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Working Out, Island Style

Back in June I was unfortunately spotted running up and down the roads of our island, in somewhat tortured-looking training for a charity 5K race in South Portland to which my daughter had committed the two of us. I had a brand-new pair of utterly ridiculous running shoes --perfectly goofy clown shoes to my eyes, with their bright safety-blue sides and neon-orange shoelaces—but they were soft and comfy, and probably worth the money. Anyway, as I flogged back and forth between the airstrip parking lot and the island cemetery, that being a measurable mile, neighbors passed by looking basically grateful it wasn’t them. A few raised an eyebrow. I recall how, not too many years ago, we had a couple of guys out here who liked to offer out loud, with a neighborly smile, that, “We shoot joggers on Matinicus.” Fun stuff.

Of course, those guys also claimed or were reputed to shoot at cats, out-of-season venison, fish hawks, Belted Galloway cattle, protected marine mammals, and staffers from the Land Use Regulation Commission. Frankly, I think all they really ever shot at were seagulls, and maybe that one time the meter reader.

Anyway, as even walking the roads is an activity reserved for middle-aged women and people whose trucks have broken down, running is definitely viewed as a bizarre behavior. It is something gamely tried and soon given up, largely because of the discouraging peer pressure. Jogging, most here will assure anyone, is for summer people.

That put me in a slightly peculiar position, but the Barbara Bush Children’s Hospital “Color Run,” where they throw paint around and feed you breakfast, sounded like a worthy cause and a good time. I guess I was committed (or should have been.) “Damn the peer pressure,” says I to myself; I would swallow my pride.

The whole enterprise did get me thinking about what we do around here for exercise, though, as there are certain insurmountable limitations on sports. Because we live without the blessings of pavement, sidewalks, or bleak concrete schoolyards, there is nowhere to dribble a basketball, thunder along on a skateboard, or ride a skinny-tired bike with any degree of comfort. Not many will swim very many actual yards in the ocean, the possible exceptions being those intrepid sorts preparing to traverse the English Channel (which, should you be interested, is roughly the same distance at the Straits of Dover as it is from here to the mainland. This would be an excellent place to practice.)

Here are a few of the ways we manage to keep ourselves conditioned and aerobically challenged:

• The Five-mile Pace: this is where the islander wears out considerable shoe-leather and linoleum walking miles back and forth across his floors waiting for the phone to ring. This exercise is done when weather is marginal and one hopes that the air service will call to say that the fog has moved out, or that Knox County has finished plowing snow at the airport in Owls Head, or that the ceiling has lifted enough over the bay so that they can make a flight. Don’t go anywhere, don’t start any projects, and for goodness sake, get rid of anybody else who calls and ties up your phone. Mostly, pace.

• The Rock Carry: This exciting sport is usually enjoyed in the company of relatives who, when visiting the island, see the need to take home hundreds of pounds of highly desirable and attractive beach stones. Sometimes aunts and cousins will even get into their heads that they can uniquely decorate their fireplace hearth, guest shower, or back patio with a tasteful assortment of smooth and colorful island rocks. This means you, the local help, will be carrying this burden. The true “Iron Man” or Olympic Champion of this sport is our friend Robin, who works as general deck gang, longshoreman and stevedore on the passenger boat. Each summer she is required to load innumerable large duffels, hockey bags, and extra-extra-mongo L.L. Bean canvas bags which, by the weight of them, make folks comment on how each might contain a body, perhaps a dead heiress or a murdered spouse. They contain rocks.

• The Grocery Relay: This is a multi-leg speed and agility event meant to test the competitor’s lumbar spine and sacroiliac. Each participant must move an assortment of varied items through an obstacle course. A typical event requires handling 500 pounds of poorly-packed groceries including an expensive ice cream cake, six dozen eggs and a large watermelon. Style points are awarded for creative packing as all of this is squeezed into a small Subaru (or most anything with an inspection sticker). Next, the entire load is removed from the car and loaded aboard a lobster boat tied to a very greasy bait-dealer’s wharf at low tide. Ladders only of course; no floating docks permitted at the varsity level. At this point all items must be somehow protected from spray, rain, sour bilges, and the depredations of malnourished sternmen.

At the next leg the entire load is carried up another ladder at the island, or hoisted up somehow, hand over hand, and loaded into a pickup truck. To be properly sporting the bed of this truck must provide large holes through which one can see the road or at least the driveshaft. A substantial quantity of water or snow is customary for the truck bed as well, as are two or three rambunctious and unleashed canines. Finally, the load must be removed from said truck and carried into a residence, where it will somehow be shoe-horned into an ordinary refrigerator (remember, we have several week’s worth of milk, by now pretty warm, and produce in the load.) Prizes may be awarded for sportsmanship if the athlete refrains from coarse expressions for the duration of the event. This is rare.

Who needs jogging?