missoula. He told me the trains were coming from Wyoming, from an area called the Powder River Basin.
Pronghorn, Bison National Reserve, Montana
The Powder River Basin is a geologic area in southeast Montana and northeast Wyoming, 200 by 120 miles in size. It is the largest coal mining area in the United States, and produces a type of coal called sub-bituminous. About sixty million years ago, this region was largely a shallow sea, and received three meters of rainfall per year. There was a large amount of plant growth, and due to the geography, dead plants did not wash away. Instead, they became peat bogs which were eventually crushed under dirt and rock to become coal, as the region dried up. It is estimated this area contains enough coal to light the U.S. almost to the twenty third century. It was not of great importance compared with coal from Appalachia, until concern was raised about sulfur dioxide, or SO2. The coal from this region produces about 8,500 BTU’s per pound, versus 12,500 BTU’s per pound for Appalachian coal. But the SO2 content of the Wyoming coal is very low compared with the coal from Kentucky and West Virginia. Sulfur dioxide is widely used as a food preservative, in wine making, and in medicine. It is considered safe for human consumption, except for young asthmatics in whom it may precipitate an attack. It is a part of normal plant and animal physiology. However, released into the air from burning coal, it can become sulfuric acid, the cause of “acid rain”. As acid rain became recognized as a serious threat to the environment, the US government in 1995 developed the Acid Rain Program, a market-based approach to reducing SO2 emissions. This made coal from the Powder River Basin very competitive with Appalachian coal, since “scrubbing” costs were much less to burn Powder River Basin coal, even though it had less heat output. The coal in this area is mined by strip mining techniques, and it is done on a very large scale. An overview in a website called The Daily Climate describes the operation very well. Of the one billion tons of coal used each year in the United States, about 400 million tons comes from the Powder River Basin. The amount exported to Asian ports is relatively small, around 10-20 million tons per year. However, the price offered can be up to ten times the domestic price of about $10 per ton for Powder River Basin coal. The cost to the mine companies, though, is very cheap. The coal is owned by us, the people. It is sold via the Bureau of Land Management to the coal mining companies for around 20 cents per ton. Since the price received from Asian countries is quite high, as high as $100 a ton in the last few years, the mining companies are doing quite well.
Like all energy production, though, these prices can change radically and quickly. If China or India slow their use of energy due to a cooling economy, as has happened over the last two years, the production of coal exceeds demand. Also, if prices are high, other producers around the globe including Australia, Russia, Indonesia, India and South Africa up their production. All this has happened resulting in lower prices for coal in the Pacific Rim. However, as seen by the steady train traffic through Missoula, the coal from Powder River Basin, because of its low sulfur content among other attributes, is still considered desirable, and is still being exported. One of the factors in exporting this coal is the limited port availability near San Francisco, Portland, Seattle and Vancouver. These areas are reluctant to invest in increased port capacity due to the market volatility. Other factors influencing the building of these facilities include the rights of native American tribes. In some cases, the tribes come down on different sides of the argument. Producers of the coal feel limited by the port capacity, and would like to see it increase. Of interest, too, is that while a large amount of coal is exported from the Powder River Basin, it is a tiny fraction of the coal imported to China, South Korea, and other parts of Southeast Asia, currently about 4% of these area’s imports. While coal demand in the US is falling due to the increase in natural gas from new production, it is difficult to transport gas overseas, and so coal use is still a major source of energy in Asian countries.
Naturally, Missoulans and others on the paths of these coal trains are concerned about the environmental impact. There have been a number of protests in Missoula like that seen in the video below. Diesel fumes and dust from the coal cars are concerns. The Army Corps of Engineers has been tasked with studying the environmental impact of the train traffic through these areas.
I knew nothing about the Powder River Basin, and very little about coal, before researching this topic. As I dug deeper into the issues surrounding the use, mining and transport, and sales and world market for coal, the issues and side branches of this topic became exponentially more complex. I do hope Missoula stays as livable and beautiful a place as it was for my very short visit in June. For anyone who wishes to do their own reading on this interesting topic I have listed a few of the resources I used.
Last Friday evening I went out for a run on one of my usual routes. I was running past a local pizza restaurant with outside seating. There sat a very nice looking young couple with a partially eaten pizza for two sitting atop a little stand, and a half filled bottle of wine. The young man and woman were both intently gazing…at their cell phones, texting, or whatever. They did not notice as I ran by, and they were not speaking to each other.
I had the good fortune to see Paul Simon at the Mann Theater in Philadelphia a few weeks ago. At the age of 74, he put on an amazing performance. His backup band of ten musicians played too many instruments to count, including brass, wind, percussion, guitar and bass, and keyboard. They all were fantastic. Very moving, though, was his solo rendition of Sounds of Silence.
Hello darkness my old friend, I’ve come to talk with you again.
Running along, alone, I get a chance to converse with myself. I have running (heh, heh) conversations in my head as I go along. Passing the couple paying attention to their smart devices and not to each other, I wondered what they were looking at. Texting? Looking at a “social media” site? Checking out what other people are doing? I don’t know, but they were silent. Not everyone is like that, and certainly not in every social gathering, but how frequent it is to see, not just a couple, but groups of people all looking at their cell phones (an anachronism, now, to call it a phone), and not connecting with each other. This conversation I had in my head, and it kept me going for another mile.
In the naked light I saw ten thousand people maybe more.
People talking without speaking. People hearing without listening.
When I think of these lines, I think about the disconnect between groups of people in our country and also around the world. I want to delve into a group’s message, to see what they are really trying to say. What are their goals, their fears, their aspirations? Why would there be a strongly supported vote in a particular state to enforce laws about who may use a particular restroom? Are the proponents of such a law just rigid, or do they have some fear that needs addressing? Do people who support a law promoting “religious freedom” in fact feel their freedom is impinged if they cannot refuse service to a gay couple? If so, is there a way to address their concerns without denying the gay couple appropriate service? The NRA and the people wanting to carry a 9 mm Glock on their hips into their local Burger King clearly have a message they want to impart, which is completely missed by the people wanting to ban assault rifles. And in the USA, I think our ultimate miscommunication is between members of congress on both sides of the aisle who cannot agree to discuss or compromise on anything. World-wide, there are just too many examples to start a list….
And the people bowed and prayed to the neon god they made.
At the Paul Simon concert, the sun had set and the audience was under the darkened cover of the outdoor theater. There were hundreds of people holding up their cellphones capturing video of Paul Simon and his band performing. The light from the cell phone screens reminded me of concerts past, before cell phones were invented, when people held up lighted Bic lighters as a symbol of solemnity and reverence when the song particularly moved them. Now, the light from the phones is seen only from behind, and is a function of people capturing the performance so they can show their friends how lucky they were to be there. In the first instance, the light from the lighters is a shared experience of people silently communicating. In the other, it is all about the individual out of the moment. From the back, though, I felt a sense of nostalgia.
Hear my words that I might teach you. Take my arms that I might reach you.
One, an individual, must be receptive to be taught, or to allow an interaction. We have opportunities to communicate, to agree, to disagree, and to blend thoughts. Our world seems ever more dangerous and disconnected. Whatever we can do to make it less so is an improvement.
Way back in college, one of my professors, in a class in which I was a bit lost, talked about “signifier and signified”. Hang with me on this, because it gets confusing before it gets clearer. This professor, who was French and had an accent, said something about signifier and signified which has stuck with me, and seemed important. He referred to these concepts as someone looking at another image, whether in a mirror, or another person or thing, and that the image changes the originator of the interaction. That was probably a misinterpretation on my part.
It turns out, these terms, signifier and signified, are concepts in the large field known as “semiotics”. Also, the signifier is not a person, it is a form that refers to something else, together making a meaningful sign. An example would be a written word, like tree, referring to the object which we know as a tree. But these signifiers are not limited to letters, or words. They can be body language, facial expressions, clothing, grunts, color coding, and so on.
What the professor meant, and what I took from it, are too far removed from today, for me to say whether he knew what he was talking about (I bet he did), or if I just took from it what I wanted. But I liked the idea that the message, whether a word, an expression, a gasp, a groan, a sneer, is reflected back and alters the sender, which is where I begin.
I look out from my own eyes, and if there is no one watching, I feel a certain way. Trees, rocks, the road, my environment, will affect the way I feel or act, but they are not actively answering my message that I am either consciously or unconsciously sending out. Still, the reflection of that message, say a groan when I see a hill coming up, or a sideways glance at a tree just starting to blossom, will reflect back at me and alter my course. How we feel starting out on a run is almost never how we feel at the end, likely due to these interactions which change us as we run along.
Adding another person running with me is another complexity altogether in this analysis. Now, I have someone actively receiving my message, interpreting it, and sending back a reflection with that person’s own message included. I suppose this can happen with an animal as well, say, if one encounters a deer on the run who gets startled by one’s presence. Or, if one happens upon a snarling dog in the road. Or, as happened to me on a run in Wyoming, along the road bordering the National Elk Refuge, a ram in a group of big horn sheep standing in the roadway staring me down. That was a definite direction changer. Having a person run with me means keeping up, slowing down, talking, looking strong, looking beat, changing posture, and many other changes in direction, attitude, and feeling based on the reflection from the running partner. This is not to include direct communication, but rather the meaning of the message sent and the reflection received. We have these interactions with others throughout the day, but in running they take on a certain impact.
One of the most insidious, and dangerous interactions between messages sent and received, is from our own reflection. As I mentioned earlier, when I am looking out through my own eyes at things around me, I feel a certain way. But, seeing my own reflection is a message which can really go deep. As I run, I can feel athletic, strong, tired, wet, dry, sore, fast, slow, or tough. I can be distracted, angered, calm, happy, gritty or simply wondering at nature. Almost never am I depressed or lonely, even when running alone. One glance in a shop window, though, can change my perception immensely. Almost always, I feel that I look younger and more athletic than my reflection in the window. How does one respond to that message, that you are older than you feel. For me, it’s a great reminder to pull in the abs, straighten the shoulders, head up, and look more like I’m enjoying myself than look like I’m on a forced march. Then there is the core of feeling, a sense of inner strength but also a minor sense of inner weakness. These messages confront one’s sense of self, of ability, and of vulnerability. All that from a simple reflection, one glance which may take less than a tenth of a second.
In sum, these are all messages and reflections over which we have no direct control. They are ingrained in the way we interact with our surroundings, and we don’t take too much time to think about them or formulate a reaction. Recognizing them, though, allows us to consider how we think and act on a basic, reflexive level, and use parts of our brain which are in the realm of the subconscious.
I’m a big fan of cartoons, particularly the ones found in the New Yorker magazine. Robert Mankoff drew a cartoon a few years back, “What Lemmings Believe”, which showed lemmings going off a cliff and ascending skyward. My marathon experiences are sometimes like that.
Pheidippides giving word of Victory, by Luc-Olivier Merson
To runners, the legend of Pheidippides running from Marathon to Athens to announce the Greek’s victory over the Persians is familiar. The battle took place in 490 BC (although they didn’t call it BC back then). Pheidippides was said to have fought in the battle, then ran non-stop to Athens and collapsed and died after he delivered his message. This was the inspiration for the creation of the road race called the marathon. In 1896, the era of the modern Olympics began in Greece, and the marathon was run with Spyridon Louis winning in 2hr 58min 50sec.
Training for 1896 Olympics
John Graham, who belonged to the Boston Athletic Association and was the manager of the U.S Olympic team at that event, was himself inspired to create the Boston Marathon, which had its initial running April 19, 1897. In the early days of marathon racing, the number of runners in this and other early marathons was small, numbering in the tens to hundreds per race. The first Boston Marathon had 18 finishers. Average times were quite fast, and have gotten slower as the number of marathoners increased. Running USA, a non-profit company which is a joint venture of USATF and major long distance races in the USA, keeps statistics on number of marathon runners, median finishing times, and many other subcategories. The most recent marathon reports shows that in 1980, of 143,000 marathon runners in the US, 90% were men and 10% women. Their median finishing times were, respectively, 3:32:17 and 4:03:39. In 2014, 550,637 runners, 57% men and 43% women, finished with median times of 4:19:27 and 4:44:19. Since 1980, there has been a steady rise in the number of marathons in the US and the number of marathon runners.
Number of marathon finishers in the USA by year.
What is the attraction for all these runners? What were they doing before marathons got popular? Will the numbers keep rising, or have we reached a plateau? While I was not able to find reliable information explaining the phenomenon of ever-increasing participation in marathons, the trade site RunningUSA does an annual survey of runners which it sells for $159, and includes information from interviewing over 15,000 runners on topics such as demographics, running shoes and apparel, travel, and even sponsor recall. From my personal experience, and speaking with runners I know, I can take some guesses. The marathon is a premier event in many people’s minds, which takes guts and dedication to complete. One who completes a marathon can, with justification, be proud of his or her accomplishment. Marathons have become big city events, and get a lot of publicity, bring in money for hotels and restaurants, and show off the good side of most cities. As marathons became more popular, and more of a mainstream athletic activity, more people knew someone who had run a marathon. It became a sport that, like a ponzi scheme, fed on pulling more people into the fold. The more people who run marathons, the more profit there is in running shoes, running clothing, GPS watches, books and training programs. When marathons began selling out, the scarcity of the spots made them that much more desirable. The fact that median finishing times have gotten much slower over the years shows that many people are joining in who are not elite athletes, but still have the desire to participate. The marathon is marvelously suited to participation by people of different ages, abilities and fitness levels. Training for a marathon, rather than being a solo venture, is often a group effort, and a very social one at that.
Struggling to finish Wineglass, 2013.
Left it all on the course, Steamtown, 2012.
Yet, the marathon is a very demanding and grueling event. It is run whether the day is warm or cold, dry or wet. My first marathon, in Philadelphia, in November of 2008, the temperature did not rise above freezing, and there was ice on the ground at all the water stops. So back to my initial thought, that to start a marathon, one needs a belief in oneself that is often unrealistic. We train, but our training is mixed in with the rest of our daily responsibilities. Like those lemmings, joining in the rush of the start of the race, one believes one will fly, when the sad fact is only a few truly do. Most of us, myself included, will have a rough time finishing, and will, during the last few miles, ask ourselves why we are punishing ourselves so much. But then, one crosses the finish line, gets a medal and a commemorative mylar blanket, and congratulations fly all around. It is a very uplifting experience to finish this great race. Shortly after the finish, in spite of how well or miserably I may have done, I start to think about my next one. And, I’m back to the belief that as I start, I will fly….
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