I remained so under Italy’s spell, that I had promised myself I’d move there as soon as I won the Mega Millions jackpot. (Note to self: Probably best to start playing the lottery if I plan to win.) Two years later, my mother proposed we return there, together. I leaped at her suggestion—as well as her offer to subsidize the trip.
But to justify spending ten days in Italy, I reasoned I should incorporate at least one 52/52 challenge into the trip.
I had scratched “Driving a Motorcycle” from my list of potential exploits months earlier. Apparently, the United States had some silly law requiring a motorcycle license. Additionally, none of my cycling friends would relinquish their bike to me. Something about my lack of experience and coordination. Yadda-yadda-yadda…
While I realized I clearly needed new friends, I hadn’t fully given up my quest to go motoring.
Enter Italy: Land of molti motor bikes, flimsy regulations, and possibly the world’s craziest drivers. My plan seemed foolproof.
As I approached the motorbike rental shop in Florence, I envisioned myself as Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday: I’d dazzle spectators with my royal beauty and grace as I set forth on an adventure through the city, perched upon a classic Vespa.
But my cycling plans switched gears as soon as I spied the shop’s sign for Segway rentals. My brain went into over-drive. The new me, the one with a fledgling ability to be spontaneous, took over. While I couldn’t quite picture the classy and sophisticated Audrey joyriding on one of these goofy contraptions, I immediately embraced the idea.
“Italian motorbikes are cool,” I told my mother, “but Segways are practically exotic.”
My mom’s eyes lit up as she nodded. Yes, in our family, the nut doesn’t fall far from the tree.
The shop was new and business was slow, especially since the gray and drizzly day had deterred most customers. The clerk appeared eager to sign a rental. No experience? No problem! She had plenty of time on her hands to provide some instruction.
Following a few false starts, I got a feel for putting the upright vehicle into motion by leaning slightly forward. But stopping the Segway was more problematic. After a series of residual spurts whenever I tried to come to a halt, I eventually learned to stand up straight and motionless to ease the scooter to a stop.
Disembarking proved more challenging. Whenever I managed to stop and tried to step off, I tended to bend forward. This jolted the Segway back into gear, and jolted my heart into palpitations. Each time I inadvertently lurched across the lobby with one foot on and one foot off, the ever-patient clerk chased after me. She finally taught me to bring the vehicle to rest against a wall, averting any further movement before I safely climbed off.
After fifteen minutes of observing me cruise a few feet before stopping and then halfway hopping/falling off, the growingly confident—or growingly restless—clerk suggested I give it one last test by circling the entire lobby.
I raced around the perimeter of the store (I presumed the ability to control my speed would come later), before coming to a stop against a wall and agilely climbing off.
I flashed the clerk a grin. “There! I’ve definitely got it now!”
She nodded. “I think you’re OK to go. Let’s head back to the front counter to take care of the paperwork.”
I leaned forward and attempted to turn the scooter. And that was when everything took a bad turn.
Apparently, I tried to make a wide turn when I should have kept it tight. I began whirling in circles in a back corner of the lobby. As I spun around, and around, and around again, I became aware of little except passing flashes of walls, rows of parked Segways, and the distressed shop clerk.
As I tried to make out her incomprehensible orders, the satanic Segway took on a life of its own. The harder I tried to stop, the quicker I spun. I tried jumping off, but the scooter and the room around me were spinning fast. As I twisted around in circles, the Segway began crashing against the walls, bouncing off, and then throwing me into another spin.
Dizzy and disoriented, I slammed into a wall one final time. I flew off backward and landed on the floor, beneath the still sputtering Segway. The clerk ran to my rescue, perhaps a moment too late. As she righted the vehicle, I crawled to my feet.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” I reassured her.
My mom, who’d been in the bathroom directly behind the last wall I’d hit, ran out as quickly as her legs and her cane could carry her.
“What happened?” she shouted. “Are you alright? I heard a huge crash! The whole bathroom shook!”
As my frantic mother and I followed the clerk’s silent stare, I knew no explanation was necessary. My accident had left me only bruised, physically and mentally. The Segway, too, appeared unscathed. Yet the brand new shop’s now savaged walls told the tale sufficiently. Well, the scraped walls and the two baseboards I had smashed and entirely broken off. Several strips of wooden trim lay shattered across the floor. The store was in shambles.
“I’m so, so sorry,” I told the clerk. I bit my thumbnail and searched her face for my next cue, uncertain whether to laugh or cry or just get the hell out of there, pronto.
She looked around at the destruction and cleared her throat.
“It’s OK,” she said. “I’m sure this can all be easily fixed.” I waited for her to add, “Besides, this happens all the time.”
No, it was a safe assumption that this particular catastrophe was a first. And that my brief Segway experience would be my last.
Maybe the clerk took pity on me, or maybe she was paid by commission. She hesitated only a few moments before signing off on my rental. How could I argue with the assurance of a professional? Besides, I had a new venture to complete this week, and small details like my chronic uncoordination and resulting collateral damage shouldn’t stop me. So, I signed the liability waiver, and headed out to explore Florence, Segway-style.
Perhaps the clerk’s judgment, and mine, were a bit shortsighted. In my defense, I figured I already set the Segway-riding bar exceedingly low, so what did I have to lose? Following my new mantra, borrowed from a group of Kent State University students I’d befriended the previous night in an Italian café, I told myself, “Perche’ non?”
Why not, indeed?
My mom seemed less convinced.
“You’re sure? Really? You’re going? OK. Good luck. Be careful,” she shouted as I took off. “I love you!”
She likely imagined they were the last words she would ever say to me.
I flashed her a thumbs-up, inadvertently leaning forward and jolting the Segway into motion. No worries, I thought as I hurdled over the curb. I had this.
Within a couple blocks, I found myself gliding blissfully, with my hair flying in the breeze and the formerly possessed Segway now safely exorcised. I stayed clear of the busiest streets. The less-traveled, cobblestone roads made for a bumpier ride but allowed me the advantage of seeing old Florence’s hidden treasures.
These days, I normally relied on my cell phone to keep track of time. But my first visit to Italy had taught me—the expensive way—about international calls and data, so I hadn’t even brought my phone on this trip. After a lengthy Segway spin around Florence, I glanced at the watch my mom loaned me when I left the shop. Probably time to head back.
Congratulating myself on another safe and wide turn around an intersection, I veered back in the direction of the shop. I’d been careful to drive in strategic circles around the city so I wouldn’t get lost. Oh, I was adventurous, yet I was also quite clever.
A few blocks later, however, I still didn’t stumble upon the street I was searching for. As I squinted at the “via” names etched in the corners of intersection buildings, I grew confused—and very, very leery of my devil-may-care exploration. After I passed several blocks that definitely did not look familiar, it dawned on me: Many of Florence’s streets inexplicably changed names along their course.
I had no idea where I was or which of these streets might morph into the o
ne on which the Segway rental shop was located. I was lost in the middle of BFE, or more precisely, BFI.
I took a deep breath while I contemplated the Italian word for “Fuuuck!”
I had no map. I had no cell phone. I didn’t know the phone number, address, or even the name of the Segway shop. I spoke virtually no Italian, other than being able to ask for another drink. I would have welcomed a drink. Unfortunately, I’d left my purse, containing all my money and credit cards, with my mom at the shop.
Even a hundred Euros wouldn’t buy my way back to the shop though. Since I also had no driver’s license or passport, no one would be able to identify my body if I crashed or finally died from dehydration.
In the heat of panic, I knew I needed to pull over and collect my thoughts. I slowed and tried to stop at the side of the road. But without a convenient wall to rely upon, as I had been trained, I bounced off the curb and began spinning into the street. A car swerved around me, and the driver leaned out the window and shouted at me.
I wasn’t certain what this Italian man was screaming, yet I suspected it included the four-letter word I’d just been searching for.
I circled the city for another fifteen minutes, until the street emptied into a piazza. The iconic Florence Duomo loomed before me.
Spying this familiar sight, I zoomed forward and then jerked to a stop against a storefront. Fearful at the outcome of trying to step off the Segway, I instead leaned sideways toward the man next to me and nodded to the map in his hand.
Communication was no issue, since I quickly learned he was a Norwegian tourist who spoke four languages. He also knew exactly where he was and where he was going. He shrugged and handed me the map.
“I haven’t really needed it anyway,” he said.
Some people are blessed with an amazing sense of direction. Others spin in circles in store lobbies.
I finally located the obscure street on which the shop was located and, with my index finger, traced my route back. I pocketed the map, just to be safe. I might not be multilingual, but I’d grown way smarter in the last hour.
Five minutes later, I pulled up in front of the shop.
My mother and the clerk were waiting at the doorway. As they spotted me, a look of relief washed over their faces. They were relieved?
I couldn’t let on what had transpired over the past hour though. While lacking coordination and common sense, I still had my pride.
Sure, I was more Kevin James in Mall Cop than Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday. But damned if I couldn’t pretend, at least for thirty seconds, that I was an Italian princess and this was my kingdom.
I smiled at them and coolly cruised on for another block. As I passed by, before executing one final and perfect turn, I gave them both a royal wave.
Chapter 48:
RUNNING FOR MY LIFE
I had rushed into several of my new ventures with pitiful preparation. But I knew one item remaining on my list, if I were to pull it off, would require months of baby steps.
Running a 5K was miles outside my comfort zone—just over three miles, to be exact.
Being over-the-hill, overweight, out-of-shape, and out-of-breath, I tended to evade working out at all costs. Did I avoid exercise because I was in this condition? Or was I in this condition because I avoided exercise? Clearly, it was pause for the chicken-and-egg question.
All I knew was that I was totally chicken about making this particular commitment. After all, I was the type who piled items at the bottom of the stairs all day to prevent any unnecessary trips up the steps. (Because I was time-efficient!) The type who promised Ringo the Wonder Retriever a long walk, yet turned back after two blocks. (Because it was too cold, too hot, or too dark—for poor Ringo, of course!) The type who, when I moved to my new condo, insisted on dragging along the treadmill I hadn’t used in years. (Because I might use it!) (Disclaimer: After moving, I never again stepped within two feet of it.)
I always began a new exercise routine with good intentions, but I managed to justify never seeing it through. I promised myself to work out tomorrow, or the next day, but never ever today. That made participating in a 5K one of the first challenges I added to my 52/52 list, but one of the last I would finally attempt. Why put off until tomorrow what you can put off for an entire year?
Although I was slothful, I had learned a lot about my strengths and weaknesses. I knew I could never get through that race if I didn’t begin training months ahead. So, early that fall—eight months before my scheduled 5K event in the spring—I laced up my new shoes for my first training run.
I tried to recall the last time I ran. It was probably twenty years ago, and it was likely to the bar for last-call.
Before heading out the door, I glanced at my cell phone to check my starting time—and to make sure I had 911 programmed on speed-dial. As an extra precaution, I called my mom.
“If you don’t hear from me within an hour,” I told her, “send an EMT squad. I can’t be sure exactly where they’ll find my body, but less than fifty feet from my house is a good guess.”
“You’re going to try to run? Oh, bless your heart,” she said, sounding more condescending than concerned.
I managed half a block before my arthritic knees buckled and my lungs began spasming. I stopped and stooped over. Who was I kidding? I got winded just rolling over in bed. If I couldn’t run a hundred yards, how would I ever manage a three-mile race?
But I had made a 5K commitment—a publicly announced one, at that. So, I began a sporadic routine of what my friend, Toni, called wogging: a combination of walking and jogging. I wogged nearly a dozen times over the next couple of weeks, forcing myself to hit the trail even when it was the last thing I wanted to do. And it was always the last thing I wanted to do.
I kept waiting for those infamous endorphins to kick in and take me to some biochemical high. The endorphins eluded me, and I never found myself delighting in a run. I did, however, begin to see traces of some headway in both my distance and my stamina. That was a reward, of sorts.
As I carried on, my confidence spiked. I figured by my race the following spring, I’d not only breeze through the five kilometers but would find myself bored and tapping my toes at the finish line while all the wannabe runners finally shuffled through.
No good deed, however, goes unpunished. I soon started wincing from pain in my back thigh, right below my butt. After it persisted for a couple of weeks, I made a doctor’s appointment.
“So,” my doctor asked me, “where does it hurt?” Apparently, this is an actual medical question, not just the setup for an old joke.
“Right here,” I said, pointing to the general area.
She poked and prodded. “Hmm. Guessing it’s your hamstring. You probably pulled it.”
When I explained I had started running a few weeks ago, she nodded.
“No more running until it heals. Could take a few weeks.”
A few weeks? A month before, I’d have been eager for any excuse at all to stop running. Now, just as I’d begun to feel committed and to see progress, I was incredibly disappointed. Maybe I was evolving after all.
“Meanwhile, I can either prescribe some steroid pills to help with the inflammation, or we can give you a shot today,” she said. “Your choice.”
I chose the shot in my ass. This year of new experiences was either making me very brave or very stupid.
Weeks later, just as my hamstring seemed to heal, the early and vengeful winter—as mentioned in prior chapters—blew in.
My hometown, Toledo, made Internet headlines that year by being given the dubious distinction of the worst winter in the nation. As the temperatures plummeted into negative numbers and local schools seemed to be closed more often than they were open, I told myself that running outdoors would be risky and irresponsible.
I enjoyed a couple comfortable months of sitting on my gluteus maximus, until a runner friend guilted me into giving it another go. The temperature had hit twenty degrees that day. Practically b
almy.
I dressed myself in four layers and trudged out the door. The temperature may have stretched to twenty-two degrees, but I failed to consider the wind chill factor. I managed a ten-minute, blustery wog before my face became freezer-burned, my nostrils froze shut, and—in a final but not surprising assault—my feet hit an ice patch. Fortunately, my fall was softened by a three-foot high snowbank, six inches of clothing, and a naturally padded posterior.
I limped back home, nostalgic for the happier days of camping next to serial killers.
With no respite over the rest of the risky and wicked winter, I never ventured back out. Both my sons suggested I join a gym with a running track; I assured them I couldn’t afford such a luxury. Somehow, I managed to conveniently forget about the treadmill rusting in a corner of my basement.
I once again grew content and comfortable with my safe and sedentary lifestyle. My race wasn’t until mid-May. I reasoned I could wait until early spring to simply pick up where I had left off.
By April, the sidewalks and streets began to clear. I began plodding once again through my neighborhood. I quickly realized my five-month hiatus had left me starting from scratch. WTH? Inconceivable.
I wogged religiously for three consecutive evenings. Just as I began to develop a routine, I was hit by a massive upper respiratory infection. (Thank you, Sigma Chi communal moonshine bottle!) It sidelined me for days. And, as soon as I could once again breathe without hacking, I left for my ten-day vacation in Italy. How could I continue my training there with everything this trip entailed? Busy bus tours! Hazardous cobblestone streets! Wine with every meal!
The evening I returned home from Italy, I checked my calendar. I realized I was supposed to be checking “Run a 5K” off my list in just nine days. It appeared my newest running routine consisted mainly of running out of excuses.
After months of little training, and with just over a week before D-Day, I headed out the next afternoon.
Finding My Badass Self Page 22
