Cheering the runners!

The air was crisp and dry, the sky the best of blues, not even a wisp of cloud in sight, the wind light (at least in the beginning) and the crowds cheerful and friendly.  All the streets in downtown (the area we call Roslyn) were blocked off ready for festivities, music and post run good fun.

We missed the start -- we just couldn't be up and out by 7AM on Sunday for anything.  Fortified with coffee and dressed in sweats, we took the short walk to the Iwo Jima Memorial that is directly east of our place.  We found ourselves in the middle of the marathon's nerve center before 9AM.  Marines were everywhere. Security police were abundant, but distinctly watchful, ever standing firm.  Music bounced across the landscape.  The announcer kept quick paced banter to ready the crowd to welcome the racers across the finish line.

We made our way over to Arlington Cemetery. After this additional short walk, we took-up a cheering position with a clear view at the bottom of what everyone was calling "Marine Hill" this morning -- the last stretch of road from route 110 to the memorial grounds. 

First came the 10K "People's Marathon" finishers.  Some ran, some walked, They passed us in clumps, in all shapes and sizes, dressed to run mostly, but there was a number of tutus and assorted costumes.  I began to laugh, but then I  realized they were trying and I wasn't.  So I cheered and clapped to their success as their ranks dwindled after more than two hours.

What really brought us to attention with cow bells ringing, hands clapping and shouts of "Hoo Rah! Do it!" were the wounded warriors racing in their recumbent bikes. Their sweat, endurance and strained determination to finish the race was breathtaking. My heart pounded as these men and women, Viet Vets and young ones used every muscle in their bodies to bust through this last obstacle to the finish.  Nothing is so inspiring as to watch these racers ignore their disabilities to do what most of us would or could never do.

Word has it that over 30,000 people signed up to race the Marine Corps Marathon mother race  - the 26K.  When the leader hit the 24 mile mark we got ready once again. The leader was an Army man who cross the finish line in 2 hours, 22 min., 11seconds. We waited almost 5 minutes for the next guy and again for the third place runner. Men continued to climb that Marine Hill every minute or so, then the  fastest woman, an Army girl, crossed the finish line in 2 hours, 51 minutes, 46 seconds.  By the 3 hour mark both men and women started to stream in one after another.  With hoarse voices and chapped hands, we left the side line to begin the uphill hike home with a now stronger wind blowing in our faces out of the west.  Life is good. 

Doing the "Fall thing"

With Forte Vento on the hard undergoing the last of repairs, we turned to pumpkin and apple picking with granddaughter and family on Saturday. There were hundreds of families at the local farm near Mount Airy Maryland.  Even a non-domestic, urban girl like me had to succumb to festivities as we road behind the John Deere tractor on the hay rack.  I filled my apple bag quickly as we marched up and down the rows of trees.  I even bagged a few in my purse - but don't tell anyone.  This Nana is certainly no role model for Miss Bridget, the granddaughter.  But, she didn't see me so all is well.  As we searched the patch for just the right pumpkin, the wind was brisk and, when the sun burst beyond the covering clouds, it was a picture perfect moment.

Today, John and I are cooking a traditional Sunday dinner.  We are hosting our young friends from across the hall  so while the warm sunshine streaks though the open door to the balcony, John has started to roast the chicken.  As I sit here writing, browned butter, onion, and garlic aromas waft into the room.  By 5:30, the bird will be brought to the dining room table on a nest of roasted root vegetables.  However, the apple tarts that I just pulled out of the oven will not measure up.  Once again I was reminded of how important it is to follow the recipe when baking.  Unlike cooking, where you can throw what you have in the fridge into a pot and have a very good chance for a delicious success, baking is not very forgiving.  You can't substitute non-fat half and half for cream and expect perfection.  In fact, you can't expect anything but a vague resemblance of the original.  It tastes fine, but you don't really want to look at it.  This is why I am no longer the chief cook and bottle washer at our house.