Gary says the best part of the 4th of July was when it was over. I’d argue that the best part was at 5:30 yesterday morning during our walk. When we got home, we opened up the house—every window and skylight. Then, in early afternoon, when people started beach fires, we shut everything back up to avoid the smoke. If we’d had company, we likely would have gone out and built a small fire on the beach. Instead we watched two episodes of a British procedural, and ignored the booms as much as possible.

Good news: The booming didn’t start until dusk instead of trailing out across the entire weekend. The bad news: The explosions were too close and didn’t end until well after ten last night. Even the echo was horrific.

There have been years when we enjoyed fireworks on the 4th. When we first moved here in 1979, it was legal sparklers and fountains on shore. Then a property-owner with a permit did shows about a quarter mile away. Those were great years too. All the locals came out to enjoy the show. But others wanted to join and participate in that professional display. Soon all sorts of people were setting off rockets and professional (all illegal) fireworks, and the licensed man stopped participating. “It’s too dangerous,” he said.

Since then the displays have occurred mostly at a distance, and we’ve had our beach fires and sat bundled up to enjoy the lights and colors. We’ve had bottle rockets on our (then cedar) roof, watched floating lanterns come down in shore pines, and had to move indoors because the smoke was too thick to see, much less breathe. We’ve seen explosions directly overhead and people who pointed their rockets in the wrong direction. No one has died. Some years, fires burned unattended through the night, but this year, only three were smoking this morning because people had kicked sand over them instead of putting them out with water. This year there were too many visitors, too much booming, and all too close for comfort.

People we did not know parked their gear right in front of the sitting area Gary had cleared for our own use, and fifty feet south, rockets went up, so we did not go out. This morning the tideline is littered with exploded cardboard, but all in all, it was not a bad 4th.

This morning, I ran a mile. I seem to be able to do that. We’ve walked 3-5 twenty-minute miles (plus beach combing) most every day during the pandemic and for a few years before. Then I decided to try running a measured half mile with the countdown timer on my watch set for five minutes last month and felt no ill effects whatsoever. I figured I try a half mile every other day for three weeks and then see if I could work up to a mile. My breath is generally the issue because I have scarring on my lungs, probably from undiagnosed pneumonia as a child and exposure to second hand smoke. Conditioning has always been more about breath than muscle. So far, so good.

After running my first measured mile, I ordered a proper sport bra from Title 9. This week I registered with ParkRun, which sponsors free 5k runs all over. The nearest is Rock Creek, west of Portland. I hope to be capable of running (most of) a 5k there after my 69th birthday in October. We’ll see about that.

Partly as a joke—I assumed I would not be able to keep it up—I started running on April 1st of 1994, when I was 41. Based on advice from a Runners World article, I ran every other day, which I still believe is the best way to build strength and distance. One day to run, one to heal. By August I was running six nine-minute miles on the sand. I would run to my mother’s house in the next town north—six miles in 52-54 minutes—and she would give me a ride home. That fall I ran with the cross country team. I coached for several years until my mother’s illness required more of my time and I had to give up cross country and yearbook. My first running injury resulted from a six-mile run over Tillamook Head when I tried to keep up with Jennifer Wascher, a cross-country runner and my student who was also a dancer. (Never try to keep up with dancers. Their conditioning is beyond reason.) Shin splints needed a couple of weeks of rest and I was good to go again.

The most serious injury I sustained running was when I decided to run to school—over 15 miles. I had been training for my second half-marathon in 2011, but underestimated the distance and failed to wear my new shoes. I ran most of the first seven miles on sand, but as soon as I left the beach for pavement, I felt my mistake. My feet were slapping hard on an unforgiving surface. Gary was spotting me and I should have taken a ride when I had the chance. I believe this is why experienced runners are actually more likely to hurt themselves than beginning runners. We know what we have done and theoretically can do, and we’re too stubborn to abandon a goal.

I’d like to think I would not make that mistake again.

My old ideal running weight is probably 4-5 pounds too heavy for me now, since I know I carry more fat and less muscle than I did at forty. I still hope to lose those last few pounds, a half pound or so a week. I will never run a 10k again, but I might manage that 5k. My body measurements are about where they should be, and while my feet are still not good, they are no worse than on any good day for the past ten years. I figure because I am lighter, there is less wear and tear. My clothing is too big, and Gary is nagging me about buying new pants. If something begins hurting more, I will stick with one mile at a time or stop running again. If I can keep running a mile or more every other day to the fall, I will treat myself to a full set of proper running gear.

It’s been a long time.