Category Archives: Chattanooga

Sunday Morning

Posted by dkrashb on

I wake up at 4AM feeling like I need to sleep about 2 more days, but unable to go back to sleep.  I lay in bed for another hour before I give up and tip toe out of the bedroom, trying not to wake my sister-in-law who, visiting for the weekend, sleeps on an air mattress in the living room.  My foot cracks with a sharp little “pop” with every step.  I do my best to silence it, but my bones seem determined to announce themselves.  Fortunately, my sister-in-law sleeps through the sound of my creaking feet and I manage to get a glass of water, scoop up my laptop, and go out onto the balcony without disturbing her.

The early hours on Sunday morning are quiet.  There is no traffic and even the birds are mostly still sleeping.  I appreciate this time in the morning.  I remember my mother telling me that even as a baby I was not a morning person–I like having time and space to wake up before I engage with people.  It’s as if each morning only part of me wakes up, leaving the extroverted part dozing until it begins to vibrate with the excitement of a new day and I am suddenly ready to be with others.

After sitting alone for an hour or so, I go inside to discover that Megan has awakened and started getting ready for her departure.  We decided last night that we would try to Longhorn for breakfast.  It’s a small little diner that Pat and I have walked by dozens of times, intrigued by its ’50s diner architecture.  We have been wanting to try it and they open for breakfast at 7AM on Sunday morning, so it works well for our purposes this morning–Megan wants to be on the road by 8AM.

Once we have all gotten ourselves ready, we take the short walk over to the diner, arriving just after 7.  Two women in Longhorn shirts sit at the counter.  When we try the door, it’s bolted, but one woman is already on her way over to let us in.  The restaurant consists of a row of 2-person booths lining the windows and a long, formica counter top with metal trim and short metal stools fixed to the floor in front of it with burgundy vinyl tops.  We pick 3 stools in the middle of the counter.  The coffee is made, the grill is covered in nearly done bacon, fresh biscuits are piled in a basket, and the hashbrowns sit prepped, waiting for their turn on the grill.  I wonder what time these women got started this morning.  They are both tiny, frail looking women who wear years of experience on their faces.  One could be my age or 10 years older than me; it’s impossible to tell.  The second could be old enough to be my mother.  Although they appear physically frail, there is something about both of them that makes me think they have strength that has seen them through a lot of hard times.

Pat orders decaf and is surprised that it, too, is already made.  The second woman, still sitting at the counter, asks how they get the caffeine out of coffee.  Pat smiles and says that they use chemicals that aren’t good for you and she laughs a big genuine laugh that lights up her face.  Her smile transforms her instantly and makes me smile with surprise at how beautiful she is.  She reminds me of one of my aunts who used to laugh the same way, dropping 20 years every time she showed her teeth.

The food comes quickly and hot.  There is nothing fancy here, just various combinations of eggs, meat, and potatoes, but it’s good and my eggs are done exactly as I wanted them with the whites still soft but not slimy and the yolk runny and bright yellow.  I appreciate a good over-medium egg.  We sit and talk of when we will next see Megan.  My youngest nephew is turning 18 in October; my sister-in-law assumes we will not come now that the drive is so much further, but I’ve never missed my nephews’ birthdays by more than a few days and I don’t intend to start now.  We talk about his pending graduation in May and I think all of us are struck by the impossibility of being old enough for both of my nephews to be out of high school.  Having no children of our own, Pat and I often measure the passage of time by the milestones of other people’s children.  It comes as a shock each time I realize that another child is no longer a child.

More people arrive and sit in booths as we continue to talk over our coffee, our food long gone.  I don’t want my sister-in-law to leave, but I know she must be looking forward to returning home after being gone much of the past 3 weeks.  I reflect for a moment on the friends in my life.  I am incredibly fortunate when it comes to friends.  They are an assortment of people who have come into my life through random circumstances and stuck in a way that makes me feel both honored and humbled.  Megan is one of those people.  I suppose I should thank my brother for bringing Megan into my life.  She is someone who makes me a better person even though we have always lived hundreds of miles apart.  I cannot imagine having gone through the loss of my mother without her–she also lost my mother and our shared grief got me through in ways I don’t understand and Megan probably doesn’t even know about.  As we leave the restaurant and walk her to the rented mini-van parked behind our building, I find myself missing her already.  The sense of being alone in Chattanooga without my support group rises in me and I suddenly find myself missing all of my friends in a sudden mass of self-pity.  Having just returned from Columbus a few days earlier, it’s as if the loss that I felt leaving my friends behind suddenly caught up with me.

We wave goodbye as she pulls out of the parking lot and return to the apartment.  I plop on the couch, deflated, much like the air mattress that now sits rolled in the corner.  I find myself wishing I were back in Columbus where I could get a hug from my best friend.  The thought of her intensifies my sadness to the point that I turn on the TV just to have a mindless distraction.  I have had many friends move to remote locations where I see them only once a year or less.  We stay in touch and when we talk, it’s like we just saw each other yesterday.  I know that this is how it will be now that I have moved.  I know that my best friend doesn’t care less about me and I hope that she knows that, if anything, I care more about her.  But for a few minutes I wallow in the sense of loss.  I ponder how I could have been looking forward to being back in my own bed when I was staying at my best friend’s house and, now that I am sleeping in my own bed, I long to be back with my best friend.  But the TV distracts me and I find my eyes drooping.  I set aside my sadness and give in to the pull of much needed sleep.

Dinner on the Bluff

Posted by dkrashb on

My sister-in-law, Megan, is staying with us only briefly–she has been traveling for the past three weeks between work and delivering my nephew to college, so we feel especially honored that she has driven out of her way to spend the weekend with us on her way back to Indianapolis from New Orleans. A special visit requires a special dinner, so we decide to try out the “most romantic restaurant in Chattanooga” (all right, so romantic may not quite be what we’re looking for, but the restaurant is up in the Bluffview Art District, which has a great view of the river). The Back Inn Cafe sits on the Chattanooga Riverwalk and caught my attention several times as a place I’d like to eat when I went by on my bike purely because I’m a sucker for a view.

After spending a busy day sight-seeing and relaxing with an afternoon nap, we decide tonight is the right occasion to give it a try. Pat, my husband, Megan and I head out on foot towards the Walnut Street Bridge. The sun is low in the sky, creating the orangey glow on the bridge that always makes everything look magical. Arriving at the bridge, we find crowds of people making their way towards their evening destinations as well as groups for whom the bridge is their destination. The former weave their way around the latter, moving at a faster pace. We have allowed an hour for our 10-minute walk, our dinner reservation not being until 8PM, so we move slowly and stop often. With the sun low and the breeze kicking up, the temperature has dropped and encourages us to linger.

A couple below is out on the river on paddle boards. We watch for a while as they stand on over-sized surf boards, paddling themselves along the river. It appears this is their first time–they move awkwardly across the river and turn suddenly away from an oncoming boat moving rapidly across the far side of the river as if they are afraid the wake will capsize them. The boat is far enough away that they rock only gently when the wake finally reaches them.

We make our way to the other side, arriving at the glass bridge. Megan takes the bridge in stride, but comments on the strangeness of walking over a highway on glass. I smile and recount my own first experience crossing this bridge, feeling proud that it’s now become a familiar experience. We linger some more around the Hunter Museum, enjoying the view from its patio, which juts precariously over the ledge. Then we walk towards the outdoor sculpture garden just outside the Back Inn Cafe. The sculpture garden surprises us with a melding of setting and sculpture. It nestles into the side of the cliff, providing a fascinating combination of scenery and art. Not being much of an art buff, I don’t know if art aficionados would appreciate the sculptures or not, but I enjoy the sense of place created by the garden. Each corner provides a new view while the sculptures elicit a sense of time standing still. A father and son are captured there, eternally caught in the intense embrace of parental passion. A school of fish are frozen in time as they struggle against a small waterfall. There is something about sculpture that makes me sad. The thought that one moment is all there ever is and all there ever will be for its subjects disturbs me. The paradox of being in one moment across all moments gives me the sense of being on to a profound realization that remains just outside my reach.

Returning to the practicality of life, we check the time and make our way to the restaurant. We sit at a large, round table for 6 out on the patio. We group together along one side so that we all have a view. The view from our table is not as good as the view from the sculpture garden, but the patio is lovely and the sun has now dropped below the buildings behind us, placing us in a cool shadow. We try things from their menu like peach caprese and fried green tomatoes served with goat cheese (I can never get enough goat cheese). The peach caprese is interesting, but I have to say I prefer tomatoes with mozzarella. We order a bottle of wine after checking to see if they will re-cork it since only Megan and I are having wine. However, since I order a stuffed filet, I find myself enjoying the complex red zin a little too much with the entree. By the end of dinner, there is only half a glass left, which hardly seems worth carrying home. I forget that 2 glasses is my limit (which I probably passed half a glass ago, but who’s counting?) and polish off the wine.

As we make our way back over the bridge after dinner, a cop on a Segway rolls up. We smile and wave and he stops to chat. We learn that this 3-wheeled contraption is not actually a Segway, which puffs up Pat a bit since we’d had an argument about this on the way over. We also learn that the cops patrolling on these funny vehicles are actually off-duty police paid to patrol Chattanooga pedestrian areas by a federal grant received due to gang activity. We are shocked to learn that even here there is violence. He assures us that the patrols have been effective and problem areas are now contained to places we make a mental note not to wonder into. He let’s me stand on his vehicle for a photo op before we move on.

Returning to our apartment, we take turns in the bathroom getting ready for bed–I realize this is the first time I’ve lived in a place with only 1 bathroom since I was in college. The extra glass of wine is hitting home and my stomach reminds me why I don’t drink more than 2 glasses. As I sit on the couch and close my eyes, the room begins to spin slowly. I open my eyes and curse myself for making myself feel sick on what was otherwise a perfect day. Next time, we will order wine by the glass.

All three of us fit on our oversized, ugly couch. We sit and doze as we watch a little TV, tired but happy. After each of us has nodded off several times, we decide it’s time for bed. Pat and I step around the air mattress in the middle of the living room, which Megan has insisted on sleeping on even though we insisted she should sleep in our bed. I am reminded that it’s been 15 years since I didn’t have a guest room with a regular bed in it to offer guests. The downside of downsizing. But Megan assures us she is perfectly comfortable as we turn off the lights and call it a night.

Our First Visitor

Posted by dkrashb on

Once again, I am on the balcony when I receive a call from my sister-in-law, Megan. She is somewhere nearby but trying to follow my directions instead of her GPS got her slightly lost. She tells me the street names of the intersection she’s at and I don’t recognize them. I am startled by the realization that I have never driven in Chattanooga and, therefore, I haven’t learned the names of more than 3 streets. She and both start googling, trying to figure out where she is relative to where she wants to be. fortunately, she figures it out–she is only a block or two away. I walk down to the street corner and flag her down as she approaches our building, catching her just before she makes a wrong turn and directing her to our parking lot. Note to self: drive the next time we go somewhere so I can at least tell people how to get to my own home!

The next morning, we run through the list of place we’ve been for breakfast and the list of places we haven’t tried yet. Megan chooses the creperie near Coolidge park. The three of us walk the long way, down along the riverfront. We point out the wetland, the civil war remnants, the aquarium across the river, the pedestrian bridge, all the sights that have become so familiar to us shared with our first visitor. Now we feel like we really live here.

We reach the creperie and it is open (the last time we tried to eat there, the neon “open” sign glowed brightly, but a bolted door sent us elsewhere). The guy working there sits at one of the booths, moves slowly to get up as we enter. We take the booth he was sitting in. He slowly moves to get us menus, then goes behind the counter and starts doing something, still slowly. He seems to have forgotten that we’re there, even though it is a tiny space and we are in his immediate view. We decide what we want to eat and what questions we have and make all of the gestures indicating we need him, but he doesn’t see us. Eventually, we think maybe we’re supposed to walk up to the counter to order; we catch his attention and ask. He looks slightly startled to have his attention drawn from his slow task and comes back around to our table. We ask our questions. I am especially curious about the specials on the chalk board with names like “Diesel.” He describes half of the specials when a family arrives. He says, “We’ll talk about the rest later” and moves away to give them menus. He turns as if to return to the counter and is startled once more when we stop him and remind him he was in the middle of describing the specials. Once we get through the ordering process, which includes coffees, he goes off and starts making coffee. I wonder what he was doing sitting at a booth when we arrived with no coffee made–we are the first customers of the day.

He brings our coffee eventually and we sit and talk, making it through an entire cup with no sign of food. Our waiter/chef seems to get distracted each time someone new arrives and it’s become obvious that he had done no prep for the Saturday morning crowd before we got there. He notices that we are out of coffee and asks if we want more on one of his passes. I hand him my cup and he turns, sets it on the counter, and then goes back to cooking. Another waiter arrives then. He checks on us and we point out the empty cup still sitting, forgotten on the counter. He brings me coffee and our food arrives about 10 minutes later. Now that there are 2, things seem to move along a little faster, but we cannot help but wonder if the first guy is high.

The food is hot and good, although Pat says his mushroom crepe is greasy. Megan and I are both pleased with our crepes that wrap around combinations of eggs, meat, and cheese. We finish up and head out, walking down to the park and continuing our tour of the North Shore waterfront, ending up on the Walnut St bridge and walking over to the South side. We pause often along the way, enjoying the view, the breeze, and the mass of people out on a beautiful Saturday morning. On the other side, we debate where to go–the Hunter Museum or the aquarium. Megan opts for the aquarium and we head downhill.

The Tennessee aquarium rivals the biggest aquariums in the US with a building for ocean exhibits and another for rivers, plus a butterfly exhibit and a huge atrium with otters playing in a simulated river below and many native birds flying freely overhead (although there is so much space, you need binoculars and patience to see them). I love aquariums. Today, I have the new experience of hand-feeding a shrimp to a sting-ray. It’s fascinating to watch the rays in a shallow pool where you can pet them, but feeding one causes it to come up out of the water to position its mouth high enough to grasp the shrimp. It’s my turn to be startled when I feel its teeth graze the backs of my fingers. I wonder how life would be different if our mouths were positioned where our belly buttons are.

We move through the exhibits slowly, not remembering many of them from our last visit, we are fascinated by the diversity of life captured behind glass. The penguins put on a good show for us. Watching them shoot out of the water, popping up several feet in the air to land on the rock ledge above the water with impossible grace, makes me marvel at the specialities represented by other species. Their feet are what really catch my attention, though. Thick and strong when they’re on the rock, but flipped back like tiny paddles when in the water, I cannot comprehend how feet can transform so dramatically in an instant.

We enter the butterfly exhibit and hunt for the species of butterflies fluttering around us. A woman with a toddler on a leash walks around us. As she tries to point out butterflies to her young son, he spots a “caution, wet floor” sign painted with butterflies, smiles and giggles and runs up to it, fascinated by the pictures at eye level. The woman jerks slightly on the leash and says, “No” firmly as he grabs the sign with both hands. She looks disgruntled and maybe embarrassed as she sees me smiling at him and says, “Of all the things for you to look at!” I am slightly disturbed when I witness parents who lack the insight to recognize that the world looks different to a child. I would have liked to have seen her get excited that he recognized the butterflies, even though they were drawings, and used that excitement to draw him into to recognizing the real thing if an opportunity arose, but not all parents are teachers. I turn away wondering if I could have or should have helped with that situation, but involving oneself with strangers’ children is always tricky.

We enjoy the rest of the aquarium, wrapping up our visit mesmerized by the jelly fish displays. Why is it that jellies floating calmly through gentle currents are so hypnotic? Returning to the bright sunlight outdoors, we decide to take Megan to our favorite Mexican place, Taco Mamacitos, for lunch. The waiter gives Megan the full introduction to the menu and sells us both on trying their most popular taco, which I’ve not had before. It is a hard shell wrapped in a soft taco filled with goodness. It’s the first time I’ve ever eaten a hard shell taco without half of the shell crumbling all over my plate. Finishing up our margaritas, we decide a nap is in order. We return to home base for an afternoon siesta and I think, “What a perfect Saturday.”

Being Home

Posted by dkrashb on

After returning from Columbus and our own bed, I sleep soundly, but still awaken at 4AM. It seems to be the magic time for me these days. Perhaps I really do need to re-prioritize with yoga going to the top of the list? But here I am, at 4AM, wide awake. I take my laptop out on the balcony and sit down to blog. This is my favorite place in the morning. The city traffic trickles by instead of roaring and the cool morning wind makes me feel like someday, it really will be less than 95 degrees. I pause and look out over the city lights–many of which are solar powered. The lights make Chattanooga seem like a bigger city than it is, glowing with the insistence that it matters. I think about my sister-in-law and my nephew. They are in New Orleans,when sister-in-law returning my nephew to college after summer break. She will drive to Chattanooga today, staying with us for two nights as our first visitor. I think about how the city looked to me the first time I saw it and wonder if it will charm her in the same way.

I relax for a moment, realizing that today will be a relaxed day compared to the previous days in Columbus. With no one to see and no need to commute to work, I will wake Pat up in a couple of hours and we will take our morning walk by the river. I check my work email and take care of a few quick items, making sure There are no emergencies that require changing the pace of my morning. As the first rays of sunlight start to hit the bridges below, I pause again to appreciate the changing scene. A bat flies by, probably to retire for the day, and I wonder how many Mosquitos it ate last night.

I go in and open the refrigerator. It’s completely empty except for a water-filter pitcher. We have been buying groceries European style–buying only what we need for a day at time. In some ways it seems a waste of an American refrigerator, but the walk to the grocery is short and carrying groceries home limits how much we can buy at one time. I smile as I think of how many small things have changed in our life by moving to a new community. We could have walked to the grocery store in Columbus every day, but it didn’t occur to us. Changing places makes us think more about changing habits.

I putter around for a bit in the kitchen and then return to the balcony, still thinking of my nephew going back to school. I remember going back to college myself. It was not such a dramatic change for me. For one, I didn’t leave my home town. In fact, I didn’t leave home until my senior year (although I still paid rent). For another, I took classes every summer, so my break was limited to 3 weeks between summer and fall quarters. I also worked, so the continuity of my job(s) kept that break from feeling much like a break. Even so, the feeling of going back to school always delineated the summer from the fall even when the weather belied the shifting seasons. It was always a time of reflection with a sense of starting fresh. I wonder where that feeling went after so many years of work with no seasonal changes. I now look forward to fall for the shift in weather. The cold nights and sunny days feel like a burden lifting, but gone is the excitement of starting over as the seasons change. I wonder if, in this new place, that excitement will be reborn.

It’s almost time to wake up Pat. When I return inside, he is already up. I check my email again just in case something is going on in another part of the world where the offices are shutting down for the day. I wonder if my colleagues on the other side of the globe are watching the sunset as I watch the sunrise–each of us witnessing the same event from opposite directions.

Turtles, Herons, and Toxic Waste

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Finally, Pat and I ride the entire Riverwalk.  I’d only made it halfway on previous rides and Pat had never made it past looking for the Riverwalk before.  Now, we take it all the way to the Chickamauga dam.

Not too far from the wetland beside the trail, a giant snapping turtle crosses the path.  We stop to take pictures, although I only have my iPhone with me for a camera.  Having heard many stories of snapping turtles removing fingers, we keep a safe distance.  The turtle tucks back into its shell when we get close.  We assume it’s female, heading for a secluded spot to lay eggs.  It’s tail is so long, it doesn’t even begin to go into the shell when the turtle tucks its head.

We find ourselves slightly confused by some of the signs–as stretch of the Riverwalk is gated with signs saying that it closes at dusk.  We make a mental note to make sure we return well before sunset so we don’t get blocked off the trail.

When we arrive at the dam, we stop for a while.  Huge signs warn of the dangerous waters around the dam that swirl threateningly–the signs imperatively state that life jackets are required near the dam.  Several small fishing boats are tucked around the corner from the most treacherous part, men standing defiantly with no life jackets, fishing for whatever is jumping there.  They compete with the largest grouping of Great Blue Herons I’ve ever seen–we count 17 standing just on the rocks below us, watching the water intensely and periodically snapping into action, snagging a fish.  Then, Pat spots a small sign on the shore with a warning about not consuming more than 1 catfish a month from the river due to the high content of cancer-causing pollutants in the fish.  I feel bad for the herons.  I am reminded that Chattanooga started cleaning up their waterfront 20 years ago, but undoing decades of industrial dumping doesn’t happen overnight.  I laugh to myself because I originally thought the name of the dam was “Chick-a-muck”–maybe that is a more appropriate name after all?

A man sits in a gazebo on the shore reading a book, but most of the people who have driven to this spot sit in their cars with the motors running, the windows up, and the AC on.  Interesting way to experience the outdoors, but with the temperature close to 100, I’m sure they are far more comfortable than we are, standing in the heat, sweating from our exertion.  We don’t stand there long–being in motion gives us more breeze and makes us feel cooler.

We head back down the Riverwalk towards home.  Approaching a curve behind a shrub, a woman comes walking towards us with her husband.  She talks to him intensely, not seeing us until she finds herself standing in our path, startled by our sudden appearance,  her mouth opens in a big round “O” and her entire body registers surprise.  I laugh out loud at the expression on her face.  She,laughs too and quickly moves out of our way.  We have found one pedestrian who thinks it’s better to stay right!

Passing a restaurant along the river futher down,  large groups of people walk out to the Riverwalk to watch the sunset from the vantage point of a pedestrian overlook across from the restaurant.  A family with 3 children stands on the path, watching cautiously for bikes.  When the youngest child sees us (she is about 9), she screams “BIKES!” spreading her arms wide in a protective gesture, and the family moves quickly to the side so we can pass.  While I am startled by the sudden scream and wonder at it given that we’re barely pedaling and even the snapping turtle would have ample time to get out of our way, I appreciate that there are people who are willing to share the walkway.

When we return to the start of the Walnut St bridge, we spot a street cart with shaved ice.  Sweating and stinky, it seems the perfect day to try it for the first time.  We each get a heap of shaved ice in a cup, covered with sticky sweet lemon syrup.  The ice refreshes us, melting quickly in our mouths, chilling me in the heat.  We sit on the bridge and enjoy our ice before heading home.  Pat makes a joke and I laugh, which makes Pat laugh harder, saying, “Wow, even your gums are yellow!”  So much for my whitening toothpaste!  I close my bright yellow mouth and we finish our ride, coasting slowly down the bridge, dodging groups of tourists and hoping my lemon-colored teeth don’t catch their attention.

Filling Up

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One of the reasons I have learned to accept that I will never again look like I did at 25 is that I like to eat.  I like to eat well and I like to eat a lot.  Many years ago on a business trip to Italy, a group of Italian colleagues took me to a seafood restaurant on the coast outside Rome.  We had a 6 course meal and I relished every course, enjoying an assortment of the best seafood I’ve ever eaten in my life.  What I didn’t know was that in Italy, women apparently need to be urged to eat seconds of anything and usually refuse 2x before accepting on the 3rd offer.  After accepting 2nds during 3 courses without uttering a single “no thank you,” my colleague, Gianprimo, turned to me and said (say this to yourself in a strong Italian accent):  “Dianne!  You are a good eater!”  I laughed, but in my head I was reminded of my farmer relatives talking about their prize winning pigs as “good feeders.”

Ironically, my mother was a horrible cook.  No disrespect intended–she was a wonderful woman–but all her frustrations with life, her disappointments, even her anger seemed to go into her cooking.  The fact that my childhood was full of love and laughter was completely unrelated to the food I grew up on.  As a result, I entered adulthood as a gastronomic blank slate, willing to try anything and finding that most food tasted better than my mother’s cooking.

In Chattanooga, we stumbled upon Taco Mamacita on a visit last January.  Located around the corner from the apartment we now live in, it’s quickly become our go-to place when we don’t feel like thinking about where to eat.  They offer an assortment of tacos to choose from that are as unmexican as General Homeboy (panko-breaded shrimp fried and served with a distinctly Asian inspired sauce, mexified with heaps of fresh cilantro).  This is my personal favorite–I can never get enough cilantro.  They also serve up margaritas with freshly squeezed juice over shaved ice.  As much as I enjoy trying different tacos from their menu, I also enjoy the assortment of people that congregate there.  One evening, there was a sweet-sixteen birthday party with a dozen or so girls all dressed in their finest.  Balloons and a big sign announced the event as girls giggled and drank large cokes through straws.  On the other side of the restaurant, a family with two small children tried to eat while their toddling daughter tried to run away with her high chair. laughing hysterically at her new game.  Across from them, an older couple sat silently, the man sitting with his legs spread wide to accommodate his belly, tucking his napkin under his crotch so that it didn’t fall onto the floor.  A younger couple occupied a booth behind them, sitting side-by-side sharing their food and looking into each other’s eyes with every bite.  With every stage of life represented in about 500 square feet of space, it’s hard not to be entertained.

We also tried the North Shore Grille, although I was a little confused that they call themselves a crab shack but only offer 2 items on the menu containing crab. I ordered pulled pork.  The waitress seemed slightly crazy, complaining about a loud table of women on a ladies night out and laughing so hard when one of them slips on the stairs that she has to walk away.  Dimly lit with hard wood floors, large spaces, and a big bar right on the main street with open windows, the restaurant definitely feels more like a pub than a crab shack.  The other patrons seem like regulars–often greeting new arrivals by name–adding to the pub feel.  Perhaps if we’d opted to sit on the patio, which faces Coolidge Park, we’d have gotten more of a crab shack vibe, but it’s too hot to enjoy outdoor dining that evening.  When dinner came, the portions were so large that we ended up taking home enough food for both lunch and dinner the next day.  I’m not quite fond enough of pulled pork to want to eat it three meals in a row, but I guess if I valued volume over quality, I would be delighted.

Most recently, we discovered the Italian bistro at the East end of the main drag.  They must be new because I can’t even find them with Google.  They offer a mix and match menu where you pick your pasta, your sauce, and add whatever toppings you like.  I had the 3-cheese ravioli with vodka sauce and lobster meat.  The raviolis were house-made, fresh, large and delicious.  The sauce was equally fabulous.  The lobster meat, however, was overwhelmed by the sauce and the texture detracted from the beautiful raviolis, so I found myself wishing I’d left it off.  Definitely a place we’ll go again.  On that night, a weekday evening, we ate late, not arriving until 9PM.  Fortunately, they serve until 10PM, although only a couple of tables are occupied.  We opt to eat in the bar, where most people are sitting.  The waitress smiles with genuine enthusiasm.  She makes us feel like she’s so happy we’ve come that it isn’t the last hour their open and she’s not at all tired of serving people.  We think it must be her first day.  🙂  When I fail to finish my rich pasta, she brings the leftovers back to me in a tidy aluminum dish with a paper cover that she has carefully labeled with the contents and the date.  When I open the container the next day to serve up lunch, I can’t help but smile at the care she’s taken.

On another day when Pat is out of town, I am left to fend for myself at lunch.  I have 30 minutes between conference calls, so I walk down the street to see what I can find.  I see a sign for the River Street Deli and decide a sandwich will be quick and easy.  When I pull open the door, I am confronted by a wall with a sign for a store on the left, another store on the right, and a sign for the deli that points in both directions.  Since the store on the right is closed, I go left.  I enter a store full of crafty trinkets and wonder if I’ve chosen wrong.  A woman asks if she can help me and I hesitantly say, “Is there a deli in here?”  She instructs me to go out the back door and down the stairs.  The River Street Deli is in a walk-out basement facing the opposite direction as the store above with Coolidge Park as its view.  I enter and find that it deserted (it’s early for lunch, but I have calls through the more traditional lunch hour).  A man offers me a taste of their Stromboli.  It’s rich and salty, gooey with cheese.  I decide it’s the perfect lunch.  Walking out the door a few minutes later with hot Stromboli in a greasy paper bag, I see that park and decide I have enough time to sit and eat.  I walk towards the fountains where children squeal as they run through the water.  I find a table set apart from the fountains by a row of hedges and sit myself down to enjoy my sandwich.  The Stromboli tastes great, but by the time I finish my sandwich, I wish I’d eaten only half of it.

As I sit there munching away, a small tow-head escapes from her mother and comes wandering to my side of the hedge.  I watch her cautiously, thinking how freaked out her mother will be when she discovers her tiny urchin out of sight and within grabbing distance of a strange woman eating lunch alone in a park by a children’s playground.  I think back to my own childhood that pre-dates fears of child snatching and molestation and how times have changed that I now worry about an unattended child getting too close to me like their proximity endangers me.  Equally, I am concerned for the child’s safety, so I watch for anyone coming who might be an real threat rather than an imagined one.  Fortunately, the child’s mother comes around the hedge non-plussed.  Clearly she has known where her daughter went all along.  Her daughter wants to play hide-and-seek, but her mother is not in the mood.  She tells her daughter she’s not playing a game and if she doesn’t return to the fountain with her, they’re going home.  I smile at the mother with a smile that I hope is reassuring and not creepy.

One morning last week, Pat and I decided to get breakfast out during our morning walk.  We checked out Julie Darling Donuts.  With recipes rivaling Voodoo donuts in Portland, I had to try their “Pancakes and Bacon” donut.  It was good, but for some reason, I couldn’t taste the bacon even though it was real bacon fried up in a pan, crumbled and generously applied to the top of the donut.  The donut itself was amazingly moist, rich, and extremely dense.  I had to stop after half the donut–after that, the rich sweetness overwhelmed my taste buds.  Unfortunately, donuts don’t keep well and taking a bite later in the day meant experiencing the disappointment of a no-longer-fresh donut.  I’m glad that I couldn’t eat the whole donut–I really don’t need a new habit that adds hundreds (if not thousands) of empty calories to my already full plate.

While there are more restaurants yet to try on the same block as our apartment, I find I enjoy eating on the other side of the river more.  Not necessarily because the food is better (it’s hit or miss), but because I like the longer walk back after eating.  Of the few places we’ve tried on the South side of the river, 212 Market St appeals to my inner activist.  They pride themselves on green practices and feature sustainably grown foods, including grass-fed meat.  I find I can enjoy the food unencumbered by guilt over what I’m eating.  Plus, our friendly server, excited to learn that we’re new to the area, offers advice on what to see and do in Chattanooga.

Walking, eating, and walking again combine several of my favorite past times.  Walking relaxes me and affords many opportunities to people watch in the busy district.  Eating satisfies my taste buds.  Walking again helps reduce an overly full stomach to something comfortable again while giving me a second view of the scene of people that has shifted and changed since the walk out to dinner.  With tourists rambling over the bridge in the requisite uniform (shorts, polo shirts and white running shoes, often with black socks for men; cropped summer pants and printed T-shirts with sneakers and no socks for women) bumping up against locals on dates in summer dresses and sandals or more alternative locals in all black, chains, and boots, the word “eclectic” comes to mind. Returning over the bridge late on a Friday night in the summer means not only that the crowd is more colorful and lively, but it’s accompanied by the sounds of the summer outdoor music program playing in front of the aquarium.  I find myself walking to the beat of the music.  With the wind kicking up after sunset, the walk is doubly refreshing after a long, hot day of sitting in front of a computer.

The Reflection Riding

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Today, we want to go hiking, but we need to drop off our recycling and we get a late start, so we want a destination that is less than a 20-minute drive.  After a quick Google, the Reflection Riding jumps out as a place to explore.  I’m not sure how it got it’s name–I don’t know what a riding is exactly, but I imagine it has to do with horses.  Both a Nature Center and an Arboretum have found their homes there.  The Nature Center participates in the Red Wolf Species Survival Plan and breeds them in captivity.  Unfortunately, we arrived at noon and the Red Wolves were secluded in a shaded den where we didn’t get to see them.  We talk to the wildlife curator when we arrive and she recommends an easy hike for a hot day.

We start out on the gravel road that can also be driven.  We are not more than 5 minutes into our hike when a wild turkey appears in the woods.  I drop everything to pull out my big lens and set up for a shot.  Unfortunately, by the time I get my lens out, the turkey has disappeared into the brush.  We walk a ways looking for it, but no luck.  I give up before I get my gear set up completely and we keep walking.  Of course, we spot 2 does and a fawn minutes later, but by the time I get my monopod attached to the lens, they too have gone the way of the turkey.  I curse myself for missing a shot 2X in less than 5 minutes due to lack of preparedness–why would I take 20 pounds of gear on a hike and not be ready for wildlife to appear at any moment?

We walk on to a gazebo by a small pond and sit in the shade for a bit.  Pat spots a turtle poking its beak through the surface of the pond who immediately disappears when I set up my camera.  I spot a bird that I don’t recognize, excited that it might be a bird I’ve never seen before.  I dig the binoculars out of Pat’s day pack and wait for the bird to reappear.  When it finally does, it’s a Mourning Dove.  I am sorely disappointed.  I think I see another interesting bird by the far edge of the pond, but I can’t find it with the binoculars.  Several minutes later, it flies away and I realize it was a Green Heron–another shot missed.  At this point, I’m wishing I’d left all my camera gear at home!

We walk on, avoiding the poison ivy that grows abundantly by the side of the road, discovering a vegetable garden and grape arbor.  The tomatoes are small and green.  The grapes the same.  I am reminded of friends who have been complaining about a lack of tomatoes back in Columbus and wonder if the summer was just too hot for a productive garden?

Further down the road, we find a patch of bamboo.  I’m a bit shocked that an arboretum and nature center would have bamboo growing where it clearly doesn’t belong.  The bamboo surrounds one remaining native evergreen, crushing it with shade and crowding it for space; I feel like I’m witnessing a still-life of war.  We walk through the bamboo and experience the deep shade it provides.  I like bamboo, but having spent a lot of time removing invasive species in the Walhalla Ravine, I wonder if it’s a good idea to introduce plants that don’t belong here.

We wander on, back in the sun, with the heat growing more intense.  Small flying insects insist they must fly into my eyes.  I am reminded of horses at pasture wearing eye covers and wondering if they make such a thing for humans?  We reach the furthest point in the loop road and find a meadow with yellow wildflowers I don’t recognize.  The sky is intensely blue.  I switch lens and take a few shots even though the light is harsh, creating strong shadows and sharp contrasts.  We take a footpath back to another gazebo.  Pat finds shade on a rock wall while I climb some steps to sit in deeper shade and discover another wildflower I don’t recognize.  I switch lenses again and attempt to shoot the flower while it sways in the breeze, enjoying the cooler air, but wishing the flower would hold still.  I spot a Hairy Woodpecker (or maybe it’s a Downey–I can never tell how big a bird is unless I see it in comparison to another bird).  Secluded in the shadows, I am unable to get a shot.  Another bird sneaks behind a tree and I wonder what it could be.  I wait patiently for it to expose itself, but it’s well covered behind brush and shadows.  Eventually it perches in the open and I realize I’ve been tracking a robin.  The Carolina Chickadees and Wrens compete vocally for my attention.  They sing constantly, but I never seen a-one.

We walk on up the trail, climbing up the side of Lookout Mountain a bit.  The shade grows deeper–a welcome relief.  I make a mental note not to start a hike at noon in August in Chattanooga as we find some relief in the cooler shade only to be attacked by more eye-obsessed insects.  The forest floor is covered with myrtle or vinca (I never could tell them apart) in parts, but the poison ivy is so prevalent that I can’t imagine anyone wanting to undertake removing the invasive ground cover.  It’s beautiful none-the-less.  The advantage of being out on a hot afternoon is that no one else is there.  The birdsongs are disrupted only by the sounds of trains passing through the valley.  We hear rustling in the leaves and look around, me immediately getting my camera ready this time.  Eventually spotting the source of the noise, we are just in time to spot a gray squirrel jumping from the ground to the back of a tree, hidden from view.  I wonder again why I am carrying 20 pounds of equipment.  Then I remind myself that Pat is now carrying at least 10 of those pounds and probably wondering the same thing; I decide not to complain.

As we walk along, I suddenly experience a sharp, inexplicable pain in my big toe.  Having landed badly on my first hill flight at hang gliding school the week before, I’m worried that I’ve re-injured myself.  I stop, pull off my shoe, rub my toe trying to determine what’s wrong.  After a few minutes, I give up discovering the source of pain, put my shoe back on and we continue on our way, my toe feeling just fine.  I’m relieved but puzzled.  A short distance later, we approach a clearing that gives us a view of the foothills in the distance.  In the clearer part of the path, thick plants grow along the way.  When I shuffle my feet, one of the plants wedges its way between two of my toes (in my fivefingers shoes) and I experience the same pain I had in my big toe.  Mystery solved, I remove the debris, take a few shots of the scene, including a log cabin tucked between the trees below, and we move on.

We work our way further up the hill, the woods deepening and getting more quiet.  I wish that we would have chosen a higher route–the shade and solitude are more enjoyable than the hot hike along the road.  As we relax into the cooler, quieter setting, I experience a growing sense of peacefulness that reminds me why I hike and erases the irritations of heat and bugs.  However, it turns out that we are nearing the end of our hike.  The path turns downhill and we see the loop road ahead.  Just then, we spot three wild turkeys.  This time, I am ready.  I set up my camera and start shooting.  One of the turkeys seems curious about the sound of my camera.  It pauses behind thin cover and plays peek-a-boo as if it thinks it’s well hidden.  I congratulate myself for bringing my telephoto lens, thinking the weight was well worth it.

We return to our apartment hot and tired.  I ask Pat what stood out for him from our hike.  He says, “I don’t know . . . I just walked.  It was hot.  I walked and I sweated.”  But  I reflect upon the riding (yes, it’s a pun) and am glad that we went.  While our first experience may not have been under optimal conditions, I know we will return there.  But next time, we’ll pick a ridge trail.  There is something about the woods that draws me in.  Deep in the woods surrounded by the sounds of birdsongs and footsteps, the voice in my head goes silent.  The experience of inner silence brings me back to the woods time and time again–after all, not even I want to listen to me all the time.

A Yankee Clutz Bikes Southern Style

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On my second ride of the Tennessee Riverwalk, I find myself narrating. Thinking of my blog and what I will say about this ride, I find myself writing along the way. I’m reminded of Stranger than Fiction, except that I am both the narrator and the narratee. Where does this voice in my head come from? And what is the line between normal voices in my head and insanity? I ride through a sprinkler that has turned completely backwards to water the sidewalk and I think in my head, “I ride through a sprinkler that has turned completely backwards to water the sidewalk . . .” Is that crazy? The sprinkler feels great in the summer heat, but the voice in my head provides a running commentary, distracting me from the relief of cool water against hot skin. I give my head a shake, trying to focus on my ride instead of my blog.

I ride the same route as the last time I rode, but with more time before I have to return, I have my camera and I stop frequently to shoot scenes from the riverwalk (I confess–I posted those pics with my Riding the Riverpark post). There are many pedestrians on the walkway. Unlike the Olentangy Trail back in Columbus, the signs don’t say “keep right” or “watch for bikes,” they say “Slow. Pedestrians have the right of way.” Some pedestrians seem to think this means they have the right to take up the entire width of the trail and stroll at a pace akin to a tortoise. I brake hard as I approach such a group, calling out in what I hope is a polite voice, “I’m on your left.”

Perhaps I am too worried about being polite because they don’t seem to hear me. I am almost at a stop, balancing precariously with my snap-in pedals, hoping they move over before I fall over (a frequent enough occurrence that I’ve gotten pretty good at it by now). The woman on the far left turns to look at something and suddenly sees me in her peripheral vision. She jumps and cries out like I’ve sneaked up on her and shouted “Boo!” “You scared me!” She says in an unamused tone. She hesitates, not knowing which way to go, and then she and her friends split down the middle, meaning I am angled wrong, having expected to go left. I muscle my bike back to the right, no small feat from a standstill for someone with little coordination; I’m determined not to fall in front of these women who clearly don’t know enough about biking to understand. I manage to reposition myself and my bike and ride through the middle of the group, apologizing for scaring them as I go. With a clear path ahead, I push hard to build back some momentum as I approach a climb.

I understand that the riverwalk was constructed primarily for walking. After all, they don’t call it a Riverbike. But it puzzles me that while biking etiquette signs appear every quarter mile or so, there are no signs about pedestrian etiquette. It seems safer to me for pedestrians to be aware that there are bikes on the walkway and keeping left will help avoid collisions. Instead, the Riverwalk seems to have the attitude that while bikes are allowed there, they are not welcome. There are stretches with posted speed limits of 3-5 MPH. I typically walk at a 4 MPH pace. I’m confident it’s impossible to ride a bike at 5 MPH, let alone 3–I would need a tricycle. I sigh and remind myself that it’s a different culture. I look over the river, enjoy the view, and decide it’s worth it.

I briefly contemplate changing my pedals from Candies to the kind I grew up with–plain old flat pedals. I switched to clipless bindings about 10 years ago when I decided to start doing triathlons (before my epiphany that over-doing doesn’t lead to life-long fitness). Attaching your feet to your pedals does wonders for both speed and endurance. Because it allows you to pull as well as push, you go faster and use different muscle groups throughout your pedal stroke, offering more power without over-working the muscles used to push. Switching pedals made more difference in my riding times than buying a new bike did. Now, I can’t imagine riding without them. At the same time, as a world-class clutz, they have led to more than one embarrassing moment–I have to remind myself to unsnap every time I approach a stop. Once, I was riding the Olentangy trail in Columbus, day dreaming about something or other. When I got to the section in Clintonville that goes on the road, familiarity with the route prevented me from coming out of my daydream and I pedaled my way through on autopilot. As I approached the one stoplight on the trail, I was still far away in my head. As I rolled to a stop, it suddenly dawned on me that I was still snapped into my pedals. I often imagine this scene from the perspective of the driver stopped on the opposite side of the intersection: a cyclist comes rolling up the hill across the street, approaches the stop light, comes neatly to a stop, and promptly falls over sideways. Even now, I laugh out loud imagining how stupid I looked!

On another ride, I was coming home from work, taking a safe route through a parking lot near the office. This route requires riding up a grassy embankment at the end of the lot to get to a bike path. I like going that way because it keeps me out of traffic. However, on that day, it had rained earlier and the path worn through the grass was slightly muddy. My tires are meant for the road and not for gripping slipping mud. As I cranked hard up the hill, my tires started spinning and I found myself riding in place. In this instance, I knew I needed to unsnap, but I couldn’t both unsnap and crank hard enough to keep myself upright at the same time. Eventually I fell over, landing on the edge of my seat and earning a world-record bruise in the shape of a giant paisley. Cycling was a bit uncomfortable for the next week or two, but it still makes me laugh.

Back to today, I decide that I probably fall less often with my snap-in pedals than I would without them–being able to pull helps me balance at slow speeds and if I can’t remember to unsnap, what makes me think I’d remember to put my feet down anyway? I push and pull my way up the rest of the hill unencumbered by pedestrian traffic. Entering the Bluffview Art District, I unsnap one foot and let it dangle as I approach a tight switchback–just in case. I look across the sculpture garden to the river below once I am through the switchback. I smile once more at the view, which I hope will never get old, and then turn my attention to climbing up the steep hill through the district. I don’t think I would make up that hill without my Candy pedals.

I reach the glass bridge back to Walnut St bridge, gracefully unsnap my feet with a quick twist, and step off my bike to walk it over the bridge. I can now walk across the glass bridge while looking down–a sign that Chattanooga is starting to feel like home? The bridge spans a busy road at least 20 feet below (although it seems like a hundred). Crossing over it the first time back in January was so unnerving to me that I walked the metal strip down the middle instead of on the glass and kept my eyes forward. Now, I can walk on the glass and even look through it to watch cars pass below. It’s one of those engineering feats that I don’t like to think about too much–sometimes the more I understand something, the less faith I have that it will work, and there’s not a good alternative route to and from the Riverwalk.

A crowd gathers on the other side of the glass bridge. A group of mothers and daughters, it seems. I wonder what occasion brought them all out together this night and where they came from. For the past two weeks, softball teams have been roaming the streets on the weekends, mostly girls. But these women don’t look like they’re here for softball. They talk and laugh loudly–it’s possible that even their laughter has a Southern drawl. I turn onto the bridge and see a couple coming towards me. They look like they arrived from NYC or maybe LA with their tats and piercings and vaguely threatening hair. I smile and give the fellow-cyclist chin-lift, they chin-lift back. Cruising down the bridge at a snail’s pace (maybe I can ride 3-5 MPH?), I see an Asian man with his two children. He walks with his hands clasped behind his back, making hacking noises deep in his throat–I make sure to call out “on your left” loudly as I pass him, worrying that he is preparing to spit. A tiny, unsteady child bolts across the bridge in front of me, parents jumping to catch her before I run her down even though I am barely moving. I smile at her and chuckle as I ride on by. A group of teenagers gathers at one of the benches, playfully shouting at each other like they are hoping to convince anyone watching that they’re having the time of their lives. A young musician sits on the side of the bridge playing and singing with his guitar case open for tips. His face turned away from the crowd, he appears lost in his music and oblivious to whether anyone else listens. Tourists with strollers weave their way from one side of the bridge to the other as if we’re playing a game of tag except that they seem to be chasing me by predicting which way I will go and getting in my way. It’s a funny sort of dance to avoid all of these people congregated on the Walnut St Bridge. But it makes for an entertaining cool down at the end of a ride. I wonder whom (or should I say “who all”) I will see next time?

Urban Anxiety

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For 10 years, we lived in what I would describe as an “urban residential area.” Located North of the Columbus downtown area, the walk to restaurants, the grocery store, the library, the farmers market was an easy endeavor. At the same time, we were nestled into a wooded ravine, keeping us cocooned and creating separation from city activity. We spent a year a few miles further North where there was less separation, but also a little less busyness. Now, we live on one of the busier streets in Chattanooga in an apartment with a balcony that oversees it all. The view of the downtown skyline is fantastic–I love keeping the blinds open so I can look out over the park across the street, the bridges over the river, and the cityscape. Being in walking distance of the majority of the things we want or need to do every day is also a big plus. But it’s definitely different.

For us, it’s a small step from where we lived before, but the noise has been an adjustment. Fireworks at the baseball stadium across the river sounded like they were going off right outside our window. We learned about the summer concert series across the river because we thought a band was playing in our living room. When large trucks go by during the day, I have to mute my phone to avoid disturbing conference calls. And, perhaps most surprising to me, sirens scream by every single day. I had no idea there could be so many fires in a town with about 300,000 residents!

We recently met a young guy who told us he had moved here about a week before we did from some small town in Tennessee that I had never heard of. He told us the name of the “big city” he had to drive to as a kid in order to see a movie. The “big city” was another small town I’d never heard of. Walking with him across the street, when I went to push the button for a walk signal, he thought I was walking off the wrong direction. When I explained my intention, he laughed and said he was from such a small town that it never occurred to him he was supposed to push a button to cross the street. I imagined a small town where he could step out in the street unassisted by lights and if a car happened to be going by, they would stop to say hello. This must be a completely different world to him.

While adjusting to the noise is a bit of a challenge (and may have something to do with why I’m only sleeping 4-5 hours a night these days), I wouldn’t give up our location. Convenience is a great benefit. For one, we can see our new bank from our balcony, which has made setting up new accounts a lot easier. We try to take a walk each morning along the riverfront between my first burst emails in the morning and settling down to work steadily for the rest of the day (and, more often than I would like, the evening). The other day, as we were strolling by the bank, our new banker was arriving. He stopped to chat with us for a minute. I can’t remember ever having a banker whom I’ve met once and then seemed like a friend the next time I ran into him. I think of my small-town acquaintance and how nice it feels to be recognized as part of the neighborhood.

As far as feeling like being part of the community goes, we haven’t made a lot of progress there yet. Working from home doesn’t lend itself well to meeting new people. And working a lot limits the time available for activities that promote making new friends. It’s easier to just jump on my bike for a ride whenever I can work it in than it is to have to be somewhere at a specific time. This leads to watching people more than being with people. Part of my problem is putting work away. It was easier to stop working when my office wasn’t across the room 24×7. Now, I think of something I forgot to do and I go do it. Once I get started, I find other things I need to do and soon, hours have gone by. Work often consumes me.

I also have a new anxiety about my career. I worry that because no one sees me answering emails at 5AM, on a conference call at 11:00PM, creating presentations at 8PM, etc. that if I step out to go get lunch late in the afternoon and miss a call, an email, an instant message, people will think I’m slacking. I’m not sure who I think would see me if I were in the office at those times, but I worry all the same. It makes it harder to put work away.

On the plus side, I can take my laptop out on the balcony for as long as I can stand the heat and enjoy the view unobscured by windows at any time of the day (as long as I’m quick with the mute button since I seem to be on the phone at least 8 hours a day). It’s a tradeoff, but I’m adjusting.

But people watching is interesting. Lots of visitors wander the streets. Chattanooga attracts people from all over. Plus, it’s summer time and the ever-blowing breeze from the river attracts people to the waterfront all on its own. I am not the only one watching. Cameras lace the park areas, observing secluded corners from lamp posts. I always wonder who is watching me as I walk by and what they think I’m up to. Security seems to be a primary concern. Cops patrol on bicycles, Segways, foot, and in cars. Between the cameras and the police presence, I find myself wondering if I’m in danger. Funny thing how security can make you feel insecure. Perhaps the anxieties that motivated people to hang cameras and hire extra cops taps into my own anxieties?

I told myself before we started this venture that I had to remember that no matter where we moved, I was still taking myself with me.  Trying to avoid the disappointment of expecting a new life along with a new place, I coached myself that I couldn’t expect to be a new person.  Yet, I find that I secretly hoped I would leave my anxiety back in Columbus.  My husband once told me when we were planning our great escapade that he worried that even if I didn’t have a job, I would still be me.  He didn’t really mean this as an insult.  🙂  He just meant that I can get obsessed and anxious about anything.  I can take the most enjoyable pastime and turn it into a stressful burden in no time–I’ve even managed to do this with learning relaxation techniques.  It’s a skill I don’t take pride in, but it comes from a lifetime of believing hard work is central to character.  The lesson I continue to try to learn is how to relax into the work.  The philosophy of enjoying the journey as much as the destination comes hard for me.  I constantly remind myself to be where I am, to experience fully what I’m experiencing, and to let the next moment take care of itself.  After all, right now is all we have.  But goals loom large and distract from the joy of each step along the way.

I take a deep breath.  I look out over the view.  I remind myself that I am here, sitting on my balcony, my feet pressed against warm concrete, cars rolling by below, writing purely for the pleasure of writing.  Chattanooga is a beautiful place.  And I am in it.  The early morning light highlights the yellows in the trees, giving the scene freshness.  Birds sing loudly enough to hear them over the traffic.  The breeze still holds the coolness of the night and delivers it to me in soft waves.  I think briefly about the work I didn’t finish yesterday, but bring my attention back to now.  I finish my coffee and put my laptop away far less anxious.

Riding the Riverpark

Posted by dkrashb on

The Tennessee Riverwalk parallels the Tennessee River as it winds it’s way East through the city and then turns North. As a cyclist, I anticipated enjoying this highlight of Chattanooga on a regular basis. After our move, we didn’t have the energy to explore it until a week after we’d settled in. But, I talked my husband into a short, exploratory ride late on a Sunday afternoon. We didn’t actually get started until close to sunset, so we knew we weren’t going to get far. However, we didn’t anticipate failing to find the route!

We crossed over the Walnut St Bridge and found an entry point, but it involved switch-back ramps that were not designed for bicycles. We ended up heading West instead of East, running into the end of the route after only a few minutes. Although the West route led us through the river park in front of the Chattanooga Aquarium, right on the waterfront with it’s spectacular fountains, it wasn’t much of a ride. We headed back East and searched for a route to the West. We ended up on a cliff in front of the Hunter Museum, precariously perched on the cliff high above the river. Fortunately, there were hand rails. Since the sun had set, we gave up, made our way back to the Bridge and headed home.

What do you do when you fail to find a highlight you’ve been looking forward to? Start up Google Earth. From the vantage point of a satellite, I spotted our mistake–in the Bluff View Art District (another must see spot in Chattanooga), the route East requires riding a short distance on the road to a bridge that crosses a highway and safely deposits riders on the route.

Pat (hubby) takes a trip back to Columbus the next day and I decide it’s a good time for me to check the accuracy of Google Earth that evening. After a long day at work, I have 1 hour between my last office-hours call and the start of my first late call (one of the joys of working with a global team is accommodating vast time differences). I hop on my bike and head out.

Sure enough, Google is right again. The river walk is easy to follow once I find the entry point. I can’t help but think about the San Antonio river walk in comparison. The key difference is that Chattanooga actually has a river. San Antonio created a man-made stream that is akin to the stream that flows through the Venetian casino in Vegas. It’s nice, but it’s not nature. In contrast, riding along the Tennessee River is a polite form of nature. The route is man-made concrete, wooden board-walks and bridges. The river has been dammed and the development is plentiful, but the park areas along the ride preserve natural wetlands and woods along the way as well. It’s like Disney meets the Everglades (minus the mangroves and alligators).

I push myself a bit climbing the hills. One of the climbs gets me out of breath. I push harder, feeling the burn as I stand to climb the steepest parts of the trail, daring myself not to sit until I’ve reached the top. I feel my calves flex, my heart accelerate, and my arms pull against the handle bars. The feeling of strength pushes me forward. I am sweating in the heat, but smiling as I top the final climb. It’s a short climb–easier than the climbs in and out of the river valleys in flat Columbus, even. The views of the river are what make me smile.

If I wanted to train for a race, this would not be the place for me. The slippery boardwalks and plentiful pedestrians make high-speeds dangerous. But I am not racing. I am enjoying. I finish my ride satisfied that this highlight will not disappoint.