Happy 75K to me!

 Happy 75K to me!

 

This weekend I hit a milestone, 75,000 views on my blog, http://alwaysatthestartingline.blogspot.com.

Big whoop. Yeah, I know. In the real world, that amount is nothing. 

Just checked in on a few sites I like to browse through pretty regularly. One favorite political podcast already has 173K views on a bit they published just an hour ago. A two-day-old trendy late night television pundit’s post has double that amount.  And little ol’ me? Shucks. I’m over the moon that I’ve gotten a comparatively teeny 75,000 hits over the course of a whopping dozen years. 

But in truth I’m shocked. Somebody out there reads my stuff! I’m blown away that ANYone reads my stuff. I don’t write about popular subjects. My writing is often clunky and could certainly use a good editor. I don’t deliberately solicit views by advertising brands. I just write about what I feel like writing. That some people like to read what I write is incredible to me. I’m grateful. Thanks!

That 75,000 is more than I ever thought possible. 

It’s not like I started writing this blog hoping to make a splash on the global literary community. Wasn’t expecting any views, quite frankly. I started this blog because I wanted to become a better writer and figured one way to get better at writing was to practice. I wanted to write everyday but I’m lazy about lots of things. Saying in public that I was going to blog every day was a way to hold myself accountable, to make myself write. 

I wrote my first blog post over a dozen years ago, July 29, 2012. https://alwaysatthestartingline.blogspot.com/2012/07/ready-set-slog.html

Since then, I’ve written another 174 entries. Some are good. Some are bad. Some are awful. I’m okay with that and fine with you being all judgy if you want to be. I’m just trying to figure things out. I’m not perfect. I don’t pretend to be. Okay sometimes I DO pretend to be – kinda like faking it until you make it? But I usually end up flat on my face when I try to be someone I’m not. So most times I try to just be me. I’ve got a lot to work on, and that’s okay. It’s the work that matters. Just like it’s the journey that matters. 

Speaking of work, here are some stats that show that sometimes I put in the time and sometimes I don’t.

That first year, I wrote lots of posts -- 29 days in a row. I wrote another dozen posts in 2012. 

In 2013: 22 posts. 

In 2014: 40.

In 2015: 13.

In 2016: Only 2. I was engaged in a lot of other writing that year. I was in my second year of working on my Master’s of Fine Arts in Writing, and in addition to working full-time and juggling often-overwhelming family responsibilities, was reading tons of books and scholarly articles every month and was also generating and editing scores of pages of writing every month. 

In 2017: Only 5 posts. It was a bad year. One of these days I will write about it in more detail. This Anne Lamott quote comes to mind when I think of doing so: “If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.”

In 2018: 6 posts. Started off the year prepping for another year of grad school so spent most of January to May doing all the requisite reading, writing, editing. This was in addition to full-time work and nearly full-time care of loved one. Rug got pulled out from under me (sudden family member illness) days before the writing residency, which was on another continent, was set to start. That setback, along with some others, did a job on me. The last thing I felt like doing was thinking.

2019 to August 2022: Nothing. I was still finishing grad school work and still caring for loved ones. Thinking about those times now, I guess marathoning goals were taking precedence over writing.  Plus, I was having serious trouble concentrating. Grieving had a lot to do with that, I guess. Running a bunch of marathons was easy in comparison to putting words on a screen. 

2022: Two very small posts. 

2023: One post, celebrating my retirement from teaching. Kept it pretty vague and brief. Not sure I can write about my professional experiences with any sort of distance yet. I worked with some great people. But also, there were idiots. Idiots everywhere. One day I’ll write about my experiences. But not yet. 

Here’s my retirement post where I did NOT go scorched earth. One of these days I will though. It’s a goal. https://alwaysatthestartingline.blogspot.com/2023/07/teaching-302-years-13-lyrics.html

 

2024: 9 posts. Slowly starting to make my way back to the keyboard. 

2025: 35 posts. Maybe this is what a comeback looks like? 

 

Blogger, the medium I use to publish, has pretty much gone clunky and is heading toward obsolescence, kind of like AOL, which I also still use. I’ve tried switching email servers so many times. But my entire life gets mailed to an AOL address and changing to the gmail and other accounts I’ve set up over the years gets too complicated. If I want a bigger audience, I should probably say good-bye to blogger. If I’m going to start writing more, this is something I need to consider. 

Blogger keeps some neat stats but nothing personal. I can’t see who reads my posts. So, if like me you stalk old friends, neighbors, crushes, frenemies and are hesitant about reading my stuff because you’re worried you’ll leave a trace of yourself and get me wondering, no problem. I don’t get your personal info. So read my stuff if you want. I won’t know it’s you. 

I won’t see your name, but I will see what country you’re from. In total, my writing has been read in over 40 countries, and on every continent but Antarctica. I think that’s wild. 

Most engagements? The United States, no surprise, is #1. Singapore, for some crazy reason, comes in second, followed in order by these locales:  Hong Kong, Brazil, South Korea, Vietnam, France, Germany, Russia. 

I wonder how many of the numbers represent actual people. There’s a good shot that many of these views are bots. I check my blog stats maybe twice a day or so. I can see in real time what country is viewing my work, what post the reader is opening, and what time the post was viewed. It’s easy to tell bots vs. human. When the bots are active, I’ll get hundreds of views in an hour, for example. But in most cases, I see those views inch up one, two, five views at a time, which tells me real people are at least glancing at my words. Thank you, if you happen to be one of them.

Here are my top ten posts for now. The one I wrote after the Boston Marathon bombing is the top view-getter. I agonized over that one. I remember at one point I’d written about ten pages on what the Boston Marathon meant to me. I deleted all of that, ending up with what I think is something a bit vague, disjointed, and cringy. Oh well. 

The other posts are about running certain marathons --  Chicago, San Francisco, Hartford, Boston 2014, or are on being a lone caregiver to elderly parents. That latter subject? OMG. Still recovering. 

As a writer, I like to look back at my pieces because I get insight into what I do well and what I need to work on. Writing is humbling. Warts and all, here are my biggies. 

https://alwaysatthestartingline.blogspot.com/2013/04/boston-saved-me.html

 

https://alwaysatthestartingline.blogspot.com/2013/03/a-different-kind-of-workout.html

 

https://alwaysatthestartingline.blogspot.com/2015/10/chicago-i-do-believe-in-you-and-i-know.html

 

https://alwaysatthestartingline.blogspot.com/2016/01/2016-hello-big-c.html

 

https://alwaysatthestartingline.blogspot.com/2017/01/three-marathons-and-baby-breakdown.html

 

https://alwaysatthestartingline.blogspot.com/2015/07/i-left-my-quads-in-san-francisco.html

 

https://alwaysatthestartingline.blogspot.com/2015/09/the-other-side-of-normal.html

 

https://alwaysatthestartingline.blogspot.com/2015/03/going-for-run.html

 

https://alwaysatthestartingline.blogspot.com/2016/02/dear-framingham-heart-study-thanks.html

 

https://alwaysatthestartingline.blogspot.com/2015/04/remembering-boston-2014-part-2.html

 

I took writing for granted for a long time. It hit me a few months ago that this is an outlet that I still need. It was mid-August and I was headed to the airport for a three-week trip to Australia that would culminate in running the Sydney Marathon. I was a jittery mess. Couldn’t keep my thoughts straight. Wasn’t sure why. I’ve been to lots of countries and run lots of races. I’d never felt so out of sorts as I did that day at the airport. I could not keep still. My head was running a mile a minute. I paced up and down corridors. 

Spur of the moment, I popped into one of the terminal stores and bought a writing journal. Starting in the airport while I waited to board, and nearly every day of the trip, I wrote. Pages and pages. I wrote about my mother and father, my cats, my kids, the sights I was seeing, the food I was eating, the smells, conversations. I wanted to capture everything. I rose at dawn and with my words tried to capture the sunrise, the flora, fauna, the excitement, dread, joy. My trip roommate told me something was happening to me. That I was on the verge of something new. 

I don’t know about that, but I left Australia with marathon #98 done and new perspectives on lots of things. Thinking back, some of my favorite times involved sitting at a corner table in some anonymous hotel café, with a cup of coffee, a pen, some paper, and breathing in the world around me. I’m glad I bought that journal. I needed it. 

Similarly, I’m glad I’ve had this opportunity, for years now, to share my words. Grateful too that some of you kind souls take the time to read them. Wondering what the future will bring and looking forward to new opportunities, writing and otherwise. Forward continues to be a pace. Until next time, thanks for everything. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thoughts on driving to, through, and in Snowachusetts

 

Random thoughts driving from Mass. to Iowa in the days after Thanksgiving 2025. 

On Turkey Day in central Mass, learned that the Midwest, Iowa in particular, was due for a double-digit snowstorm on Saturday, exactly the day I’d be driving in that area. 

Friday. Chomping at the bit. Spinning my wheels. All the idioms for feeling restless, waiting around, accomplishing nothing. Updated weather reports showed that, in addition to blizzard conditions in Iowa on Saturday, northern Indiana and the roads outside Chicago were under a winter weather advisory on Sunday. What to do? Leaving Saturday would mean decent roads until my halfway point that night in Ohio. But then on Sunday the second half of that day's 600- mile drive, could be dangerous. 

Instead of driving to Ohio on Friday, I stayed back in Mass. Staying until Saturday was a given. But then what? 

Could have gone shopping. Should have gone to the gym. I have little memory of what I did that day. It’s a blur of stress, anxiety, and rechecking weather apps. 

I recall strolling the main drag of my town, which is quiet in winter and nonstop noise and bumper-to-bumper traffic in summer. The storefronts were dressed in their quaint holiday best – copious lights, gold and silver garlands, pine trees decorated with lobster traps, clam and scallop shells, starfish, bows, bells, anchors, and other ornaments. The crowds were sparse this cold and gusty day.  Guessing all the shoppers were at the mall down the road, a place I avoid except in the direst of circumstances. 

In one Main Street store, the owner asked that bland, polite question: “How are you?” Instead of responding with a mundane grunt or “fine thanks,” I explained my dilemma. Should I take a risk that the meteorologists are wrong about the weather two days from now,  and depart for Ohio the next morning? This could mean on Sunday driving through the plains of Indiana and Illinois with a winter weather advisory in effect. And in those states, what does a winter weather advisory even mean? In Mass, these advisories come and go so swiftly, they rarely impact my travel plans. But in other states, I just don’t know what to expect. 

Do I play it safe and stay in Mass yet one more day? Wait things out? 

This kind human listened like she’d known me all my life. I’m guessing she was bored and hadn’t talked with anyone in ages.  I was the only other person in her shop. She said what I already knew to be true, but I guess needed to hear: “Why take a risk like that if you don’t need to?” 

At sunset I drove to the neighborhood beach and from the driver's seat studied how the dense band of white cloud that filled this section of sky for as far as I could see changed everything about the colors and feel of this relatively small patch of earth. Instead of the usual bright oranges and pinks on the horizon, everything was gray, dull, flat, but astoundingly still beautiful, just in a different way. 

I used both hands to push open the car door, the wind fighting me every step of the way. Ventured just a couple of steps from the parking lot onto the sand, salty winds whipping at my face and clothes, heightening every sense. Was just close enough to the water to see the waves were frenzied, tumbling over each other in ferocious rumbling clusters, grabbing at the sand, ripping at the earth. No discernible rhythm, just nature doing its thing.  If the wind hadn’t kept trying to flatten me, I’d have stayed there entranced, for hours, I think. 

Saturday. I know I did something. I don’t remember what, exactly. I remember driving to a bunch of local beaches. Took some photos. Breathed in the salt air and wondered if there was a way to memorize that phenomenally cleansing feeling of Atlantic cold piercing your skin, permeating  your lungs, tingling your blood. 

Wondered, as I often do, if the reason I love the ocean so much has anything to do with the fact that my Irish forbears  lived for centuries relatively near what modern tourism calls the Wild Atlantic Way. Perhaps there’s some genetic component woven deep into our family DNA that requires regular, appreciative inhalations of briny air so that we can flourish.  

Sunday. Hit the road early.  Finally. Caffeinated, with insides literally aching to get moving. Seriously, the acid reflux symptoms were relentless that morning. Roads in MA – awesome. Roads in NY fine until frickin’ Buffalo. Snow squalls while driving from miles 450 or so to 600, fatigued, burned out, were not fun. Could have stopped. Should have stopped. Didn’t. Reason? Non-refundable reservation at hotel in Ohio. Stayed slow and steady with hazards on for much of that time but sped up to my usual five miles above speed limit once weather cleared as I entered Ohio. 

Cleveland was a highlight. Though it was too dark at that point to see the beautiful waters of Lake Erie, a sight I always take pleasure from, the holiday lighting of the city skyscrapers did not disappoint. On the drive out to Mass the week before, the little kid in me got to giggle at the ingenious feat of engineering that magically transformed two ginormous, grim buildings into one devilishly comical turkey. Heading west, those same buildings were lit up to create the illusion of a jolly, twentyish-story tall Santa, bedecked in red stocking cap and jacket. What a phenomenal gift to kids of all ages trekking the mean highways around that city. 

Monday. Promising start. Looked like this last 630 miles would be a breeze. Congratulated self on problem-solving skills. Yes, I was the smartest person in the world for putting my safety first and postponing for two days the drive back to the Midwest. Looked like I’d even get my rental – yes, a rental that I’d never driven in snow -- which added another layer of stress to the whole drive, back to the agency not only ding-free and clean, but with time to spare. 

After the expected non-descript drive through what was left of Ohio, Indiana slapped me with some serious disaster movie vibes. Absolutely the right call, taking that Sunday winter weather advisory seriously. The highway median was littered with the sobering detritus of the high winds and no visibility weekend storm. Saw too many wrecked vehicles on the median strip, still waiting to be towed. Most alarming was a jumbled-up van, doors open with seats and luggage spilling out – all I could picture were the frightened children who’d been inside, hurting and crying as they were removed from the vehicle -- and two eighteen-wheelers with beaten-up cabs. 

The Chicago gauntlet, normally for me the worst part of the trip, was a breeze. The crazy SUV drivers who normally wreak havoc on this six-lane swath of racetrack were nonexistent. The truck drivers were almost too polite. There was the occasional need to drive uber defensively, as sheets of snow flew from trailer truck roofs onto the roadway, but otherwise things were progressing more smoothly than I’d ever experienced in the two dozen or so times of driving here.

It all went to hell a few hours later. Illinois and its sparkling, snow-sprinkled fields started morphing into a hellscape of fog and random patches of ice. None of this was in the weather apps. I wasn’t prepared but told myself I’d be fine. I’m an experienced New England driver. I slowed down to the bare minimum allowed on this highway. I tried to not think about how much additional time this would add to the trip. Forward is a pace. 

I know how to drive in snow. But I also know that when it comes to ice, all bets are off. Ice is not nice. Even driving slowly, and maintaining a distance of at least four car lengths, I had to hit the brakes more than once, when speedier drivers, obviously oblivious to the dangers of driving on semi-glazed roads, decided to pull within a car-length in front of me. 

I fishtailed too many times, hit the hazards, and watched cars continue to drive at top speeds while I maintained as much distance from everyone as I could. There were wrecked vehicles everywhere. 

Finally, with still three hours left to drive, I pulled off the highway into a rest area.  Called the rental agency and told them I’d be a day late returning the vehicle. Started researching local hotels then looked again at the weather apps. Each one said that this area was only going to get messier, but if I survived the next twenty miles, I'd have smooth sailing the remaining 160. 

Randomly had a big panic attack. Hit the rest room and splashed cold water on my face. Paced. Plopped my worn-out body into a restaurant booth. Closed my eyes and tried to doze. Pulled out my phone and played some New York Times games. Practiced Duolingo. Paced. Splashed more cold water on my face. The panic attack subsided. I headed back to the vehicle, determined to drive down the road to the sketchy hotel there and stay the night. Then talked with some fellow travelers who’d just pulled into the lot. They had driven from where I was headed. They said the roads ahead were fine. The weather was clear. There were sanders everywhere. 

I got back on the road and immediately got stuck in stop and go traffic due to an accident. Then did the marathon thing: Take it one mile at a time. Long story short, things got better. I made it back in one piece. No dings. No drama. On high alert the whole time, sure. Didn't sleep at all that night because it took forever for the day-long adrenaline rush to dissipate. But was safe, somewhat sound. 

Back now in a land of wide-open spaces. Today,  the sky is banded in clouds. Fat flakes have been hitting the ground for hours now, painting the cornfields in shades of grayish white. It’s good to be off the road, safe and warm. 

People often ask me how I do it. How do you drive for so long? The short answer. I just do. Lots of people do, I think. Certainly, I see license plates from so many far-off states and Canada too. It’s not like I’m the only one out there.  

Usually, the drives are a little boring. This drive was not. It’ll be a few months before I take this route again. The weather should be better. The snow will be gone. I’m glad for the break. But boy oh boy, I miss that ocean.