*Names and identifying details have been altered to protect the innocent people who could sue me.

March 8, 2011

Day 67

Dear all,

Rewind. Backtrack. Undo. March has overnight, and to no one’s greater surprise than my own, become one of my favorite times of the year. Why, you might (rightly) ask? Two words: I. ditarod.

But before I get into that, I have to share just a few other things. First, to thank everyone who responded so kindly and supportively to what I did not realize was quite the downer email/blogpost last week. I had actually meant to end on something of a note of hope, but … perhaps I was too immersed in my own self-pity to achieve anything close to it.

If I had thought 25 to be a somewhat randomly-chosen number, now I offer you the different-but-probably-no-less-arbritrary age division of 40. From my under-forty friends I received more than a few notes of empathy – that they too feel unsatisfied at this stage in their life, or that they too wish for more concreteness in their transitory world, or that they too are inordinately jealous of people who receive seed catalogs in the mail. And from the over-forties, even more empathy: that they have been there and that, as we are often promised, this too shall pass.

Until it does, it is nice to know I’m in such good company. (And, though wary of both easy over-generalizing and guilt-induced-responding, I only heard back from the women for this missive. Men of both the below-forty or over-forty categories, do such quandaries and concerns not apply to you? Or was it the gardening metaphor that didn’t strike home?)

I have to play catch up now before I can immerse you all in the love of my new-found obsession, the “Last Great Race” that is the Iditarod. I had hoped to show you video of the next few events, but even in Anchorage the internet was not working fast enough. So here are some stills instead:

Here I am making my angry face, and I am aiming through the piece of wood to the chopping block beyond. And I am probably about to miss. Again.

Road stop on the way to Homer. I didn’t actually take any pictures of Homer, partially because “the spit” is a quick drive and all boarded up during the winter (think the charm of Provincetown combined with the width of the Atlantic City boardwalk during the abandonment of Woods Hole in the winter). Also because I was too busy staring at the waves on the ocean and thinking of home. Home, not Homer. Get it? Nevermind – moving on.

To … Xtreme Tubing!

It’s like skiing, only the hills are all bunny slopes, and there’s only four of them. And, you know, you get to sit down the whole time.

Even during the “tow rope” that takes you back up to the top.

That’s the catch-up … now here’s a preview for what’s coming next:

Much love,

1 comment:

  1. And much love to you my dear axe-wielding friend. May you split wood with passion.