My mid-life crisis

[juliejules66]

Thoughts on my favorite HS English teacher

I've been thinking about Staples High School legend Karl Decker so much since I read the news last night that he passed away.  I wanted to share one of my memories:  

In 1981-82, I had Mr. Decker for English 10A. Early in the first quarter, September still, we were given an assignment.  I don't remember what book it was about, or what we were tasked to write. Just as the temperatures were starting to fall,  my father felt unwell after an evening tennis game at Longshore, and was diagnosed with a severe arterial blockage. He urgently needed surgery. At that time, only a few hospitals in the country were performing multiple bypass, so my parents flew off to Milwaukee. 

I was "home alone" for the first time in my life. Both of my older brothers were in college, one a senior and the other a freshman.  I was supposed to be staying at a friend's house but of course we convinced her mother that I really needed to be in my own house with our dogs. Or so I recall. Yes, I had a party. Risky Business-type activity ensued (no call girls, though). Back to that writing assignment. The next week, Mr. Decker handed back our homework and there it was, a C. I had never received a C on anything. I was one of the over-achievers. I was devastated. I went to his office to plead my case.  

He patiently but firmly explained to me where and how my work had fallen short, and I burst into tears.  All of the emotion I had been holding in - fear and confusion about my father's condition, but also embarrassment and shame about the grade - came spewing out of me. I was blinded by tears and unconsolable. He told me it was just one assignment; there would be other opportunities and plenty of room for growth.  I asked if I could have a do-over. Of course, he said no. I told him about my father's surgery and how scared, upset and distracted I was. Once he heard what I was struggling to process, his tone and posture softened. He told me he was sorry about my father. But he didn't change the grade, and I got a C for the first quarter. 

Over the rest of the school year, I worked to improve my writing and comprehension. In our final assignment in June, we were instructed to submit our papers anonymously, with some kind of code, so that he could grade us without any preconceived biases. When he was handing back the papers, I was quite nervous. My code name had not yet been uncovered. He then introduced a particular submission that he deemed exceptional. Only a few of us were still waiting for our grades. One of those was the boy I was dating, a gifted writer, and straight-A student in everything. Mr. Decker strolled around the room, and stopped in front of my boyfriend David. "Is this you?" and handed the paper over to him. I had used as my code word some combination of David's birthday or street address. He looked up at Mr. Decker and said no, not his, and quizzically looked in my direction. 

And so Mr. Decker turned to me. "Heller, is this yours?" And there it was, the "A" I had long hoped for. Earning his praise meant so much to me and I'll never forget the lessons he taught me about grammar, punctuation and the enlightening and universal power of great literature. It's been almost 40 years, and I'm happy to share that my father survived bypass surgery and my parents still live in Westport.

[juliejules66]

Why I ran the NYC Marathon last year, and why I won’t do it again.

When I was about 12, the show “A Chorus Line” opened on Broadway.  My best friend Jean had the soundtrack, and we played it so much I knew all the words to all of the songs.  My favorite song varies, depending on my mood.  “I Can Do That” – how I felt many a morning getting up to slog through a training run (or, more often, dragging myself out for a run in the dark, after work.  I am NOT a happy morning runner.)   But the song that comes to mind most often is “Nothing” – that epic song, in which an aspiring actor describes her moment of epiphany that she had not yet found her true passion where others might have.  

I have lived in New York City for more than 25 years, and nearly every year, I have gone out to the marathon course and watched the runners streaming past.  Someday, I said to myself, I will do this!  I started running regularly in my late 30’s, and ran my first half-marathon in 2012.  I completed several more halves (halfs?) that year, along with running in nine New York Road Runner races to gain automatic entry into the 2013 marathon.  Then Superstorm Sandy came along.  At the time, I lived in a condo building that suffered disastrous flooding and we were displaced for five months.  I should mention that I was president of the condo board during that period, so my life was, shall we say, a bit stressful.  I opted to defer my marathon entry until 2014.  

Preparing for my first marathon, I followed a first-time marathoner’s 22-week training schedule that began in July. My long runs progressively increased from 6 to 8 to 12 to 14 to 20 miles.  In September, I ran the New York Road Runners 18-miler – 3 loops around Central Park (try it sometime).  My most torturous long run?  I think it was the August morning I set out to run from my home in Brooklyn Heights to Coney Island.  I was supposed to do 15 that day, but by the time I reached the boardwalk, at 12.9 miles, the sun had broken through the clouds, the temperature had soared to 90+ degrees and it was also very humid.  I was done.  I bought myself a Nathan’s hot dog and walked to the subway for the long ride home.  I did my longest training run, 20 miles, while visiting a dear college friend in Rochester.  She rode her bike along the trail with me, and carried all of my extra Gu, Gatorade and my outer layers when I got too hot.  A good Sherpa is hard to find.

While I did not complete every single short run on my training schedule, I was assured by many more experienced runners that I would be just fine on marathon day.  Nothing could have prepared me for the weather – a strong North headwind blew all day, with gusts of 20-30+ miles per hour.  And it was cold.  I don’t mind cold weather running; in fact, I would rather run when it’s 20 degrees than 80+.  The wind, however, kicked me in the ass.  By the half-way point, crossing the Pulaski Bridge between Brooklyn and Queens, I was feeling tired and hungry. But I hunkered down and kept going. Thank goodness for friends along the course who gave me a banana (Val) and cheered for me along First Avenue (Denise and my amazing sister-in-law Joanne and niece Bonnie).  Making my way up and over the Willis Avenue Bridge and through the Bronx, my pace slowed to barely a jog.  Coming down Fifth Avenue, I knew I was going to finish, but I was feeling the wind and the cold as the sun began to set over the West Side (the marathon was held on the first day of Daylight Savings Time, and the slower runners like me don’t even start until after 11 AM).  My GPS pace and mileage-tracking watch ran out of battery around mile 24, and then my iPhone died too (and therefore, the soundtrack of my epic slog).  Running down the east side of the Central Park loop without any accompaniment was surprisingly OK.  There were still some folks cheering us on (thanks, Marina!) even though the majority of runners had passed by hours earlier.  

So, as I completed the 26.2nd mile and crossed the finish line in Central Park, I expected to feel some kind of euphoria.  A volunteer gently hung the medal around my neck.  The course photographers took the obligatory “look, here’s my medal!” picture.  I walked slowly to where my warm, dry clothes were stored, and ate an apple and some pretzels from the goody bag.  I was glad I kept my throw-away thrift store fleece tied around my waist for the entire race, as I needed to put it on as soon as I stopped running and my body started to cool. I knew that all I needed to do was put one foot in front of the other, just like the Abominable Snowman, and soon I’d be walking into a warm, cozy restaurant to meet family members and order myself a well-deserved glass of wine.  I made my way out of the Park and walked across to the restaurant.  I stopped to stretch along the way, and hoped that at some point, a warm glow of joy would envelop me.  It’s not that I didn’t feel a sense of accomplishment; I did.  But I did not feel the high I have often experienced after a “good” run (def.: a run that inexplicably goes well, in spite of how much or how little one has drunk the night before or eaten that morning, after which one feels at peace with the world and with one’s quads, calves and hamstrings).  Perhaps, the euphoria would kick in after I had a good meal.  Nope.  Well, then maybe after I went home and took a long, hot shower?  Nope.  And not the next day, or the next day either.

It’s been almost a year, and that moment never happened.  I have run dozens of times, mostly 3- 4 mile runs.  That seems to be my sweet spot.  My right leg lets me know when I need to take a walk break.  I’m signed up for a half-marathon in a few weeks, and I may or may not participate.  I’m not sure if I need to run 13.1 miles, even though I did finish a 9-miler 2 weeks ago, so I know I can finish a half if I get myself to the starting line. I’ve branched out and am doing some yoga  and spinning and strength training.  I am enjoying taking classes at my gym, where all I have to do is show up, and a perky instructor will tell me what to do for an hour and then I can take a shower and go home.  My favorite spinning instructor plays great music, and inspires me to climb the hills and sprint the straightaways.  After a good spin, I feel great!  Maybe that’s the euphoria I was looking for.