For those of you who are fortunate enough to have no knowledge of the dark, cold, bitter and blustery months in these parts, allow me to introduce you to my least favorite season. Winter is relentless in the Northeast, and this winter has been more tenacious than most in recent memory. For a while, it seemed as though each week brought another significant winter storm. Snow on snow, as the song goes, and this midwinter was feeling increasingly bleak indeed. When we weren't being pounded by yet another Nor'easter, we were enduring arctic blasts courtesy of our overly generous neighbors in the Great White North. (Seriously, must those Canadians be so insistent on sharing? They bestow their arctic air on us like your friend's Italian Nonna or Jewish Bubbie gives you "just another bite of food.") Given all of this, it's no wonder so many Northerners like me get downright belligerent about escaping winter's tenacious grasp. (As the e-card from one of my favorite Facebook friends put it, it has turned me into a "raging snow bitch.")Last winter, which was nearly as brutal as this one has been, I promised myself I would escape next time, even if only briefly. The opportunity to see a college friend for the first time in 25 years meshed with a 5k that was scheduled to precede the ING Miami marathon: Ah, serendipity! Faster than you can say "Effing snow!" I booked a flight and started counting down to my sanity-saving D-Day.
The week before the flight, I rode a roller coaster of uncertainty as a major winter storm threatened most of the eastern half of the country. I spent that week desperately praying, bargaining with Providence, whining incessantly, and damn near willing the storm to move far out into the Atlantic. I was scheduled to fly out of frozen Upstate New York on Louis Zamperini's 94th birthday, so I hoped the Good Lord would do me a solid and let this very non-Olympic runner fly to her warm weather 5k without disappointment or delay. Although the storm would end up skirting south of Albany, for once sparing the Capital District, flight disruptions anywhere on the Eastern Seaboard inevitably result in cascading delays, and the US's (and world's) busiest airport, Hartsfield-Jackson International in Atlanta, Georgia, will damn near always be affected. (But in fairness, they also seem to be the best able to deal with cascading delays, so I'll pretty much always try to connect through Atlanta.) My flight from Albany was delayed by an hour, which necessitated a change in my connecting flight from Atlanta to West Palm Beach--a change that Delta Airlines made automatically, saving me from the last headache I needed. I was ready to don a parka and slip some flight line dude a twenty to bungee-cord me to the wing of any aircraft headed to Florida.
I almost didn't want to leave Albany International (ha ha) Airport, between the pleasant ticket agent who informed me that the temperature in West Palm Beach was 74 sunny degrees, and the fairly handsome TSA security worker who complimented me on my driver's license photo.
My flights went smoothly, despite the erratic cadence of my seatmate's sleep-apnea induced lullaby. What would normally have annoyed me beyond belief barely registered on this flight, as the blue sky beyond the window hinted at warm weather in South Florida as the we cruised above the clouds, oblivious to the meteorological mayhem below.
As we landed in Atlanta, I waived in what I hoped was the direction of my dear friend, Kitty Whitty (she of the most effing awesomest name), who was working near the airport that day. I knew that she was waving back, even though I couldn't actually see her. As I waited during my brief layover in Atlanta, I was rather stunned to hear a woman's voice on the loudspeaker announce that my connecting flight would be operated by what I considered to be a rather dubious "Delta Partner" to West Palm Beach: Alaska Airways.
The trip would have its share of unwelcome surprises, including the unexpected hospitalization of one of my close relatives (who was also going to be taking care of my dogs during my vacation) and the ensuing juggling of a friend and another family member to make sure Las Bitchitas' basic needs were met. Thankfully, everything essentially worked out in the end, but it brought to mind for me the absolute necessity of having a contingency (and even tertiary) plan in place. Imagine being an anal-retentive, obsessive-compulsive, perfectionist control freak like me, helpless to do anything about the situation because I was 1,500 miles away.
Once we landed in the South Florida night, I drove my bright school-bus yellow rental subcompact econo-box toward Delray Beach, where my friend Caroline waited with alcoholic beverages and "snacky-snacks." (And let me tell you, I'm a girl who loves herself some snacky-snacks.) We talked and laughed into the wee small hours, as if trying to cram 25 years into just a few hours. I have no doubt we broke some long-standing records for speed-talking.
Delray Beach is a beautiful, very clean, vibrant and upscale city by the sea, yet its tone is down-to-earth and friendly, with beautiful architecture and denizens whose dispositions seem as warm as the Florida sun. No wonder everyone was so friendly: this was their idea of "winter"; I could get used to that!
Over the next several days, there would be daily sunrise vigils, a lot of town and beach walking, excellent food, a few easy jogs, mansion-gawking up A1A and, of course, the Tropical 5k. The biggest treat for me, though, was getting to play model to Caroline's professional photography skills. With Vizcaya Museum and Gardens as the backdrop, she took the most stunning photographs ever taken of me. Some of the photos were more whimsical:
After wandering through the hacienda-style Vizcaya mansion and exploring its extensive grounds, we drove over to Miami's famous Coconut Grove district for lunch at Lulu's, where I was introduced to fried green tomatoes and fish tacos. If you've never tried fish tacos, I know what you're thinking, because I thought the same thing. Caroline assured me I would enjoy them, and she was absolutely right. We coined a new term: "Fish tacos...who knew???" After lunch, we headed over toward the Miami Convention Center to pick up our race packets for the next day's Tropical 5k. This jaunt included some lovely scenery as we crossed several beautiful little islands, but also included a particularly wayward turn (because sometimes the GPS says "turn now" when it means "turn at the next intersection"), leading to my very own real-life "The Birdcage" moment as we got delayed on the same drawbridge Christine Baranski gets stuck on in the movie.
Saturday morning, we rose very early to drive down to Miami Beach, where the Tropical 5k would start in front of the Children's Museum. We arrived in darkness across the water from the berths of several large cruise ships. Our early arrival scored us an excellent parking spot and we watched the sun start to appear on the horizon as about 2,100 runners gathered near the start line. This would be my 21st 5k and Caroline's first. Race time temperatures were in the upper 40s--temperatures I would have killed for in Upstate New York in January, but apparently I'd subconsciously "gone native" and shivered through my raceday T-shirt.
The race began just after sunrise and as we ran toward the sun, its warmth quickly did away with the chill. The course was fairly straight and flat, except for a long, moderate bridge incline just after the second mile marker. I was puttering along at about a 13-minute pace, just glad to be running in warm weather. Once again, the reward of a uphill slog was the joyful downhill run--one of the few times when being a heavier runner works in my favor. There's a certain joie de vivre in scampering past a younger, slimmer, more experienced runner. Perhaps half a mile from the finish line, we were nearly waylaid by a fire engine that had to cross the street in front of us, but the Miami PD officers at the intersection maneuvered us expertly in a finely choreographed pattern that enabled the firefighters to get their engine through while we barely broke stride. (It probably helped that those of us on the road at that time were the slower runners.) I cheered and applauded Miami's Finest, called "Be safe!" to Miami's Bravest, and headed toward the last leg of the race.
As I turned the corner, I saw the finish line ahead and kicked in what little afterburners I had in me, crossing the finish line in 38:29. My time was nothing extraordinary, but I'd run the entire distance and hadn't run outside at all since the Lowell First Run 5k. While a PR would have been nice, my finish was good enough to give me a Wave M qualifying time for July's Peachtree Road Race.
I received my finisher's medal and headed back to the chute to watch for Caroline. When she came around the corner, she beamed and even worked a few poses in as I tried to snap a picture. Sadly, I'm no professional and the only shot my little camera ended up capturing was of part of her back.
By Monday, my South Florida sojourn was ending. There would be no more walks to the beach, no more sunrise vigils, no more sand between my toes for the foreseeable future, but there would be photographs and laughter and memories and a race with a revolving-palm-tree medal to help keep me warm and tide me over until the warmth returns to the Northeast.I am convinced that there is very little that a palm tree and an ocean breeze and the surf's rhythm can't cure.
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