My Year Away. Again.

First, I went on Sabbatical. Now, I'm beginning My Year Away again as I start my first year of Retirement!

Tag Archives: Rowing


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Change, Change, Change.

It’s Saturday morning. The sun peaks above the horizon. The egrets leave their nighttime perches and line up for a trip to who knows where. It’s dead calm outside. A perfect morning for a row on Battery Creek, near downtown Beaufort, SC. This is a course I have rowed for about a decade. Meandering and beautiful—especially during a calm morning at slack tide. Exactly like this morning. Most likely a couple of 8+s will launch with varying skill levels, but filled with a highly enthusiastic gaggle of rowers. These are my people.

Who wouldn’t want to row in these waters?

Except this morning, I’m not there. Looks like I won’t be there next weekend, either. It’s hard to type these words, let alone say them out loud, but here goes. I’m not rowing now. I have to add the word “now,” because I want to leave a crack in the rowing door open. You know, just in case something changes.

But I guess I have finally owned up to the reality. Life is going in a different direction for me now and it’s time I acknowledge that.

It was a slow realization. Multiple hurricanes and a horrendous flood disrupted my rowing opportunities for a while. Then came the fateful morning row when I felt something not-quite-right in my left hamstring, resulting in a ginormous hematoma around my sitz bones, which made sitting in a rowing shell beyond painful. (And, thus, contributed to my decision to sell my racing shell.)  The achalasia diagnosis upended all sorts of parts of my life as well, not the least of which, was rowing.

Of course, it wasn’t all bad things that pushed rowing toward the bottom of the priority pile. Discovering an obsession with travelling to Italy meant limited rowing time in the summer. Buying a Big Brick House in Paducah, KY, for the restoration project of a lifetime grabbed the rest of the summer (and, perhaps, all the summers to come!). Discovering other fun things to do during spring break, like traversing Caribbean islands on a cruise ship, took away another prime week. And, so it continued, until I realized I wasn’t rowing very much. And, turns out, I didn’t miss it as much as I thought I would.

Even if I’m not rowing, I am drawn to water. The Tiber River in Rome is no exception.

So. I guess I’m a former rower now. After about 20 years, it’s hard to say good-bye. But it’s time. So, goodbye, and thanks to my four rowing clubs.

Beaufort Rowing Club. These rowers are the best. Some of their technique might drive me nuts, but I so appreciate how accepting this club has been to me—and to anyone who wants to row here. Other clubs should emulate BRC. Thanks for letting me be a part of this club for 10 years, Ken, Paul, Judy, Bill and the rest.

Columbia Rowing Club. The hubster and I wouldn’t have moved to SC for my job if there hadn’t been a rowing club in Columbia. I fondly remember the evening rows in my single with my rowing buddy, Laura. And, I loved rowing the quad with John, Marty and Brenda. We had some serious moments of run.

Nashville Rowing Club. Helping to start this club was hard work. But when you want to row and there is no one to row with, you do what you have to do. The club is now huge and doing incredibly well, but back in 2005, all there was, was me, and an old 4+ that I purchased sight unseen from Georgia Tech. How I found Erika, Joy, and Stephanie to row in that 4+ with me remains a mystery, but it was a time of magical rowing in a less-than-desirable situation. Erika was an emergency room orthopedic surgeon who would come to an early morning practice after operating all night. She was the most competitive rower I have ever had the privilege of knowing. As the stroke, Erika took us to places I didn’t even know were possible. Sitting at #3, Joy was a surgical resident at Vanderbilt and former varsity Virginia rower who was over 6 feet tall. Her schedule left no time for rowing, but somehow, she showed up enough times that we were able to practice for the Head of the Hooch head race. This is the only time I have rowed behind a woman taller than me. Rowing behind Joy was, well, a Joy. And then there was the bow, Stephanie, a recent Vandy grad, who barely pushed 5 feet. I still can’t figure out how she rowed like a tall person, but that girl rowed long. No question that at #2, I was the weak link in the boat, but these women didn’t complain. Maybe it was because I owned the boat. Or, maybe it was because, for whatever reason, when we rowed together, we flew.

Carolina Masters. And, this leads me to the Carolina Masters, my club in Chapel Hill, NC, where my rowing career began. I am thankful to a former student (and university rower) who encouraged me to go to a Learn-to-Row clinic because she thought I “looked like a rower.” I’m thankful to Julie, our volunteer coach, who was patient and encouraging, and helped me realize that I could be a decent rower. And, Ruth, who rowed in the pair with me in the dead of winter when no one was all that excited to row with me.  And the other Julie who also rowed in the pair with me when she didn’t have to. And all the rowers who were a part of those exciting years of racing—especially that second place nail-biter of a race at the Hooch.

You can see in our faces how seriously we took racing. In this boat, I had the privilege to row behind Julie, the best coach I ever had.
We were just a few seconds behind the #1 boat, but it was probably the most fun I’ve ever had racing. Standing on the podum for the medal ceremony was fun too!

And, then there’s Patti, my rowing soulmate. Patti and I were starting to become friends when I asked her if she might be interested in taking a road trip with me to Maine to pick up a single—an old restored wooden racing shell from the ‘70s. I didn’t even know how to row a single yet, but somehow, we both thought this was an excellent idea. We drove from Chapel Hill to Thomaston, Maine, and back again in four days with a stop in Philadelphia to pick up a former Olympian’s rowing shell that needed restoring. Having never transported a boat before, starting in Philly, and driving through cities like New York and Boston was challenging to say the least, but Patti never doubted for a minute that I could do it. We talked about everything over those four days (and, I mean EVERYTHING).  From that trip on, we drove together to racing venues, rowed side by side in our singles during our weekly “chat and rows,” talked about rowing until there was nothing left to say about rowing—and then talked about it some more. For me, rowing means Patti. And it always will.

Patti and I were frezzing in between our races, but that didn’t keep us from have a blast.

I guess you can tell that rowing has had an impact on my life. But, as I’ve been learning recently, just because you love something doesn’t mean that it must stay the same. Living at the beach part of each week, I see the ocean, the beach, and the tidal creeks. They are ever changing whether by erosion, storms, king tides, or anything else that nature throws. We have a lot of birds on Harbor Island, but they change, too.  Sometimes, it’s the ospreys who capture our attention. Sometimes it’s the pelicans perched at the Harbor Bridge. Now, it’s the migrating birds who join us for winter.

We change, too. I love rowing. But I guess I love other things more now. And, that’s okay. I used to think Aretha Franklin’s classic song was called “Change, Change, Change.” Okay, so I understand now that “Change of Fools” makes no sense whatsoever, but still, “change, change, change” could—and perhaps, should—be our anthem.  Bob Dylan once said that there is “nothing so stable as change.” And with that, I say The Beat Goes On.

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Everyone Moves. A Walking Tour of Florence

I am in Italy for most of the summer. I am traveling to big cities and small villages. Today I am in Florence.  The city moves. And we move with it. Tourists and Florentines, moving with an uneasy, yet familiar, flow. I first notice the tourists. The city teems with them. Many are college age. How did Florence become the playground for American students?

It’s an understatement to say there are tourists in Florence!
There are all sorts of creative ways to travel around Florence!

Upon closer look, the walking tour I am taking yields an insight to the daily rhythm of Florence life. First, there is the church. While tourists flock (and rightly so) to view the awesome sight of the Duomo, I notice other sorts of travel.

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The Duomo attracts travelers and it’s easy to see why!

There are the horses, waiting to carry the tourists away from the piazza. And there are church workers taking just pressed vestments to a baptism, perhaps.

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These vestments are traveling from the Baptistry to the Duomo.

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This horse looks like he is tired of traveling.

Second, there is the river. People walking across the bridges. Boats meandering down the serene water. Rowers perfecting their stroke—catch, drive, finish.  Runners and cyclists following the river’s path. The river provides both a place of solace and a beacon for wanderers. I hear a tour guide say, “If you can find the river, you can find home.” As a rower, I know this to be true.

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The river beckons.

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A rower practices his stroke.

Eventually, I peel away from the group to find my own path. I turn left. I turn right. I am not concerned because I know where both the Duomo and the river are. These two anchors assure me that no matter where I wander, I have a place.  Eventually, I find a quiet trattoria with friendly camerieri. I decide that this is where I will eat. “Buongiorno,” one waiter calls out. “Buongiorno,” I answer. “Siete aperti? I ask.”  “Si!,” he says, following this (in perfect English) with “Do you understand Italian?” I tell him that I am learning. That’s all he needs. We speak only Italian from then on. He is patient with me. What follows is a delightful lunch of pasta, sparkling water and local wine. Passersby are few as I marvel at the quiet just a few blocks off the main piazza.

Quiet Wine

My lunch is a delightful respite from the throngs.

Robert Louis Stevenson once said, “I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel’s sake. The great affair is to move.” I moved this morning. More than 10,000 steps of movement. And then I stopped. And I felt the rhythm of the city. And it felt bellissimo.

 


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Grab a Book and Count Down to New Years!

It’s just a couple of days until the hubster and I leave for our two-week cruise.  We’re finishing our chores here at our beach house where it is ridiculously cold.  (Truth be told, I’m relieved that the weather is so bad. It makes “Hey, let’s leave the beach and go to the Caribbean” a lot more logical.)

As we take down our Christmas decorations (which so far has taken a total of about 10 minutes—I definitely went “minimalist” this year), I’ve been putting things in our cruise suitcase to make sure we remember everything we need for the next two weeks. At the top of the list are appropriate books to read. While Holland America ships typically have decent libraries on them, I don’t want to leave our reading to chance on this trip.  Considering we aren’t interested in many of the official ship activities (seriously, who plays Bingo, anyway?!), having the right books to read is critical.

I picked two: An Odyssey, a memoir by English professor Daniel Mendelsohn who takes his dad on a cruise through the locations of–wait for it–The Odyssey.  I heard the author on NPR and I was intrigued.  For my second book, I chose Return to Glow, a memoir by Chandi Wyant about her pilgrimage on the Via Francigenia in Italy. I’ll read just about anything if it mentions Italy so this was a no brainer.

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Can’t wait to read this book on our cruise!

Selecting these books made me think about books that left indelible imprints on my heart—and also the books that got away from me.  During my sabbatical, when I was first dabbling with blogging, I had a “practice blog” called The Professor & Her Garden that I used during my WordPress Blogging 101 online class. For one of the daily assignments, I wrote about 10 books that influenced me.  Packing my new books for my cruise reminded me of that post.  So, first, here is the list of 10 books I mentioned at The Professor & Her Garden.

  1. That Hideous Strength (C.S. Lewis).  This book has it all.  Space travel; marriage advice; university politics; wizardry.  I first read THS at Oxford during my study abroad.  It’s my all-time favorite book and I’ve read it at least 20 times.  I own the paperback edition (that I loan to friends), a hard-cover American edition (that I read myself), and a British hard copy edition that I keep on the shelf with all my other C.S. Lewis books.
  2. This Perfect Day (Ira Levin).  I read this book in 9th grade and it rocked my world.  It’s creepy, other worldly, surprising, weird, thought-provoking, iconoclastic.  Everything in this book is topsy turvy, which, for a 9th grader, made for perfect reading.  Move over Holden Caufield.
  3. My Losing Season (Pat Conroy).  There is no question that I am crazy about Pat Conroy.  A bit of a stalker, really.  I live in the same town as Conroy did and I used to see him periodically at the grocery store.  (I made note of his grocery cart contents.)  I have a photo of his dad’s (The Great Santini) gravestone on my IPhone. And, sadly, I now have a picture of his grave as well.  I love, love, love his books.  But his book about playing basketball at the Citadel really resonated with me. I am still sad over his death, though—and maybe even a little angry—so I haven’t been able to read any of his books since he passed.
  4. The Trouble with Jenny’s Ear (Oliver Butterworth).  I read this book in grade school and it impressed me to no end.  It’s about a girl who “hears things” and ultimately ends up on a quiz show where she hears all the answers.  Freaky, ethics, and a strong female leading character.  What more could an independent little girl want? I loved this book so much as a kid, I decided to order it on Amazon and read it as an adult. Yikes. It’s really a terribly written book.  Henceforth, I think I’ll forgo re-reading “my childhood favs.”
  5. Drawn to the Rhythm:  A Passionate Life Reclaimed (Sara Hall).  This book is really about how rowing saved Sara’s life.  It’s heart-wrenching but inspirational.  I think of this book every time I don’t feel like going out on the water because I don’t want to row by myself, or it’s too cold, or too windy, or any other million reasons. Hmmm. Now that I think about it, I might replace Drawn with Boys in the Boat as my all-time favorite.
  6. Straight Down a Crooked Lane (Francena Arnold).  I can’t tell you how many times I read this book when I was a little kid, but it was a bunch.  It had romance, tennis, and race relations–all rather mind-blowing to me as a child.  Whenever I would read this book, I would think about what a great movie it would make.  I decided that Jimmy Stewart should play the father.  I felt really sad when Stewart died, in part, because he wouldn’t have the chance to play the role of, what I was sure, would be Oscar worthy. Based on my experience with rereading The Trouble with Jenny’s Ear, however, I now have second thoughts about its movie possibilities.
  7. The Fountainhead (Ayn Rand).  Reading this book in 12th grade made me feel super grown up.  I wanted to be an architect and I admired Howard Rourk’s independent spirit.  I was a polar opposite to Rand’s philosophy, but I plowed through all her books in high school—and loved them all.  I even wrote a children’s book based on objectivism for an English creative writing class.  It was called Fritzi of Frumple Forest (or something like that).  My teacher wanted me to try to get it published.  I was horrified.
  8. Areopagitica (John Milton).  I was a mediocre (at best!) English Literature undergraduate student (more about that below), but I sure did love Milton.  No matter what college class I teach now, I always find a way to quote Areopagitica.  “Let her and Falsehood grapple; who ever knew Truth put to the worse in a free and open encounter?”  Seriously. Can’t you feel your heart racing?
  9. A Girl Named Zippy (Haven Kimmel).  This book is laugh-out-loud hilarious.  Kimmel manages to get to the heart of what growing up in the ’50s was like.  I’m not kidding.  The writing is brilliant.  My daughter read Zippy right after me and guffawed at least as much as I did.  Years later, it has remained a book that makes the two of us laugh just thinking about it.
  10. The Time Bridge (Carol Pardun).  I wrote this young adult novel as my creative thesis project for my master’s degree in communications.  It’s a science fiction, young adult book in the spirit of Madeline L’Engle (or that was my hope, anyway).  It is about time travel and tennis.   I didn’t publish the book (I’m sure it needs lots of work), but it showed me that I could write something long from start to finish.  It let me successfully finish my master’s degree, which spurred me on to seek the PhD.  While my dissertation was nothing remotely similar to The Time Bridge, I like to think that my first attempt at a book-length manuscript provided the framework for successfully completing my degree.

So, those are the books I read.  But what about the books I didn’t read? I’ll say it again.  I was an English Literature major in undergraduate school.  What you do in that major is read books. A lot of them. So how in the world did I miss these?

  1. To Kill a Mockingbird. I know, I know. It’s embarrassing. I’ve tried the excuse that I was an English lit major, which means I studied mostly English stuff.  And, yes, I know that everyone read this in high school. But when I was in high school, I took English electives.  That’s where I was introduced to Ayn Ran and Ira Levin (see above).  I also took a class called “Hell.” (I’m sure it was actually called something else.)  We read The Inferno, No Exit, and Damn Yankees to name a few.  Going to high school in the early ‘70s offered some interesting experiences. I don’t know why I haven’t read Mockingbird (I haven’t even seen the movie), but at this point, I sort of feel like I’m committed to this short coming.  Like the people who have never seen a Star Wars movie. They are out there.
  2. War and Peace. I like books about war. And books about peace.  And long books. So this doesn’t make any sense.  But, for whatever reason, I have decided it’s just too late for me to read this book. Or any other Tolstoy for that matter.
  3. The Great Gatsby. So, I have seen the movie (the one with Robert Redford) and I didn’t like it all that much. (I did see The Way We Were about a zillion times, however.) I started feeling guilty about this recently after reading an essay about Tender Is the Night, written by a newly retired English professor friend of mine. I realized anew just how lacking my American Literature background is.  I think my demise started when I read Flannery O’Connor.  I pretty much have been running from American literature ever since.

I could go on and on about all the books I have not read.  But, I’ve decided to think about the books that I have read—and the impact that they have had on me. And to also think about the books that await me.  I have a quote on my office wall by (of course!) C.S. Lewis: “You can’t get a cup of tea big enough or a book long enough to suit me.” For the next two weeks, I’m planning on curling up in a comfortable chair out on the deck of a gargantuan ship, reading my new books, periodically lifting my head high enough to soak in the sun and contemplate the ocean—and other vast things. Not a bad way to start 2018 even if it is devoid of some classics that I know I should have read. I’ve got two weeks of nothing to do but read, think, and hang out with the hubs. Reality will start knocking soon enough.  But for now, grab a book and an afghan (unless you happen to be in the Caribbean) and celebrate! Happy New Year!

 


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So, You Might Not Think Baking Pies Has Anything to do With Travel. Let Alone Boats. But in My Mind They Are Inexorably Connected.

As some of you know, last year, I was alone on Thanksgiving Day.  The day turned out to be peaceful.  Full of quiet reflection.  So, I’ve been reflecting on that day as November started peeking around the corner.

And it occurred to me that we don’t actually have to have the big traditional eat-til-you-explode meal extravaganza any more if we don’t want to.  The trouble is that I love to cook Thanksgiving food.  And the hubster loves to eat it.  (Except neither one of us eats much meat anymore and could do without the turkey.)  Plus, not to boast or anything, but my Thanksgiving Feast is, well, okay, I’ll just say it.  Epic.

The most important part of the meal are the pies, of course.  In case you haven’t heard about the Roving Pie, have a seat.  Grab a fork.

I’ve been baking Thanksgiving pies for well over 30 years.  Without question, whether the table is full of guests or we are alone, three pies always make an appearance.  The Apple Pie.  The Pumpkin Pie.  And the Pecan Pie.  (These pies are so important, each warrant a separate sentence.)  The Apple Pie is made with Granny Smith apples only, at least eight cups worth, with brown sugar, cinnamon, and a bit of this and that.  The Pumpkin Pie is a version from Southern Living that is so smooth, it just doesn’t warrant any messing with.  And the Pecan Pie is devoid of corn syrup, but chock full of whole pecans (about three times more than any recipe would have the nerve to suggest) and a hearty helping of brown sugar.  All are paired with an all-butter crust.  I know you have been told that you need to add shortening to get the right crust flakiness.  Or vodka.  Or some other nonsense.  You don’t.  Period.  King Arthur all-purpose flour, unsalted butter, a swig of salt, and 4 tablespoons of iced water.  That’s it.  And, just try to say my crusts are not flaky.

But those are only three pies.  I always make at least four.  The fourth pie is the Roving Pie.  The Roving Pie emerged decades ago when I decided to “try something new.”  For whatever reason, I chose to make a pie I had never made before.  And to make it even more interesting, I decided that I would never make it again.  No matter what.  This quickly became a Pardun Tradition that has now been passed on to my daughter Grace.  I am pleased to report that she takes her role as Keeper of the Roving Pie Tradition very seriously.  As she should.

Most of these Thanksgiving pies have turned out rather stellar. But a couple have been bloopers.  I seem to remember the pear/cranberry/walnut concoction not going over well.  But, the coconut cream macadamia nut was a huge hit one year, as was the chocolate-lined crusted cream pie.  The pineapple grits pie was, um, interesting.

Often a fifth pie would make an appearance.  The Decoy Pie.  This tradition started when the hubster felt sorry for our new next-door neighbors one year and invited them to Thanksgiving Dinner (which is always at 2:00, no exceptions, by the way. Did I mention I have traditions?).  They were happy to come and they also let us know that they would be bringing all their relatives who were flying in to visit.  I didn’t know these people, but one thing I did know was that I sure didn’t want them hogging the apple, pumpkin or pecan pies.  So, I made a raspberry cream pie that was extremely showy.  A piled-high mound of yumminess.  And then I talked it up while we were eating.  Sure enough!  They took the bait, loved the pie and kept their pie-crusty mitts off our beloved traditional pies.  Everyone walked away sated–and happy.  From that year on, if someone new was at the table, the Decoy Pie would make a showing—and all the “regulars” knew it was their job to convince the “newbies” that the Decoy Pie was the best.

Outside of the pies, the Thanksgiving meal is a typical New England dinner.  Turkey, gravy, mashed potatoes, honey glazed carrots, herbed stuffing, balsamic pearl onions, etc., etc., etc.,

Who wouldn’t look forward to a meal like that?

Except, neither of us can eat all that at one sitting any more.  Nor do we care to.  What to do? What to do?

Introducing Thanksgiving Month. With a renewed sense of “hey, we’re getting older and it is perfectly fine to do things differently if we want to,” we are going to try ignoring Turkey Day this year.  But, we’ll still eat all the foods we love.  We’ll just take a month to do it.

It’s early November so we have just started this, but so far, it’s been a success.  I baked the pecan pie (with maple syrup infused whipped cream) this past weekend.  We invited friends over to share it with us.  I also made mashed potatoes (spiffed up with crème fraiche) and peas along with baked honey-marinated salmon.  Next up, I think we’ll hit the stuffing and the pumpkin pie.

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Here’s the Pecan Pie I made last week.

 

Since having my mid-life crisis (okay, my two-thirds life crisis), I have a new lease on life.  There are all sorts of things in life that I love—and no one loves tradition more than me—but I’m discovering that I’m ready to let go of traditions and do things a little bit differently.  Which leads me to two other “You Did What?!” things that have happened recently.

First, I sold my boat.  It was a tough decision, but the right one.  I’m still rowing, but now, I row with one club rather than two, and never alone as I often did in my single.  I’ve got to say that I’ve relished the rows I have had since letting go of my boat because I know how fortunate I am to still have a group of people to row with.  And, especially a group that still wants to row with me.

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Boat loaded and ready to drive to its new owner.

Second, I’ve taken the proceeds from my boat sale and booked another cruise for the hubster and me.  We’ll be tooling around the Caribbean for two weeks over the university holiday for no reason other than to relax, read, and hang out.  Yes, I know we could do that at home, but for whatever reason I felt compelled to trade one boat (albeit one that only weighed 34 pounds) for another boating experience. The hubs asked many, many times “Uh, really?  Do you really, really want to do this?  Why? Why?”  But, in the end, he agreed, trusting me that getting away will be good for us.  (And, yes, I do remember that we “got away” for a whole month this past summer.)

I began this blog three years ago in preparation for my sabbatical.  I called it My Year Away.  I expected the year to be life-changing.  And it was.  I learned so much that I decided to continue writing the blog, renaming it My Year Away.  And Back.  I thought I would be done by now.  But, once I got Achalasia, I had a whole additional experience about being “away” from normal—and working my way back. Since then, I’ve decided that “Being Away” is a state of mind that I should relish as I try to navigate life in my 60s.  That involves doing things differently (like Thanksgiving Month, for example).  And, I think it also means spending part of all my remaining years “Away.”

St. Augustine wrote “The world is a book, and those who do not travel read only a page.” I might not make it through the whole book, but it won’t be for lack of trying.  Eating Thanksgiving over 30 days.  Meandering the Caribbean on a Cruise Ship. Rowing at Sunrise.   Now, if I can just finish the semester…


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When You Become a Member of a Community You Didn’t Ask to Join

Well, it’s been six weeks since I had surgery to make my achalasia manageable.  I had my “How are you doing?” appointment with my surgeon this week and got the green light to go out into the world and act like a normal person.  I have been cleared to go back to rowing, to lift heavy objects, to give eating salad a try if I feel like it.  In short, the rest of my recovery is up to me.

But, I still have achalasia.  And I always will.  And because it is such a rare condition, I have also been introduced to the world of Rare Diseases.  On social media, I’ve read several posts from others who are members of this “I didn’t ask for it” community, and I’ve got mixed emotions.

For the most part, I like being identified by my groups.  I’m a Rower. I’m a Professor. I’m an Obsessive Pie Baker.  I’m a Christian. I’m an Alto.  I’m a Wife.  I’m a Mother.  Heck, I’m a Grandmother.

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Here is one of the pies I obsess over. It’s a strawberry rhubarb.

And, well, now I’m also a Rare Condition Member (that sounds awkward).  How about Achalasia Survivor?  (No, that doesn’t quite work since I still have the condition.) Achalasia Sufferer? (No, that sounds too dramatic.  Surgery has given me a new lease on life.)  I’m an Achalasia Aware Person?  Hmm. Awkward, but okay.

To me, my recovery has been nothing short of a miracle.  For the first few weeks, I was concerned.  I still couldn’t eat.  And, then, I started to get better.  I stopped throwing up clear, sticky Ghost Busters-like goo. I started successfully eating firmer food. I stopped having horrific esophageal spasms several times a day.  I ate some pasta.  A cupcake for my birthday. And then a few days ago, I ate thin crust cheese pizza.  And it didn’t hurt.  (Or not much anyway.)  I am on my way.

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My birthday cupcake! It took two sittings, but I ate it.

So what’s all the belly aching about? Can’t I just forget about the Community I Didn’t Ask to Join?  They don’t need me.  There are plenty of sufferers out there who can moan and groan about the horrors of achalasia.  They can be the ones to run the 5Ks to build awareness. They can be the ones to fight for research to better understand the mystery of this rare condition.  They can be the ones to post their sad stories on You Tube.  They don’t need me.  I’m better now.

Except, they do need me.  And, surprise, surprise, I think I need them, too.  They are the ones who helped me understand what was happening to me.  The ones who let me know that I was not alone with this wacky condition.  The ones who said they had been helped with surgery.  The ones who still had questions. They are the ones who understand what it’s like to have achalasia.

I’ve never come face to face with anyone who has achalasia.  I only know them virtually.  But when I read their stories or watch their videos, I get it.  I understand.  When I read posts from people who are afraid of having surgery, I understand.  When I read academic articles about achalasia, I want to weigh in with my own opinion.  I know you all.  And you know me.

Sure, this is a community I didn’t choose to join.  But it’s a welcoming community nonetheless.  For better or worse, I’m a life-long member now. So to my new-found community friends, take heart.  You are not alone.  And, get this!  Because of surgery, yesterday for the first time in about a year, I ate a salad.  And I rowed today for the first time since surgery.  Who knows what next week will bring?

Sculling October 10

It was so great to row this morning!


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Why Rowing is Possibly the Greatest Sport in the Universe

I just finished reading The Boys in the Boat by David James Brown (ISBN 978-0-14-312547-1). In case you haven’t read it yet (I think I’m the last rower on the planet to read it), in a nutshell it’s about the University of Washington varsity 8+ crew winning gold at the 1936 Berlin Olympics.

But if you think it’s only a book about rowing, think again. It’s a book about life. And what you can do no matter how wretched life is.   At the very least, it’s a book that will help you think about whether you really want to whine about whatever is not working out the way you want it to. (Note to self here.)

Come to think of it, rowing is not really just about rowing. You can be bad at it and enjoy it. But if you want to be good at it, you have to dig in and put in the effort. Which means not just rowing, but reading about rowing, thinking about rowing, dreaming about rowing. You have to be flexible—in your body if at all possible, but definitely in your mind. If you think you are doing everything right and you are not willing to make adjustments, you’re not only wrong, but you’re the kind of rower no one wants to row with. It helps to have high pain tolerance. You have to have some intelligence because a lot of rowing is counterintuitive. After all, you do row backwards.

I’ve been rowing for about 13 years. I’ve been a part of four rowing clubs. I’ve rowed in beautiful conditions—and I’ve rowed in are-you-kidding-me weather. I teach other people how to row. Others teach me how to row better. I make the same mistakes—but I keep working on them. (In case anyone is wondering, I still tend to shoot my tail.)

The book focuses on seven seat, starboard rower Joe Rantz. This guy doesn’t talk much and it takes him awhile to get the rowing technique down, but nobody can fault him for effort. Joe’s family leaves him twice—once as a 10 year old and again at 15. He has to fend for himself and during the Depression, it’s near impossible for a kid to find enough work just to feed himself. But Joe prevails. He lives alone, scrapes by, stays in school (and makes good grades), and eventually ends up at the University of Washington. He is desperate to make the crew team, not because he knows anything about rowing, but because he learns that if he does, he will be promised a part-time job–and he has to work to pay for college because his family has abandoned him.   During his four years at Washington, he earns his engineering degree, he rows three hours every day, he works at his part-time job every evening, and oh, yeah, he wins Olympic gold.

Joe Rantz worked a lot harder in college than I ever will as a professor. In fact, I have a downright cushy life in comparison.   But what I particularly loved about this story is that Joe wasn’t a natural at rowing. He had to stick with it.   I’ve known colleagues who seem to have magic lives. Everything they write gets published. Every lecture they give is spell binding.

I’m not like that. I have to work at it. But I like it that way. I teach my students; my students teach me. I chip away at the data and hope that eventually something will get published. If not the first journal choice, maybe the second. Or the third.

Like many rowers, I have a high pain tolerance. And I can be stubborn. So during My Year Away, I’m reading about people like Joe Rantz. It’s not making my work any easier, but it’s helping me not to whine about it.  And for the record, I’m not giving up on my rowing either.