I've temporarily extracted myself from the hellish monotony of my running regime in the big city and I write to you this weekend from the rolling hills of Saugerties, NY, where I am at tennis camp. Here, every second glistens. Muscle memory awakens. With each new lesson, I drink pear-gold soma from the tennis god's chalice.
I've been on quite a few tennis camp weekends before and even when I've been in better shape, they have been extremely physically demanding. By that, I mean, most people are on a steady stream of ibuprofen and, by the end, pretty much everybody is limping.
Today we have 5 hours of tennis scheduled, and then there's a round robin at night that's 3 hours long, plus Scrabble, drinking and table tennis. My dad was once reportedly table tennis champ of NYC, so I try to represent; and in this environment, that means matches where you're hitting the ball off the ceiling and walls...nothing is off limits.
I haven't completely forgotten about running. I wasn't sure if it would be a good idea today though considering the the rest of the day I was in for. Since breakfast here is at 7:30am and tennis starts at 8:30am, I set the alarm for 6:15... I'd see how I felt. But as it turns out I didn't need the alarm. My body woke its little self up unaided. We goin' running today, Miss? Ugh! Shut up, body! 20 minutes more we can sleep! My mind felt a little bit snubbed.
I lay there waiting for the sun to rise. It's dark up here in the country and I didn't feel safe going out on the road yet by myself. I put the glass of iced tea I'd swiped from the dining room at dinner last night out on the ledge of my balcony to chill; the air was cold enough that I could see my breath. By 7:00 AM the mountains in the distance began to appear - a layered silhouette, with purple, gray, green and white tiers.
While I'd been waiting for the sun to rise, I'd checked my BlackBerry. My cousin in England had dropped a line and I got caught up replying to him on that cruel little nail-splitting BlackBerry keyboard. He has written a new play that is being read for press and potential producers tomorrow and Monday in London. For years he served as Governor of a school for special needs children in Sunderland, and watched with horror as the UK went on a national rampage to close schools such as this - and promote "inclusion." His play, "Death of a Nightingale," is fictional but based on the real experiences of students, administrators and parents he knows. I hope his noble play gets the wings it deserves...
At 7:00 AM I decided not to run. I switched shoes and my outfit. I didn't want to front load the weekend too much, and jeopardize a strong finish on Sunday. I'm here for tennis. Tennis first. (I hope I don't regret this decision come Turkey Trot time next weekend. But tennis does involve a lot of running - just not boring running, in a straight, hideous line, like training for the Marathon does.) I'll see how I'm feeling tomorrow morning; if fine, I'll hit the road for a mile or two. I hope we have a later start on Sunday; that would help.
Anyway, the morning of tennis was amazing. I have the best pro here, and at mid-day I had a private lesson. I have a respectable backhand but a lame forehand, so we worked on that. In the middle of the lesson he stopped and said he wished all his students were like me, that I have a very high tennis IQ. I said, "By that do you mean it's all up in my head - and if only I could put it into action I'd get somewhere?" "No," he replied, "I don't mean that. I mean that you have strategy and you get the mechanics of the body. [I do?] It's easy to teach you," and then he got a little serious, "You are actually very athletic. You don't look athletic, but then you come out of nowhere."
I'm coming out of nowhere! That's going to be my new mantra. Watch out for me... Here I come! White lightning on a summer night! One minute we're sitting together on the porch sipping a Julep, the next I'm a Marathon-running tornado all up in your grill! I wonder if I'll ever "look" athletic and lose my power of surprise...
In the afternoon session, I started to feel my body complaining. Dogs barking - blisters starting, arches aching, toenails rubbing up dangerously against the inside of my shoes. Hips tightening - muscles cranking up their grip on home base bones, "Whoa, Nelly! Reign that range of motion in when you round those corners. Don't you realize this is a stage coach, not a Lambo?"
I'm not the only thing breaking down over here, either. My racquet has staged a protest. I actually popped two strings - something I've never done in my life! And my grip has started disintegrating into tiny, sticky, leather balls in my palm. The whole bit is in the pro shop right now being refurbished and I can't stop singing to myself, "Take, these broken strings... and learn to fly again, learn to live so free!"
I love tennis so much, I hardly notice the negatives. If I were suffering like this while running, I'd give up in a second! No question. So, maybe I should be grateful that, for the moment, with whatever I am doing to train, I'm really not suffering. For sure, I'm bitching and moaning, but I don't think I'm hurting myself; whereas the way I'm pushing myself at tennis I am surely doing some critical damage - and you can't stop me.
I'm about to go for some ice, a hot tub, and then a massage. With my newly restrung racquet in hand this evening I'll be back in charge. They all think I'm down right now. They don't see me coming. But, BLAMO - just hose me down and prop me back up again. Here I come - out of nowhere.
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