I have a cycling friend who posts interesting truths (to which I am constantly nodding my head in agreement) under the tagline, "In life as on the bike."Well, in running as in life, you can either define yourself or allow outside forces to define you. Either way, definition can limit or liberate. After "defining myself" at the Surftown half marathon and having unprecedented personal success at the ensuing Tufts 10K for Women, I was looking forward to the Myrtle Beach Mini Marathon to improve on my 3:09:54 time from Surftown. I fully expected Myrtle to be good to La Turtle.
I've heard it said that to be a committed runner, you have to be willing to pour your blood, sweat and tears into your sport. I believe this is typically intended to mean that you dedicate yourself to your training and you do the work, and running will return to you everything you've put into it. Unfortunately, I took the "blood, sweat and tears" concept a bit too literally in Myrtle Beach.
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| Racing bibs personalized with the name of one's choice! |
I spent most of the non-running, non-sleeping hours that weekend either walking along the beach or sitting on the balcony of our hotel suite communing with the ocean. In the final analysis, the beach walking may have been part of my undoing, since these were somewhat peppy beach walks, not pokey romantic strolls. (For the latter, I need a pokey romantic walking partner...or a dog who stops to sniff something every 45 seconds. Pretty much the same thing, right?)
There's tremendous benefit in rooming with someone who keeps similar hours. A 4:13am wakeup isn't for the faint of heart, and getting to the race location early is something I treasure. Some folks like to arrive at a race 15 minutes before the gun, but I like to get there no later than when check-in opens (usually about 90 minutes prior to the race start). Saturday morning's Coastal 5K would be my first time running at all the day before a race--much less the day before a half marathon. Different approaches work for different runners, and I tend to taper the entire week leading into a long race: light cross-training, walking, but no running. So far, it's worked for me, but I figured it wouldn't hurt to try a new approach this time, especially since Surftown gave me a nice "easy" target (3:09:54) to beat. I'd felt good all week, so what could go wrong? (You can hear the maniacal laughter already, can't you? Well, simmer down; we'll get there.)
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| Coastal 5K finish, right about where I wanted to be time-wise. |
So far, so good. We headed back to the hotel and a little walk down to another hotel where our "free" race weekend breakfast buffet awaited. True to most "free" food, it was worth damn near every penny we didn't pay for it. Granted, their biscuits and gravy were actually pretty decent; unfortunately, the kitchen couldn't keep up with the demands of a buffet. (What's really scary is that the hotel typically charges about $13 a head for that buffet. Thanks, I'll gladly fork over cash for food that's actually good. Fortunately, we had plenty of options in that department.)
We spent the afternoon reconning the half marathon route. The good news: pancake-flat, as promised. The bad news? Until the final five kilometers, it looked like a seriously boring-ass route. The first mile was on the perimeter road of a shopping mall, then the rest of the course included running around a big upscale-looking industrial park, then around the ring road of an big entertainment complex (Broadway at the Beach), and a veritable crapload of distance along Grissom Highway. We noted the 10-mile marker near the intersection of Grissom and Oak. The rest of the course would head straight toward Ocean Boulevard, past our hotel at the 11-mile mark (oh, the humanity!), and down toward the 2nd Street Pier, where we would turn onto the boardwalk and head back toward the finish line on the boardwalk at 8th Street. From there, exhausted and likely sore, we would need to ride the shuttle back to the shopping mall near the airport, where we would have parked the rental car at the race start, then drive back to our hotel. No matter how we tried to find another way, that was pretty much the only feasible way to do it. (Not that the prospect of a post-race stroll of about 14 blocks or so back to the hotel was all that inviting, but it sure sounded shorter.)
Over an early dinner, Lola mentioned she'd read that Zola Budd, the famous South African barefoot runner from the 1984 Olympic Games, typically ran the Myrtle Beach Mini Marathon. We hoped neither of us would be the Mary Decker of the race. (Granted, that was an Olympic 3,000-meter race on a track oval; we would be running 18 more kilometers. The odds seemed to be in our favor. Seemed to be.) As I recall, we changed the subject rather quickly. Not that I'm even remotely superstitious or anything...(knock wood)...
Sunday morning dawned much like Saturday--clear skies, low humidity, temperatures in the upper 40s/low 50s, very light breeze...perfect running weather. I felt before this race much the same way that I felt before Surftown: a little nervous at the prospect of running 13.1 miles, hopeful for a good race, always wondering if I trained enough (the answer is always no, even if you have), but reminding myself that whatever I did or failed to do, there was nothing I could do to at this point but say a prayer, repeat my race mantra (Hebrews 12:1), and put one foot in front of the other.
As I stood in the 14:01-15:00 pace starting corral with Lola, a woman several feet to my left started shouting, "Ginger! Ginger!" Lola and I looked at each other and smiled. Was it a good omen, perhaps? Granted, she pronounced the R, so I didn't think it counted.
As the race began, we started slowly toward the start line, taking a few minutes to get there from our corral. As we approached, the incessant (loud) noise of the pre-race music and the rather annoying race announcer (who has quite a future with NASCAR) cut out suddenly. Just as I was about to cheer the welcome silence, I noticed that the loss of power to the PA system also meant a loss of power to the pumps for the inflated (and now slowly deflating) start line arch. As the runners ran through the gradually wilting arch, they held it up--some for practicality, some undoubtedly for luck. I couldn't help thinking it didn't bode well.
Once past the finish line, I started my Nike+ and my iPod. Within seconds, it was clear that my iPod, cued up to my half marathon playlist, was suddenly possessed. Instead of simply playing the music, I heard the familiar voice I like to call GPS Bitch announce the song title, artist, album, genre, then proceeded to name the rest of the menu options. "NOOOOOOO!!! WHAT THE FUCK?!?!? DON'T MESS WITH MY TUUUUUUUUUUNES!!!" I tried to make it go away and finally had to reboot the iPod. That did the trick. So instead of Aaron Copeland's 47-second "Fanfare for the Common Man," I started my second half marathon with a two-minute panic attack that looked alarming like a toddler's tantrum (minus the tears and floor thrashing), followed by the theme from "Chariots of Fire." Meanwhile, we trudged along the mall's ring road while my shins and calves argued against running and I told them to STFU and reminded them that after the two-mile mark, they'd feel fine. I repeated to myself for a few minutes that I could stand anything for two miles.
Well, I was wrong. At the one-mile mark, before we were even all the way out of the freakin' mall, I had to slow to a walk. I picked a point at which I would start running again--just before we crossed the road into the upscale-looking industrial park. I eased into a slow jog at the selected point, figuring that if push came to shove, I could go the entire race running for one song, walking for one, and on and on.
And then it all went completely, utterly wrong. On the entire race route, all thirteen point freakin' one miles of it, there was one divot in the road surface. I know because I looked. And I only missed that one. Well, my eyes missed it. But my left foot found it. Hello, sprained ankle. Gingah fall down go boom. (And I mean BOOM!!!) Full four-point landing. My left knee escaped with just a minor surface scrape, but both hands were abraded enough to draw blood (hello, stigmata) and the right knee slammed into the road with a force that surprised even me--someone who is no stranger to falling down.
Now, as you've seen from my photos, I'm a big girl. (Really, I'm just severely under-tall.) So when I fall down, I fall hard. As soon as I hit the ground, the shooting pain in my left ankle and right knee elicited an emphatic "FUCK!" and then, a truly shocking, automatic growl of "You fat fucking clumsy cow."
WOW. If possible, that hurt more than the physical pain.
It's astounding--frightening, even--how all the positive self-talk in the world, reinforced over years of conscious effort--can fall to the wayside like a crumbling old building in a massive earthquake when an old negative attitude rears its ugly head. No matter how hard I've tried to kill those negative attitudes, they are Nosferatu--the undead. They creep in when I least expect them. And they are always the most unwelcome of guests.
So I cowered there on the ground, defeated, plucking bits of gravel that had embedded in my hands and right knee, wondering, What the fuck do they put in their asphalt down here? And I cried. I cried from frustration, disappointment, those vicious negative thoughts, and the physical pain itself. Though it seemed like I was there for some time, I was really only on the ground for perhaps ten seconds. (In retrospect, I have to laugh at the fact that the first thing I did when I hit the ground--while swearing and crying--was to check my Nike+: 1.8 miles. If that doesn't tell me I'm a runner, I don't know what does.)
With the help of some of the walkers behind me, I got up, apprehensive about whether or not I'd be able to put weight on my left ankle, since that would have required me to park my heinie on the curb and wait for someone to take me to the finish line medical tent. I gingerly (yes) put my weight on the left foot. The ankle held, tentatively, but without additional pain. The right knee hurt like crazy, but I could put weight on it. I tried taking a couple of tentative steps, waiting for the ankle to object, but it never did. After maybe 30 yards, I tried working up to a light jog again, asking my ankle for a simple Go/No Go decision, but even without pain, it just felt wrong. I kept walking, relieved that I could put weight on the ankle, and realized that the ankle really didn't even hurt as long as I was careful how I put my foot down. The knee was another story. It hurt like a son of a bitch (and continued to do so more than two weeks later). I hadn't even managed two miles. How the hell was I going to cover the remaining 11.3 miles to the finish line?
I had a decision to make.
There have been a couple of races I DNS'd (DNS=Did Not Start), and I have DLF'd (DLF=Dead Last Finish) two races (one intentionally--a 5k I walked from start to finish on a rehabbing proximal left hamstring in preparation for the 2011 Peachtree Road Race). But I have never DNF'd (DNF=Did Not Finish). There would be no shame in DNF'ing due to injury, but I hadn't come all the way from Albany to Myrtle Beach to DNF. I started crying again at the mere thought of having to bail. Of even considering it. You fat fucking clumsy cow; who the hell do you think you're kidding? You're no runner. The first five words continued to sting every time they resurfaced. Which they repeatedly did. I had to push them back down. Shut the fuck up. That's not helping. Just suck it up and keep walking. Keep walking.
As I walked, I constantly weighed the costs of continuing. I won't lie: I wanted to quit. Several times. If there'd been a legitimate opportunity to quit, I probably would have taken it. But this race lacked a course sweeper or bike-riding EMT. I decided that as long as the ankle could bear weight without additional pain, I would continue.
Near the Mile 2 marker, I briefly stopped at the fluid station to grab a few cups of water and rinse my hands. I didn't even attempt to clean my knee. I battled the constantly recurring self-doubt and self-criticism. I thought about people who endured far worse, like my Facebook friend Jackie's crash at her last triathlon, from which she's still recovering. Deep down, I knew I could keep going physically; it was going to come down to my head. And I knew I could channel the mental aspect; it was merely a question of whether or not I had the will to do so. My Surftown mantra rang in my head: Define yourself. When the negativity would come back, I kept repeating, STFU. Define yourself. I've never DNF'd and I'm not changing that now.
Non-runners often think that running a half marathon is boring. Trust me, walking a half marathon is boring, especially when you want to be running. And the weather was perfect for running. Perfect. The sun was shining but still fairly low in the sky (I'd crashed to the ground not long after sunrise), the temperature stayed moderate, the breeze was light and refreshing, and there were plenty of shady spots along the route. The weather was so perfect for running, it was torture to be confined to walking.
And for the first time in my racing career, I pulled out my Droid and posted a status to Facebook. Yes, during a race. Why? Because I was bored. Because I was frustrated. Because I knew a lot of friends far away were pulling for me in this race. But mostly because I felt isolated and I shamelessly needed their support. And they did not disappoint. They encouraged me, they made me laugh, they inspired me to keep going. And they distracted me just enough to get me to the next mile marker.
Somewhere around Mile 3, I started trying to jog a little at the beginning of each song. At first, I was only jogging for perhaps 10 or 15 seconds. But I did something at the start of each song. Gradually, each new mile marker ticked by. I thanked the cops at the intersections. I joked with anyone who happened to run or walk near me. Step by step, mile after mile. When we came through the section of the course that went through the local high school campus and emerged near Oak Street, I knew I only had five kilometers to go. Just a 5K. I can walk that in less than an hour. It was the light at the end of the tunnel.
The short jogging segments gradually got a little longer. By the time I finally turned onto Ocean Boulevard, I was jogging for 30 seconds at a time. A minute. I think I might actually have hit almost two minutes at one point, but that was a rarity. I passed our hotel at Mile 11 and resisted the urge to turn in right then. Fuck that. I haven't come all this way to quit now.
Eighth Street was probably the toughest part of this final section of the course. There was about a mile left to go, but as I was passing Eighth Street on Ocean Boulevard, I could see the finish line to my left, on the boardwalk at Eighth. It should have inspired me, but it frustrated me. So close, yet so far. STFU. One foot in front of the other. Stop whining. You're almost there.
Now instead of trying to run at the beginning of each song, I was trying to run at the beginning of each block. I would manage to run maybe half a block, sometimes less, then walk to the next intersection. I started to see people wearing the surfboard-shaped finisher's medal. They cheered us back-of-the-pack stragglers and encouraged us to keep going. You're almost there. Good job. You can do it. One man noticed my bleeding right knee and said, "Look at you! And you're bleeding! You go, girl!" For the first time in the race, I actually started to feel just a teeny bit badass. And I liked it. I needed that, after all those miles of frustration. At long last, I reached Second Street and the final turn onto the boardwalk.
Before you get to the boardwalk proper (where it's actually wood) around 7th Street, the "boardwalk" is a stretch of winding concrete sidewalk. I tried to cut every tangent I could, but at that point, there were so few people left in the race that I was dodging a few tourists. There are numbered pillars along the boardwalk, reflecting the cross streets. I counted them as I ran/walked from one to the next. When I reached the 7th Street pillar, I started to jog one last time. There would be no more walking until I was across the finish line.
I grimaced with every step, desperate just to get to the finish line, finally crossing with an official (net) time of 3:34:15. I was relieved that it was over. I was, of course, disappointed in the race. But as I walked from the finish line and received my medal, I realized that I'd still managed to define myself. I had plenty of reasons to quit. But I kept going. I hated a lot of that race, but I learned a lot about myself and my commitment and resilience. I really didn't think I had nearly enough of either of those qualities. Maybe I have juuuuust enough. At least for now.
There will likely come a day when I will no longer be able to run at all--not 13.1 miles, not 10k, not 5k, not 100 yards. Thankfully, that day was not October 21, 2012 in Myrtle Beach.
I caught up with Lola (who turned in an impressive finish--one of her best in recent years) just past the finish line, after getting my official finish line photo taken--this time, not grimacing under a clock, but flashing a Teddy Roosevelt smile with a finisher's medal around my neck--half grimace, half smile--as I pointed to my injured knee. What the photo doesn't show is that I needed two people to help me stand back up.
We walked toward the shuttle pick-up location. As we approached the bus, we noticed that the steps leading up into the bus looked pretty steep. I grabbed the rails and mumbled to the runner behind me, "Be prepared to shove." When the bus arrived back at the mall, where we'd parked our cars, we learned that the bus would drop us off at the center of the mall, but our cars were parked at the far end of the mall. After I very carefully lowered myself down the steps of the bus, Lola went to get the car and brought it around to pick me up.
Back at the hotel, I spent the rest of the day in my jammies with impromptu ice packs on my left ankle and right knee, as I sipped two small bottles of cheap merlot, watched the ocean, and jotted down notes for this blog entry.
The day after the race, we trudged through Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport in Atlanta to catch the connecting flight back to Boston. I think I walked even harder on my injured ankle and knee to make that connecting flight than I did to finish the race. Six days after the race, with the knee still in significant pain, I finally went to urgent care to get it X-rayed. No fracture. Whew. Diagnosis: Bone bruise. They prescribed a course of antibiotics for the wound which didn't show much evidence of healing yet. A follow-up appointment with an orthopedist confirmed the urgent care doctor's diagnosis. If the pain persist, I'll go back in a few weeks for an MRI. The orthopedist told me to refrain from anything that directly impacts or causes pain to the knee, so no kneeling (Really, Holy Father! I have a doctor's note!), no squats, no lunges. I had to ask: "What about running?" He looked at me, gave me a comical little smile and replied, "You're not one of those, are you?" I smiled and said, "If by 'one of those' you mean a runner and triathlete, then yes I am!" His orders: A long as there's pain in the knee, no running. But once the pain in the knee is completely gone, build up gradually. Be smart. (Ha! As if I'm gonna start now!)
Just over two weeks later, as I write this, my knee is still recuperating, but it's responding well to the recumbent stationary bike (aka the FutilityCycle) and the elliptical trainer. I've got another day and a half of antibiotics, but I'm cautiously optimistic that I'll be able to try at least a very short jog later this week. If recovery continues as it has, the MRI won't be necessary. Granted, that also involves keeping Las Bitchitas from periodically stepping on my injured knee. I'm actually getting pretty quick at covering my knee with my hand when they start to step near it.
The ankle doesn't have full range of motion back yet, but having had plenty of experience with sprained ankles, I know it is already well on the mend.
And between the ankle brace, knee brace, wrist braces (which, thankfully, I no longer need since carpal tunnel release surgery earlier this year) and a plantar fasciitis boot (also, thankfully, not needed in about 2-3 years), I think I've got a bright future in orthopedic appliance sales.
Postscript
The East Coast got a nasty trick for Halloween, as Hurricane Sandy roared up the seaboard and made a sharp left turn, plunging sections of New Jersey, New York City and Long Island into chaos. As I write this, they're now bracing for a Nor'easter right after Election Day. The last thing that area needs.
But largely forgotten among the larger news stories of millions of NY/NJ residents without power (including many friends of mine), the cancelled NYC Marathon (the right decision--really, the only decision, in my opinion--but arrived at quite a few days later than it should have), and gasoline shortages unseen since the 1970s, there's a little story of Sandy's destruction in less-populated areas, like coastal Connecticut and a small beach town in the smallest state in the country. Westerly, RI, got hit hard, especially near Misquamicut Beach, where I ran the Surftown Half Marathon not six weeks prior.
Thankfully, they didn't suffer the truly catastrophic loss of life that was seen in Staten Island, and whole sections of neighborhoods didn't burn as they did in Breezy Point in Queens, but it was strange and saddening to see photographs of Westerly's Atlantic Avenue--which comprised nearly half the Surftown course--not only under water, but with a ton of sand beneath that blown inland from the beach. Even after the water receded and the bulldozers cleared out most of the sand, the road surface still remained obscured by sand. It was so odd to think that we'd run down that road so recently, and yet here it was, decimated by nature's fury. Many properties were severely damaged, some appearing beyond repair. No doubt this beach community will rebuild, just as Staten Island and Breezy Point will. When you live on the coast, resilience is a must. Sandy's not the first storm these areas have weathered; and sadly, she won't be the last.
I've been toying with the idea of running Surftown again next year--yes, obscenity-inducing hills and all--and if I'm able to do that, I look forward to seeing Westerly back to her leisurely beach town ways. And if I single-handedly buy out half the town's inventory of Del's lemonade, well...
And for the first time in my racing career, I pulled out my Droid and posted a status to Facebook. Yes, during a race. Why? Because I was bored. Because I was frustrated. Because I knew a lot of friends far away were pulling for me in this race. But mostly because I felt isolated and I shamelessly needed their support. And they did not disappoint. They encouraged me, they made me laugh, they inspired me to keep going. And they distracted me just enough to get me to the next mile marker.
Somewhere around Mile 3, I started trying to jog a little at the beginning of each song. At first, I was only jogging for perhaps 10 or 15 seconds. But I did something at the start of each song. Gradually, each new mile marker ticked by. I thanked the cops at the intersections. I joked with anyone who happened to run or walk near me. Step by step, mile after mile. When we came through the section of the course that went through the local high school campus and emerged near Oak Street, I knew I only had five kilometers to go. Just a 5K. I can walk that in less than an hour. It was the light at the end of the tunnel.
The short jogging segments gradually got a little longer. By the time I finally turned onto Ocean Boulevard, I was jogging for 30 seconds at a time. A minute. I think I might actually have hit almost two minutes at one point, but that was a rarity. I passed our hotel at Mile 11 and resisted the urge to turn in right then. Fuck that. I haven't come all this way to quit now.
Eighth Street was probably the toughest part of this final section of the course. There was about a mile left to go, but as I was passing Eighth Street on Ocean Boulevard, I could see the finish line to my left, on the boardwalk at Eighth. It should have inspired me, but it frustrated me. So close, yet so far. STFU. One foot in front of the other. Stop whining. You're almost there.
Now instead of trying to run at the beginning of each song, I was trying to run at the beginning of each block. I would manage to run maybe half a block, sometimes less, then walk to the next intersection. I started to see people wearing the surfboard-shaped finisher's medal. They cheered us back-of-the-pack stragglers and encouraged us to keep going. You're almost there. Good job. You can do it. One man noticed my bleeding right knee and said, "Look at you! And you're bleeding! You go, girl!" For the first time in the race, I actually started to feel just a teeny bit badass. And I liked it. I needed that, after all those miles of frustration. At long last, I reached Second Street and the final turn onto the boardwalk.
Before you get to the boardwalk proper (where it's actually wood) around 7th Street, the "boardwalk" is a stretch of winding concrete sidewalk. I tried to cut every tangent I could, but at that point, there were so few people left in the race that I was dodging a few tourists. There are numbered pillars along the boardwalk, reflecting the cross streets. I counted them as I ran/walked from one to the next. When I reached the 7th Street pillar, I started to jog one last time. There would be no more walking until I was across the finish line.I grimaced with every step, desperate just to get to the finish line, finally crossing with an official (net) time of 3:34:15. I was relieved that it was over. I was, of course, disappointed in the race. But as I walked from the finish line and received my medal, I realized that I'd still managed to define myself. I had plenty of reasons to quit. But I kept going. I hated a lot of that race, but I learned a lot about myself and my commitment and resilience. I really didn't think I had nearly enough of either of those qualities. Maybe I have juuuuust enough. At least for now.
There will likely come a day when I will no longer be able to run at all--not 13.1 miles, not 10k, not 5k, not 100 yards. Thankfully, that day was not October 21, 2012 in Myrtle Beach.I caught up with Lola (who turned in an impressive finish--one of her best in recent years) just past the finish line, after getting my official finish line photo taken--this time, not grimacing under a clock, but flashing a Teddy Roosevelt smile with a finisher's medal around my neck--half grimace, half smile--as I pointed to my injured knee. What the photo doesn't show is that I needed two people to help me stand back up.
We walked toward the shuttle pick-up location. As we approached the bus, we noticed that the steps leading up into the bus looked pretty steep. I grabbed the rails and mumbled to the runner behind me, "Be prepared to shove." When the bus arrived back at the mall, where we'd parked our cars, we learned that the bus would drop us off at the center of the mall, but our cars were parked at the far end of the mall. After I very carefully lowered myself down the steps of the bus, Lola went to get the car and brought it around to pick me up.
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| Recovery, Gingah Boo Boo style. |
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| I've got ocean. I'm good. |
Just over two weeks later, as I write this, my knee is still recuperating, but it's responding well to the recumbent stationary bike (aka the FutilityCycle) and the elliptical trainer. I've got another day and a half of antibiotics, but I'm cautiously optimistic that I'll be able to try at least a very short jog later this week. If recovery continues as it has, the MRI won't be necessary. Granted, that also involves keeping Las Bitchitas from periodically stepping on my injured knee. I'm actually getting pretty quick at covering my knee with my hand when they start to step near it.
The ankle doesn't have full range of motion back yet, but having had plenty of experience with sprained ankles, I know it is already well on the mend.
And between the ankle brace, knee brace, wrist braces (which, thankfully, I no longer need since carpal tunnel release surgery earlier this year) and a plantar fasciitis boot (also, thankfully, not needed in about 2-3 years), I think I've got a bright future in orthopedic appliance sales.
Postscript
The East Coast got a nasty trick for Halloween, as Hurricane Sandy roared up the seaboard and made a sharp left turn, plunging sections of New Jersey, New York City and Long Island into chaos. As I write this, they're now bracing for a Nor'easter right after Election Day. The last thing that area needs.
But largely forgotten among the larger news stories of millions of NY/NJ residents without power (including many friends of mine), the cancelled NYC Marathon (the right decision--really, the only decision, in my opinion--but arrived at quite a few days later than it should have), and gasoline shortages unseen since the 1970s, there's a little story of Sandy's destruction in less-populated areas, like coastal Connecticut and a small beach town in the smallest state in the country. Westerly, RI, got hit hard, especially near Misquamicut Beach, where I ran the Surftown Half Marathon not six weeks prior.
Thankfully, they didn't suffer the truly catastrophic loss of life that was seen in Staten Island, and whole sections of neighborhoods didn't burn as they did in Breezy Point in Queens, but it was strange and saddening to see photographs of Westerly's Atlantic Avenue--which comprised nearly half the Surftown course--not only under water, but with a ton of sand beneath that blown inland from the beach. Even after the water receded and the bulldozers cleared out most of the sand, the road surface still remained obscured by sand. It was so odd to think that we'd run down that road so recently, and yet here it was, decimated by nature's fury. Many properties were severely damaged, some appearing beyond repair. No doubt this beach community will rebuild, just as Staten Island and Breezy Point will. When you live on the coast, resilience is a must. Sandy's not the first storm these areas have weathered; and sadly, she won't be the last.
I've been toying with the idea of running Surftown again next year--yes, obscenity-inducing hills and all--and if I'm able to do that, I look forward to seeing Westerly back to her leisurely beach town ways. And if I single-handedly buy out half the town's inventory of Del's lemonade, well...
