A winning race

 Watervliet holds a special place in my heart. 

Once upon a time, I had family there. My grandmother was born in Watervliet, and my mother lived there when she was small. An aunty on my father’s side, and who-knows-how-many-other relatives, worked at the arsenal back in the days of rations and war efforts.

The city figured into a comedy act that tickled my parents once when “The Great Victor Borge” played locally and somehow my dad wrangled tickets and a babysitter.

“He was a riot pronounced Watervliet as if it were a French city: ‘Water-Vlee-Aye’.”

He laughed at that joke and mom rolled her eyes … for decades.

During my childhood – 20 miles away – Watervliet was still my parents’ Lenten destination for fish fries and the semi-annual expedition for birthday cakes. And more recently, it was the last place my father got his haircut while he was alive. 

It was one of the million tales he delighted in telling – starring himself as the befuddled octogenarian standing in front of a vacant salon he’d hoped would be available for a walk-in appointment, and a kindly woman – probably relieved he wasn’t demented, leading him around the corner to her own hair cutting studio so he could look just a little less like Einstein but still erudite. She turned out to be the hero of that little story.

These were the stories that came to mind when a running friend told me I’d be missing out if I didn’t sign up for the Arsenal City 5K Run. 

“There is no better run for your money,” he said counting the perks on one hand before switching to the other: You get a beer, a hot dog, popcorn, ice cream, an orange slice, a banana, balloons for the kids, AND one of the best t-shirts of any race anywhere … all for ten bucks. I don’t know how they do it.”

I wasn’t a skeptic exactly, but I was just coming back from an injury and worried that somewhere along the three-point-one-mile course I might break into pieces. But I did what I usually do after I swore off running and someone mentioned a race I would enjoy …

I signed up.

And when I crossed the finish line I couldn’t believe my time. 

“Was it downhill both ways?”

By the time we got to the Dome (where the afterparty was held before the pandemic), I had seen the beauty of the city up close. It wasn’t just the places I’d remembered from childhood. It was the people, too. The folks who ran beside me and the ones who marshaled the course.  There was even a man who reminded me of my dad, all dressed up in his Sunday suit, carrying an armload of flowers, walking home.

It was also a shock to learn from the announcements that I’d somehow managed to land on the proverbial podium.

 

As a solidly back-of-the-pack runner, I was stunned to learn that I’d placed fourth in my age group the first time out. It didn’t matter or care if there were only four other runners my age to compete against: My name was in the books.

I was hooked. The next year I decided to train. If I worked hard and consistently I was sure I could shave enough seconds off my time to come in third.

Sure it has snake, but there's oil in there, too

 So who knew phenylephrine didn’t work, raise your hands. Now take a squirt of your favorite antibacterial liquid and rub them together. 

A Food and Drug Administration board of advisors for non-prescription drugs recently voted unanimously to declare the drug commonly used in oral-form cold remedies (the ones that do not require the presentation of identification for purchase over-the-counter) didn’t work any better than placebo in reducing nasal congestion. 

According to reports, the drug phenylephrine was designed to reduce inflammation of blood vessels and is effective for congestion when used in nasal sprays but does little when taken by mouth. The drug is also effective for use in eye surgery, to increase blood pressure, for the treatment of hemorrhoids, and for the dilation of eyes. 

And now the FDA must decide whether to revoke its over-the-counter use, effectively banning it as an active ingredient from more than 200 products currently on the market. 

Ultimately that means the snake oil salesmen in the cold and flu industry could lose nearly $2 billion a year from this decision should it come to pass.

 Naturally, spokespeople for the business folks at the Consumer Healthcare Products Association have spoken out to keep the snake oil flowing. “Helpfully” pointing out that taking the products off of store shelves would be a drastic change and would not only place an undue burden on pharmacies and drug makers but also strain the healthcare system when it decreases selections of snake oil available to consumers.

Remember … Pseudoephedrine and other non-prescription asthma treatments were found to be significantly more effective than both phenylephrine and placebo. However, sales of Pseudoephedrine sagged in 2005 when federal laws placed restrictions on sales of the drug to combat methamphetamine abuse.

Now … a part of my brain understands the reasoning: These drugs aren't inherently harmful, and many of them contain additional analgesics that would likely reduce other cold and flu symptoms such as body aches and fever.

In the event the pharmacy had a run on acetaminophen or ibuprofen, a headache sufferer could opt to pop a couple of sinus meds and call in a standard derivative or maybe a credit default swap. 

But that's not why people take these medicines. They take them because they want to breathe through their noses at night, and their significant others may be threatening to relegate him or her to the couch so at least one of them might rest. 

I don't know. My guess is the bottom line is really just about the bottom line and keeping it from turning red. Businesses would rather sell off their inventory of stuff that doesn't work than put their profits in jeopardy.

So what if people don’t get their rest-medicine? Everyone knows there’s no cure for the common cold anyway.

It’s no small thing. Especially when drug makers look to recreate their success in getting approvals for more lucrative and equally ineffective treatments, such as medications for Alzheimer's that didn’t pass efficacy muster. They get to sell it anyway because people are willing to pay just about anything for hope.

It’s just a shame that our regulatory agencies are willing to let us pay for the snake just because there’s oil in there too.

Pacing ourselves

The boy has been limping around the house for days, struggling with stretching exercises and trying to get pre-cut strips of elastic tape to adhere to his dewy skin.

His Achilles and he have been in an argument over his choice to join the high school's cross-country team. And it appeared to me, from the first few practices at least, that the fibrous tendons were winning.

For the past two months they were used to swimming a little and lounging a lot by the pool. They were not used to fast starts or pounding strain.

The words - I TOLD YOU SO wafted unsaid in the air.

His father had wanted him to run during the summer the way he would have back in his old school days. 

Dad envisioned all the noble goals: Team spirit! Pleasing the Coach! Putting in all the effort necessary to grow one’s skills! It was a father’s desire so fervent that the man became visibly perturbed by the boy’s general lack of motivation and purposeful observance of summer vacation as if the kid belonged to a strong union that had won a contract for relaxation.

It's understandable. Sport is supposed to be competitive. It's supposed to be a challenge. And those who take them up are supposed to show a degree of dedication that should in no way be comparable to the speed of a three-toed sloth. 

After all, by either definition, the results of a teammate’s acquiescence to such a glacial pace and low exertion might be widely perceived as a cardinal sin.

I was not going to hound him. 

As I told my husband; I run to avoid all the negativity I perceive in the world. And while I have no qualms about running with our son when he's willing, I am not going to suffer the wrath of a sullen teen just because of some external notion of a motherly duty. 

I'll drive him to practice literally, but I am not going to be the nag that drives him to do it figuratively. That’s on him. If he’s just doing this to be with his friends after school and on weekends that’s good enough for me. I do not need to see him break through ribbons or stand on podiums.

I’m not going to say any “I Told Ya Sos” either. 

Best to let his coach do the coaching, anyway. She told him she was impressed that he didn’t want to quit or take shortcuts. If he needed to walk, that’s what he’d do. She can be his inspiration. 

Honestly, I’m just happy he’s decided to be there at all. He’s never been one to complain, but he wears his thoughts on his face all the same. 

His expression told the story, translated in every conceivable language, that he was not in any way having fun. And yet tomorrow he’d be there again, straight-faced and anticipating no gain and more pain.

Which is why I never expected him to say what he said as he got out of the car:

“Hey, I meant to tell you, writing the ABCs in the air with my foot seems to be working, thanks!”

I didn't remember giving him that little tidbit of running recovery advice, but it is a standard not outside my repertoire. 

“Make sure you do both sides. You don't want to be off balance. You just need to build up to it. Just go easy and you’ll get there.”

The last supper

 It was getting late.

She had decorated the living room with all manner of things she would need for dorm life over the upcoming months. The haul was staged in a maze of soft blocks. She gathered her clothes, a few pairs of shoes, some sheets, and towels, and was busy organizing them for transport. A fuzzy purple pillow that may (or may not) be taller than she is lay slumped over this low wall of luggage. Stacks of shirts and piles of fresh laundry everywhere else.

She stood, hands on hips, in front of it all and smiled. I could tell she was satisfied with all of the corners of her curation. 

She was excited to be moving back to college, where she would reassemble the lot in a more precise fashion, and yet, somewhere in this chaos, she was also in her happy place here at home. 

She had stretched this chore over the edge of literally every flat surface (and the most comfortable chairs) for weeks.  

And now, through the magic of this planning (as well as a dedication to the art of tucking and rolling) every single possession into a set of weathered but durable plastic zipper bags I had procured from a hardware store on a whim three moves ago, she was finally, almost, just about ready …

To pack the car. 

Piece by piece she dragged the gear to the porch, where she shuffled and queued them up by size. Largest in the front, smallest in the back. 

She didn't mind my presence, a warm body to provide limited conversation and quiet company as she kept busy with her tasks.

She didn't want any hands-on help. 

Which, I understand. She is anxious, As she plots each item’s placement, she aligns it in her memory like a coordinate on a map. She says she finds comfort and relaxation in the movements. 

“Wait a minute, wait a minute. What about dinner? Weren't we going someplace special tonight to celebrate my last meal? You know, the chicken place where for no apparent reason the cars start at one end of a tiny building and wrap around the entire county?”

I had been hoping she'd forgotten. 

“Oh yeah,” said her brother, who was “definitely not going to help schlep any bags to the car, or from car to a sidewalk and finally up some ramp-less stairs to an old elevator in an ancient apartment building,” not because he didn't want to see his sister off to school because he had track practice. Of course, he would happily join the two of us for a chicken sandwich, fries, and a raspberry-flavored lemonade if they had such fancy drinks. 

“That's ok,” his sister replied. “I don't need your scrawny, Achilles-heeled help limping around and tossing my stuff where it doesn't belong. Mom is enough.”

“Don't try to make it sound fun, that's mean.

This was the entire point of this outing: to sit in a line of cars for over an hour and trade humorous barbs until we received our orders of resembled characters in Shameless, whichever came first.  

Her father would have been here, too, if the scheduling of a job hadn't misaligned. He would have to settle for a phone call from the car as we scarf down our meals in which we make him guess which television character we are imitating with our fast food shenanigans

It's our last chaotic supper as a family for a while. Might as well be mixed with the kind of joy that sticks to your ribs.