DC Spinster

I ran the first race I have signed up for in over three years today, a 5K. A search of the internet reveals that I ran a 5K four and a half years ago in about 26:30, when I was in much better shape and forty pounds lighter, and I ran a 5K three and a half years ago in about 28 minutes as I recall, a little more or a little less, and that might have been my last timed race.  (My medal for finishing the Home Run for the Homeless 5K run in Arlington.)

But then two years of inactivity ensued as I recovered from an achilles strain that put me in The Boot for all of the summer of 2017 and in the summer of 2018 the horror of a detached retina and four eyes surgeries transpired. Returning finally to running in May, I started from scratch and have been running twelve-minute mies, basically, as I slowly pushed my weekly mileage up to 12 miles and my long run up to 5 miles in 61 minutes.  (It was the first chilly morning of the fall so conditions for racing were perfect.)

Today I ran the Home Run For The Homeless 5K in Bluemont Park in Arlington, sponsored by a non-profit charitable foundation that spends millions in Arlington getting homeless families back on their feet and into a self-sustaining life situation, wherein the proceeds of the race go to this cause.  The day was chilly at race time, perfect conditions to run in.  (Corporal Johnson of the Arlington SO provided security, and friendly encouragement, wearing her pink embroidered breast cancer awareness badge that is standard issue for this month in the department.)

Just yesterday I ran 5K as a training run in 36 minutes (34 minutes if you don't count the time I spent in the local library returning books that were due that I had carried there in a multitasking run), even before I knew that I would race a 5K today in a last second decision at the urging of a couple of friends I encountered unexpectedly late yesterday afternoon.  I finished the race in 32:39, a 10:32 pace, far back in the pack (43/46 men by the time I drove away) but I was happy with the results because it felt good to be out there pushing myself as I continue to return to running.  (Happy that it went well.)

I've spoken about my friend Trevor before. He works the corner at I-66 & Rte. 29 in my home town.

I caught up with him recently.  I discovered he regularly gets visited by the mother of my children, who lives nearby, on her walks with her current husband meekly in tow. 

Apparently this first-grade public schoolteacher spouts religious platitudes to him, all the while she eschews in my opinion the basic tenets of Christian faith of forgiveness, truth, love thy neighbor and honor thy parents. But it gets weirder still.

As I was speaking with my man, his sharp eyes noticed her driving by in her distinctive Mustang, headed back towards her house, shortly after she had passed by him while walking away from her house, just a few minutes before I happened by and stopped to chat with Trevor while jogging on the W&OD Trail.  I wonder if my ex saw me, doubled back quickly to her house, got in her car and drove around in a bigger circle, coming back in the "anonymity" of her vehicle to check up on my associations?

Yesterday I participated in the 2d annual Falls Church Homeless Shelter Bike Ride, a charity bikeathon that kicked off on the W&OD Bike Trail not even 500 feet from my house.  Perhaps you're supposed to bring a bicycle to a bike ride but I don't have one and the charity event supported a good cause, the local homeless shelter.

I tried to borrow a bike from a running buddy who was going to participate with me but he got sick at the last minute so I showed up to register a half hour before the participants were scheduled to take off down the trail, paid my $10 entry donation and mingled with the crowd.  I chatted furlough stuff with a neighbor who edits the local Internet paper and talked running with a runner who asked me about my fancy running jacket, high-end swag from the most notorious race in the area, the Annapolis 10-Miler, which is run every August.

That race is known for its 4 Hs (it's hot, hilly, humid & hellacious) but is equally renowned for its presenting to every finisher each year a distinctive and useful item of running such as a fleece jacket in 2006, the year I finished in 1:19:05, or the fancy waterproof windbreaker with hood I was wearing from 2008, which I purchased in a thrift store for $6.95, representing probably a $50 value in a running store.  The woman I was speaking with had participated a couple of years ago and said she barely finished; the thought of missing out on the cool race giveaway if she DNFed was the only thing that kept her going on her second trip over the high bridge in the last mile, she said.

Shortly after the bicyclists took off on the charity event I took off running down the trail a ways and back again, a 5K run in about a half an hour during which most returning bicyclists called out politely as they passed me except for one woman who silently overtook me at speed and barely missed clipping me.  Returning to the post-ride festivities, I partook in the festivities for awhile, which included violin-playing by school girls and some sort of a raffle, and then returned home highly satisfied with my lengthy engagement with such a worthy local activity.

Most mornings I get off at the same subway stop on my way to work and go past the homeless shelter the last seven blocks to my office.  If I go one stop further, it's a shorter walk but I always stop in the same breakfast bar on the further walk and get coffee and a cup of cut-up fruit.

This route takes me past Gloria, a homeless woman who stands on a corner across from the shelter and greets passerbys with a wish that Jesus will bless them.  To most of us, homeless people are anonymous and we ignore them as there are far too many for us to help them as individuals.

I stopped one day and asked her her name, and told her mine.  Now when I see her I say hello using her name, and she calls out a greeting to me using my name.

Once a week I give her a dollar when I pass.  I told this routine to a friend once, who mockingly said she hoped Gloria didn't spend such largess all in one place.  That response to my effort to interject a little humanity really pissed me off.

On this day before Memorial Day, the priest of my congregation mentioned in her sermon that we should consider the homeless around us as many of them are veterans who have come home to difficult circumstances, whether it is because of PTS Disorder or suffering from Agent Orange exposure or being wrongly discharged from the Army due to a mental illness designation after suffering from Traumatic Brain Disorder due to a close-by powerful IED explosion. You see them everywhere in our warlike society if you look, often on street corners begging for dollars.

At church today I gave thanks for the successful passage out of six hours of spinal surgery on Monday by a former running buddy of mine, the strength I found to deal with two hours of successful stomach surgery on Wednesday, the sacrifices of my father and three uncles who all answered the call in WW2, the ultimate sacrifice in Afghanistan last fall of a former running acquaintance and the sacrifices of all those nameless service members who keep us safe. I thought of Trevor, about whom I have posted before, on his traffic corner wearing his sign, "Combat Veteran, Always Faithful."

I parked nearby and walked up upon him after church, noting that he was watching me closely as I approached. He knows me and calls me "Lawyer."

After giving him five dollar coins, I spent about twenty minutes with him on his street corner as he spoke animatedly. He is a powerful man who has a habit of emphasizing his points by flicking out backhand taps to your body.

I was gratified to listen to him explain that he has reduced his prescribed narcotic pain medication intake from his service-related disability from over a hundred a month to about thirty. "You know I also take mood medication," he added, which apparently in conjunction with his powerful pain medication gives him unpredictable emotional swings.

Keeping my hands discretely in front of my four-day old surgery incision in position to ward off any inadvertent taps to my stomach, I discussed his health, rehabilitation and future with him. Rolling Thunder is in town per usual this Memorial Day weekend, and he apparently took his buddies from the 82d Airborne Division out on the town last night.

Then he tired of chatting with me and chased me away by saying he had to "make some money" from passing motorists on his street corner before the day was done. In fact, beyond my five dollars, he had collected only a single dollar in all the time I was speaking with him.

We shook hands repeatedly as I took my leave from him. I wish him continued wellness, this representative of America's huge and faceless homeless population.

I've spoken before about Trevor, my man in my hometown, the homeless guy who hangs out on a busy street corner and accepts donations from passing motorists. He doesn't solicit money, that would be panhandling and illegal, he merely takes what is offered to him.

His spot isn't far from the W&OD Trail where I often run, so I stop and speak with him occasionally when I'm out for a jog. He calls me "Lawyer."

He knows my car and we wave at each other whenever I drive by, which is often enough. Usually I give him two dollar coins when I see him.

All homeless people have a story, and often it is an interesting one, if not always fully coherent or believable. Trevor is doing well, and here is a recent picture of him.

Sometimes I'll exit the subway on my way to work and, as today, walk to work past the Central Union Mission, a homeless shelter. This morning I was leaving my morning coffee shop (not a Starbucks-type shop for sure) when I noticed an elderly African-American with a cane leaning over on the sidewalk.

I watched him closely as I passed by because I thought he might be sick. No, he was bent over emptying the contents from a small glass container of whiskey into an opened bottle of an energy drink that he'd placed on the sidewalk.

I felt so bad for this defeated man, and our system. A moment later I heard the breaking of glass and I saw that the homeless man had surreptitiously broken the whiskey flask under the iron grating of a small sidewalk sapling that will someday grow into a mature shade tree along that street.

By then I imagine this human being, whatever his lonely story, will be gone thanks to this great society's lack of an encompassing social safety net. Perhaps we'll all be departed by then as well, not having taken care of each other or our environment along the way.