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Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Heroic Support
Greetings, Gentle Reader.
The Big Row is long over, but your curiosity perists, suggesting either that my prose is analogous to Chinese food (or at least MSG), or that you have far too much time on your hands. Either way, I'm glad you're back at the electronic 'fridge, 'cause I'm happy to put some heat on aging the Egg Foo Youg. Always.
Tonight I want to shine light on the real heroes of my row...the support team which aided me through conception, planning, execution, and an all-too-grand entrance into the Inner Harbor. I wish I could have each of you at my boat right now with a laundry marker, inscribing your names and perhaps a witticism; you guys were the fuel in my tank.
First, there's Peg. When this trip was a gleam in my eye, I initially saw a bit of a cloud in hers...yet she has been nothing but supportive and positive from Day One. Sure, there was a new dog in the house when I got home (Mobey, a foster dog, who will leave us on Friday for his new home in the country. Picture, Gentle Reader, a "Far Side" dog, and you have Mobey. Were we to subject him to radical cosmetic surgery and remove his ears and legs, he would be a seal, and a damn cute one, too), but this was no price at all to pay for Peg's love, support, and extraordinary logistical effort. Peg, I love you. You do things for me effortlessly, constantly, unconditionally, and I only hope to be worthy of you.
And Kathy, vaunted Blog Mistress and logistician extraordinairre. Kathy is responsible for virtually everything you see on the blog, and her enthusiasm for the project, for the community it has gathered, and her unending creativity have made this a truly communal event. She is the one primarily responsible for putting you all in the boat with me, and I couldn't be more grateful. "Kathy." Rhymes with "Can do." Sorta. There may be some truth to the adage, "There are no friends like old friends," but we have to come up with one that speaks to newer friends who we can't imagine never having had in our lives. Kathy, you rock.
Along the way, various characters popped up who made the trip a joy. Of the understimulated hoard that showed up for the launch in Troy on 8/5, perhaps most memorable is brother Bill. Bill waved goodbye with the rest of them and then kept popping up along the banks of the Hudson like an animated "Where's Waldo." He'd appear from tank farms, emerge from bushes, wave wildly from abandoned piers, flash his lights from bridges and dirt roads. I mean, 30 miles down the Hudson I was afraid to take a break for fear that he was watching and would report back on his slacker brother. Bill, how you (or your car) got to the places you did is beyond me, but it sure enlivened my first day; when a send-off lasts for four hours, you know you've been sent off by people who really care.
And Peter. What can I say about Peter? Peter drove down from Vermont, wisely bypassing the send-off in Troy, parked his car in Saugerties (50 miles downstream), got on his bike, and spent the day biking perhaps twice my 50 mile day, searching, calling, searching, ever searching. His Chevy was a treasure trove of Gatorade, sandwiches, marginally edible if healthy oatmeal cookies, and useful "sundries" for a rookie rower; Peter rowed competitively at Dartmouth, our alma-mater, and knows what a fellow needs to ply the water. We shared a tent in Saugerties and a floor at the Marlboro Yach Club, and his mobility delivered the only two morning cups of coffee I would see for many days. Above all, I appreciated his sage early advice on pacing, the importance of taking a break now and then and, most importantly, his incandescent spirit and great humor. Peter, frankly, was instrumental in enabling me to establish a pace and pattern that would ensure the successful completion of the trip. How can I thank him?
I've already written about Bill Flammer, my host in Stone Harbor, and his heroic dash to Cape May with the Wa-Wa Supreme Roast Beef Sandwich. Lore for the ages.
Then there's Andy and Sandy who, themselves hosted by Sandy's gracious sister and her husband, treated me like royalty in Beach Haven. Andy put the finishing touches on Sandy's bolognase sauce...and my fears that such a repast would have me looking for the men's room on my boat the next day were unfounded. That sauce was the best I had ever had, it went through me like a bullet train, and I was totally refreshed the next morning. They had driven all the way from Princeton to make my trip more comfortable; the plasure of their company was, as always, the best fuel of all. Again, how does one say "thanks"?
Peg and Kathy ran some logistics from shore as well, meeting me in Staten Island, monitoring my progress under the Verenzano Bridge, helping me through the morass of Sandy Hook, and even arranging a meeting, in Highlands, NJ, with the delightful Connie Cottrell and her family. Connie was the national champion in Jersey Speed Skiffs in 1970; I now own her boat, and just tipping a drink with someone who has forgotten more about something than you will ever learn is, for me, downright enthralling.
Other heros? Oh, there were many:
Everyone who gave me permission to sleep on their dock, their floor, or their beach.
The fisherman who gave me the skinny on the C&D Canal...which emboldened me to try this critical passage at night.
Folks who had the curiosity to ask what the hell I was up to instead of just wondering silently.
The girl in Mantaloking who gave me the key code to the men's room (and, I suppose indirectly, the guy I never met in Mantaloking who must have given her the key code).
The two gals on the park bench in Ocean City who not only urged me to tell my story, but who also, later, put in a good word for me with the cops as I rolled out my bag on the dock.
Cheryl & Cheryl in Chesapeake City (see pervious blog entry). I'm going back there for my next haircut and a Gatorade, and maybe a gift. Simply unbelievable.
My mom, who gets the "Traveled Furthest Award" for greeting me at the Inner Harbor. We don't get to pick our moms, but somehow I think I might have.
The Boys' Latin School community: my students, their families, and my colleagues. I am blessed to work - if one can really call it "work" - at such a place. (This week one of my students from last year said, "Man, Mr, Frei, you look ripped. Can I see the pythons?" I mean, I think this was a compliment; he'd never said anything quite like that to me before.)
And, finally, each of you. Frankly, the fact that this thing has taken on a life of its own beyond the act of rowing itself has been the best part of the experience. Your readership has been flattering and fun to pander to, your checks have largly cleared and are now doing the good work promised, and I'm going to miss this when it is finally over.
"Mr. Frei, you raise an interesting point. When do you think this will be over?"
Gentle Reader, to paraphrase Gratiano in The Merchant of Venice, "You have me on the hip." I have a few more stories I'd like to tell just to complete this travelogue - if only for my own posterity - but as we all know, at some point the Egg Foo Young has to go. And, as they say on Broadway, "Leave them wanting more." Or, as Kenny Rogers sang, "Know when to fold 'em."
Soon, Gentle Reader, soon.
But not yet.
xxoo
Mr. Frei
The Big Row is long over, but your curiosity perists, suggesting either that my prose is analogous to Chinese food (or at least MSG), or that you have far too much time on your hands. Either way, I'm glad you're back at the electronic 'fridge, 'cause I'm happy to put some heat on aging the Egg Foo Youg. Always.
Tonight I want to shine light on the real heroes of my row...the support team which aided me through conception, planning, execution, and an all-too-grand entrance into the Inner Harbor. I wish I could have each of you at my boat right now with a laundry marker, inscribing your names and perhaps a witticism; you guys were the fuel in my tank.
First, there's Peg. When this trip was a gleam in my eye, I initially saw a bit of a cloud in hers...yet she has been nothing but supportive and positive from Day One. Sure, there was a new dog in the house when I got home (Mobey, a foster dog, who will leave us on Friday for his new home in the country. Picture, Gentle Reader, a "Far Side" dog, and you have Mobey. Were we to subject him to radical cosmetic surgery and remove his ears and legs, he would be a seal, and a damn cute one, too), but this was no price at all to pay for Peg's love, support, and extraordinary logistical effort. Peg, I love you. You do things for me effortlessly, constantly, unconditionally, and I only hope to be worthy of you.
And Kathy, vaunted Blog Mistress and logistician extraordinairre. Kathy is responsible for virtually everything you see on the blog, and her enthusiasm for the project, for the community it has gathered, and her unending creativity have made this a truly communal event. She is the one primarily responsible for putting you all in the boat with me, and I couldn't be more grateful. "Kathy." Rhymes with "Can do." Sorta. There may be some truth to the adage, "There are no friends like old friends," but we have to come up with one that speaks to newer friends who we can't imagine never having had in our lives. Kathy, you rock.
Along the way, various characters popped up who made the trip a joy. Of the understimulated hoard that showed up for the launch in Troy on 8/5, perhaps most memorable is brother Bill. Bill waved goodbye with the rest of them and then kept popping up along the banks of the Hudson like an animated "Where's Waldo." He'd appear from tank farms, emerge from bushes, wave wildly from abandoned piers, flash his lights from bridges and dirt roads. I mean, 30 miles down the Hudson I was afraid to take a break for fear that he was watching and would report back on his slacker brother. Bill, how you (or your car) got to the places you did is beyond me, but it sure enlivened my first day; when a send-off lasts for four hours, you know you've been sent off by people who really care.
And Peter. What can I say about Peter? Peter drove down from Vermont, wisely bypassing the send-off in Troy, parked his car in Saugerties (50 miles downstream), got on his bike, and spent the day biking perhaps twice my 50 mile day, searching, calling, searching, ever searching. His Chevy was a treasure trove of Gatorade, sandwiches, marginally edible if healthy oatmeal cookies, and useful "sundries" for a rookie rower; Peter rowed competitively at Dartmouth, our alma-mater, and knows what a fellow needs to ply the water. We shared a tent in Saugerties and a floor at the Marlboro Yach Club, and his mobility delivered the only two morning cups of coffee I would see for many days. Above all, I appreciated his sage early advice on pacing, the importance of taking a break now and then and, most importantly, his incandescent spirit and great humor. Peter, frankly, was instrumental in enabling me to establish a pace and pattern that would ensure the successful completion of the trip. How can I thank him?
I've already written about Bill Flammer, my host in Stone Harbor, and his heroic dash to Cape May with the Wa-Wa Supreme Roast Beef Sandwich. Lore for the ages.
Then there's Andy and Sandy who, themselves hosted by Sandy's gracious sister and her husband, treated me like royalty in Beach Haven. Andy put the finishing touches on Sandy's bolognase sauce...and my fears that such a repast would have me looking for the men's room on my boat the next day were unfounded. That sauce was the best I had ever had, it went through me like a bullet train, and I was totally refreshed the next morning. They had driven all the way from Princeton to make my trip more comfortable; the plasure of their company was, as always, the best fuel of all. Again, how does one say "thanks"?
Peg and Kathy ran some logistics from shore as well, meeting me in Staten Island, monitoring my progress under the Verenzano Bridge, helping me through the morass of Sandy Hook, and even arranging a meeting, in Highlands, NJ, with the delightful Connie Cottrell and her family. Connie was the national champion in Jersey Speed Skiffs in 1970; I now own her boat, and just tipping a drink with someone who has forgotten more about something than you will ever learn is, for me, downright enthralling.
Other heros? Oh, there were many:
Everyone who gave me permission to sleep on their dock, their floor, or their beach.
The fisherman who gave me the skinny on the C&D Canal...which emboldened me to try this critical passage at night.
Folks who had the curiosity to ask what the hell I was up to instead of just wondering silently.
The girl in Mantaloking who gave me the key code to the men's room (and, I suppose indirectly, the guy I never met in Mantaloking who must have given her the key code).
The two gals on the park bench in Ocean City who not only urged me to tell my story, but who also, later, put in a good word for me with the cops as I rolled out my bag on the dock.
Cheryl & Cheryl in Chesapeake City (see pervious blog entry). I'm going back there for my next haircut and a Gatorade, and maybe a gift. Simply unbelievable.
My mom, who gets the "Traveled Furthest Award" for greeting me at the Inner Harbor. We don't get to pick our moms, but somehow I think I might have.
The Boys' Latin School community: my students, their families, and my colleagues. I am blessed to work - if one can really call it "work" - at such a place. (This week one of my students from last year said, "Man, Mr, Frei, you look ripped. Can I see the pythons?" I mean, I think this was a compliment; he'd never said anything quite like that to me before.)
And, finally, each of you. Frankly, the fact that this thing has taken on a life of its own beyond the act of rowing itself has been the best part of the experience. Your readership has been flattering and fun to pander to, your checks have largly cleared and are now doing the good work promised, and I'm going to miss this when it is finally over.
"Mr. Frei, you raise an interesting point. When do you think this will be over?"
Gentle Reader, to paraphrase Gratiano in The Merchant of Venice, "You have me on the hip." I have a few more stories I'd like to tell just to complete this travelogue - if only for my own posterity - but as we all know, at some point the Egg Foo Young has to go. And, as they say on Broadway, "Leave them wanting more." Or, as Kenny Rogers sang, "Know when to fold 'em."
Soon, Gentle Reader, soon.
But not yet.
xxoo
Mr. Frei
