Sticking Around For the Winter

Anybody who knows me knows that the past two winters I've packed up my car and escaped to warmer climates for a few months.  Sure, I got to experience record lows, icy pool decks and snow in Tucson, but the other 2 months and 28 days I was there it was quite lovely.  And I learned that Alabama is actually a really nice place to train as long as you can outsprint the loose dogs when biking. 

I actually kind of enjoyed driving and seeing so much of the country.  Anytime anyone asked me about it, they'd usually shake their heads and tell me they didn't know how I did it.  Sure, it gets old after a while, but when there is no traffic, which there often isn't as you drive through so many remote parts of the country, it's actually pretty peaceful.  And how often do you get to do something like that?  But I think in May as I woke up one morning in Louisiana and didn't stop to sleep again until Pennsylvania over 1000 miles later I felt like maybe I'd had enough driving all over the country and packing up my life for 3-4 months at a time. 

So this year I've decided to suck it up and settle in and accept that yes, I am a northern girl.  And hey, it's been a while since I really got used to my bike trainer and watched a whole lot of movies and TV shows.  In some ways it's nicer than hoping that route I made up while looking at Google maps would turn out all right and I wouldn't get lost.  And then there was that time I flatted in a pretty remote area of Tucson my final week there and then pulled my phone out of my jersey pocket and realized I didn't have anyone to call and it seemed like a total waste that I'd been carrying it with me all those months.  "Hi, Mom.  I got a flat.  No, I know you can't come get me, but I just wanted to let you know.  No, don't worry because every few minutes some random pickup truck drives by and I'm sure the one that stops won't be because they want to murder me."  Plus, just think of how much less mileage I'll put on my car. 

Nothing else much to report here.  I have Galveston 70.3 and IMTX again on tap to start the season.  I never would've thought I'd actually like racing in Texas but I enjoyed both way more than I thought I would.  So, why not go back?  Especially when I can fly there and it won't require driving across Louisiana.  If you've never driven across I-10 and I-12 through Louisiana, I wouldn't recommend it.  Somehow the traffic never seems to let up, you will almost inevitable at some point come across the kind of rain that makes you have to pull over for a few minutes until you can see again, and for some reason people down there seem to like to drive 5-10mph under the speed limit as opposed to 5-10mph over like we do up here. 

All right, that's about it for now.  I'm hoping to get back to blogging more regularly so that all three of you who read this can be further entertained :)

A Poem From Jack

This may be a new record for longest I've gone between posts, but I'll try a little harder. 

Last week we lost a relative after he spent some time battling cancer.  Jack McCarthy was my mother's cousin, although to me he seemed more like an uncle you just don't get to see that often, occasionally joining us for Thanksgiving or Christmas or some other random popping by.  What made him unique was that he was a poet.  He traveled the country reading at poetry slams, which I never knew existed before him, and was quite well known within the poetry community.  He's got a few books of his poetry out, but it really was something to watch him perform.  Boston people can truly appreciate his poem for Bill Buckner. 

When I learned of his passing, I remembered an email he sent me after my father died.  It included a poem that anyone might find quite comforting when facing the loss of a loved one.  I thought I might share the email and the poem he sent me.  The writing of mine he refers to is what I wrote about my father while he was still in the hospital and before he died, and the mention of my brother is in reference to his eulogy.

Jack McCarthy: May 23, 1939 - January 17, 2013

Dear Molly,

Thank you. Actually, Mark printed off a copy and I read it last night. It was beautifully written; all the love was between the lines, you never spilled over into sentimentality.

Funny: I know 20x as much about John today as I did 2 weeks ago. He never tooted his own horn, and I think he usually had to let the dog out a few minutes after I arrived. I mainly remember him as someone I didn’t want to collide with on the basketball court or the football field; it was like running into a wall. Strange to be saying even that; it must be 30 years since we played our last game.

I’m very glad I came. I never would have appreciated the unending line at the funeral parlor, the mob at the funeral. I would never have had an inkling of what a remarkable guy John was.

You have a real talent for writing. There’s not a lot of money in it, but there is a lot of satisfaction. And Johnny could be a writer/performer—but that won’t surprise anyone.

We have followed your Iron exploits from a distance. We’re all very proud of you—although it’s crystal clear that you didn’t get those talents from the McLaughlin side.

You have some hard days and nights ahead of you. Following is a poem that might bring you some consolation in the low moments. (Helen was Carol’s mother; I wrote this for her when she lost her significant other.)

I know that you can never doubt how much you have been loved.

Jack

The Spaces Between

            for Helen

It hurts

            when love dies.

When love is deep,

            it hurts deeply—

more deeply maybe than you thought

            anything would ever hurt

again.

But with time,

the spaces between the moments when it hurts

get longer,

the moments themselves become

            less devastating,

till eventually you come to associate them

            with a sad sweetness

that has as much in common

with love

as it does with grief.

I will not say

            Don’t grieve for me—

do I look like Saint Francis?

But I wish you long

spaces in between,

and may you carry into them

all of that sweetness,

and only enough sadness to attest

the risk that’s being taken

by everyone who loves you.

Every time we love, we’re saying

            Let it ride,

and what’s on the table

            is the rent money.

And every time we stride again

out into the crisp desert night

our fists shoved deep into empty pockets

we know ourselves for losers.

But, Jesus,

what brave losers we are.

I wish you this too,

for the spaces in between,

this bravery.