E's been talking up Rino's Place for months. We all have high expectations when we finally gather up a group and go for dinner.
The restaurant is small and intimate... wooden floors and chairs, white tablecloths, and painted murals across one wall. Short, curvy waitresses pick up plates of pasta at the pass and barrel up and down the middle of the room.
The wait for the four of us will be an hour, so we opt for takeout. I order one of the specials, the sauteed chicken with asparagus, wild mushrooms, sundried tomatoes, and Rino's homemade pasta.
Thirty minutes later, our takeout is ready. We have four massive tinfoil containers, and four salads (included with our dinners), and bread and butter... we are overwhelmed by the volume of food. My pasta could easily feed two... maybe three people.
What's impressive about the pasta is the unusual shape (long, twisty pieces), and the pieces of chicken are plump and juicy. But the whole thing is coated in a cream sauce... a sort of bland and very beige cream sauce. I guess I should have known. Or I should have asked. But I don't like being surprised by cream sauces. Giving the takeout menu a second look, I see that it's dominated by cream sauces.
I steal a bite of E's Melanzane Parmiggiano (eggplant parmesan). The marinara sauce is so savory and well seasoned... so I'm not giving up on Rino's yet. But next time, I'm ordering an appetizer.
It’s race day, the inaugural running of the B.A.A. 10K. I only slept three hours but I’m feeling spunky -- I decide to get wild and crazy and I pass on my usual race-day black shorts. Blue shorts instead. And then I swap out my white Nike shirt. I'm living dangerously and wearing a tangerine shirt.
I get on the T and the train is full of runners -- some with their numbers proudly displayed, others in hoodies to protect against any early morning chill still lingering.
The train empties at the Arlington station, as we all walk up to the Public Garden and cut down Charles Street. The sidewalks are wet and plastered with leaves -- I’m not so thrilled at the prospect of rolling an ankle on the slime -- but the roads are fairly dry.
I move quickly, finding the Port-A-Potties, picking up my race T shirt, and checking my bag. Volunteers are handing out sturdy plastic bags at the luggage drop -- red ones leftover from the last Boston Marathon and yellow ones designed for today. One volunteer holds up a yellow bag and asks, “Who wants some sunshine?” I do. I absolutely do.
I jog for ten minutes down the paths crisscrossing the Common. I’m already writing this recap in my mind, but I don’t know how the story ends yet. I’m hopeful though, as I line up in the race start corral. I've just realized that I unintentionally ran almost the exact race course last weekend... I know the measure of each Back Bay block and I'm anticipating the long stretch of Commonwealth Avenue.
In the race corral, I’m not losing my cool. I’m losing my warm. So I’m bouncing and jumping and running in place and trying to stay warm, because I need to move right into a fast pace once the gun goes off.
At the start, the first song that comes on my iPod Shuffle is the Thin White Duke remix of Seal’s Amazing. I’m a little superstitious. I love this song -- just downloaded it yesterday -- and I paired it with a bagel at 6am for my pre-race prep. I decide it means that this will be a good race.
Mile 1, as I’m always wont to do, is too fast at 6:48. I slow up a bit and I spend the next few miles tweaking my pace, head down and legs churning. We work our way down Comm Ave, past the Algonquin Club, through Kenmore Square, and out to BU. My baseball cap keeps slipping down over my eyes and it’s so damn frustrating, but I don’t want to carry the cap. I turn it around backwards. Totally stylin’.
The 5K mark comes at Babcock Street and we make the U-Turn around tall orange cones. I spend the next mile scanning the crowd of runners headed the opposite direction, looking for familiar faces. But I don’t find the faces I’m looking for, so I focus and run. Counting off the blocks of Back Bay: Dartmouth, Clarendon, Berkeley. Fast. A right on Arlington. Faster. A left on Boylston, a left on Charles. Fastest. Finish line. A slow walk… very slow.
My finish time is a full minute faster than my New York time two weeks ago and 48 seconds faster than my personal best. Excuse me, I meant my old personal best. Because I just set a new one. A backwards baseball cap definitely works for me.
It takes a little time, but I find those familiar faces I was looking for -- L, E, J, and D, plus a few new friends. And we're on to part two of the morning’s events: Brunch. There’s no chance of getting a table in a tiny Beacon Hill brunch place with such a large group, so we head for Panificio with the intent of ordering takeout.
Armed with plastic boxes of eggs, bacon, and pancakes, we sprawl out on the grass of the Common. The sun comes out and the post-race entertainment continues in the distance -- a live band with no audience, except for us and our breakfast.
I’m almost catatonic after a fast race, blueberry pancakes, and sunshine. But, after a shower and a nap, I’m ready. Ready for my Boston Cream Pie class at Flour Bakery in Fort Point.
Spring sort of went in and out of my consciousness this year. There were days in Buenos Aires -- warm days, a string of perfect days. I walked around with bare shoulders and sunglasses, while the portenos layered on light sweaters and shopped for leather boots. Fall was beginning there. But it was my spring.
There were also trips to the Northeast -- days spent wrapped up in a trenchcoat, wishing I had worn a wool sweater. There was rain, and inadequate footwear, and cold, wet feet.
My spring was a confusing back-and-forth, to-and-fro, are-you-or-aren't-you.
Summer, on the other hand, is unambiguous. With summer comes a totally different way of living, thinking, breathing.
In June, there will be new adventures, surrounded by some of the things and people I love best. There will be a weekend trip to New York, a 10K in which to set a new personal best (fingers crossed), and seventy-two hours in which to do "everything with that great mad joy you get when you return to New York" (Kerouac). I have big plans for those seventy-two hours. And then there might even be another 10K race a few weeks later, and there will certainly be lots of food -- cooking, baking, tasting, and shopping.
In July, there will be all-American celebrations for the Fourth, birthdays, and cocktails once the heat of the day has gone. There'll be an evening spent at a chef's table... I'll be the one with camera. There might be a film festival and there'll be escapes for a few hours or a few days to places where life is slower.
In August... well I haven't gotten that far yet. But as the heat sets in, I'll install my window unit and look for ways to step away from the stove. Sushi takeout, here I come. And I'll be choosing races and planning trips for the fall. Where to go next? Where to run next? I'll be packing my calender full of runs and sprints in anticipation of longer distances and races. And maybe I'll be packing my suitcase too.
It's going to be a great summer. Stay tuned.
