Sixteen-mile March Before Patriots' Day

Early this morning, in a light but steady snowfall, I turned out of my driveway and headed for the Minuteman Bike Path. The lawns were covered with two inches of clean white snow. In the forest (as my Viennese friend calls it) the the brilliant white snow clung to the maple and oak branches spreading out in all directions. The long-needled pines drooped: a gingerbread village scene.

For the first three miles, I passed three people. I nodded and smiled at the first man I met, and said, it’s magical. He smiled warmly and agreed. Blessed solitude. I eschewed my ubiquitous audio-books and walked in silent contentment.

The bike path ends at the old Bedford Depot. A large weatherproof map shows the two trailheads nearby. I thought I knew where the trail to Concord began and walked about a tenth of a mile in the wrong direction. I returned to study the map again and found Railroad Avenue. At Elm Brook Park there was no indication of the identity of the trail. As I struggled to see my GPS, my glasses fogged. I could hardly read the tiny map.

A mile along, I called out to an approaching bicyclist. Is this the Reformatory Branch Trail? I was mortified when he skidded to a stop just past me. What did you say? Aghast, I ask again. He cheerfully affirmed and added helpfully that it goes into Concord Center. I was grateful but embarrassed.

Three tricorn hats and two American flags jogged down the path. Happy Patriots' Day, the father called. It is a strange April. All Patriots Day activities have been cancelled. No breakfast for 200. No muskets firing on the Green. No young man in Bedford scaling a twenty-foot liberty pole to place his red cap on top. No Marathon.

Once in Concord, I glanced to my right and saw the forest give way to a huge expanse of golden grasses, with a large pond in the distance: The Great Meadow National Wildlife Refuge.  Wonder filled me.

At Concord Center I turned towards Lincoln and later onto the Battle Road. Perched on a granite boulder, a perky snow bunny stared at me. My Runkeeper read 13.15 miles: a half marathon.

The going got rougher as my feet developed blisters and my hips stiffened. My first mile was a 16:38 minute-mile. By my last (mile 16) I was barely clocking a 25-minute mile.

Gingerly climbing the exterior stairs to Jim’s coachhouse office, I joined the video-conference call with R’el and Matt. This was our virtual finish line after completing the Conquer covid-19 virtual race. Jim and I tapped the laptop screen with cold diet sodas and we all toasted each other. Then I slowly moved back down the stairs, into the house, and up more stairs to take a soothing hot bath.