The Middletown Press (Middletown, CT)
The rocky existential landscape of summer vacation in a pandemic
Having the longest summer break of my teaching career has turned out to be a ton of work. In the spirit of that irony, I figured I’d reverse the tired formula of asking students to write an essay about their summer vacations. Instead, I’ll do it.
Knowing that Summer Break 2020 was going to be extended, that it would coincide with me turning 60 years old — the unofficial start of old age, that COVID and polarized election-year politics heightened my sense of powerlessness, and that I would feel especially existentially challenged, back in May I resolved to be my best self. Perfect, maybe, or some close approximation of it.
I started by trying actually to do all the yard work my wife has implored me to do over a summer: gardening, mulching, weeding, etc. I spent nearly $1,000 on annuals, mulch, weed-barrier and gardening implements, got the worst case of poison ivy in my life — and the yard is about 60 percent there. Need to put it in overdrive if I’m going to finish before school begins.
Summer is typically my time to get in kick-butt shape, and I crushed it — sort of. A colleague introduced me to Strava, an app that tracks and logs my running, compares my times to others, and allows me to compete with my cross-country runners and fellow coaches for most weekly mileage. I loved it so much that for a while I became “that guy” who checks everyone’s mileage near the end of the weekend and then runs as far as is necessary to claim bragging rights for most miles. It required 14 miles one Sunday and almost 17 another, but I got it.
That is, I got it through July. By August I had completely burnt out and reverted to riding my bicycle. Now, I’m comparing myself to other cyclists on Strava and beginning to feel burnt out once again. Maybe I need a week off?
I know, all this sounds draining, but I also began whittling away at the bucket list. I’ve always wanted to ride my motorcycle on a race track and imagined myself getting a knee down on the pavement and skimming corners at 100 miles an hour. I got the chance to do a track day in June at Lime Rock Park. In preparation, I purchased a full leather racing suit, new helmet, boots, and gloves — an ensemble that looked great but didn’t feel too cool in the heat.
I didn’t get a knee down or hit 100 mph, at least I don’t think so. I was too terrified by all the riders passing me to glance down much at the speedometer. I saw “96” flash on the gauge, once, near the end of the track’s straightaway, but I’m a little unsure whether it was registering ambient temperature or speed. The good news is that I sweat off seven pounds, didn’t crash, and was even encouraged, weakly, by the organizer to come back again. Having spent a few hundred bucks on equipment, I might as well re-up next year.
I’m reading more than ever, another summer goal, because, having started eight books, I intend to finish them all. I’m waist deep in Richard White’s 800-page-long Oxford History of the Gilded Age. It may be time to concede that I’ll still be on Grover Cleveland’s second presidential term when school starts.
The share of seasonal produce my wife purchased from our organic farmer neighbor kickstarted my plan to eat healthy this summer. Every week, I picked up whatever was in season, washed, peeled, and chopped fruits and vegetables, and hunted online for recipes. I was eating clean. That is, until the time I spent cooking started cutting into my other goals. Lately, I’ve taken to grilling burgers at night and quaffing a beer or two. Last week, I picked up the final farm share of the season. Dinners have instantly become more compartmentalized, if less healthy.
It’s early September! Got to finish mulching around the back fence, resume running (crosscountry starts soon, and I need to be ready), and prep for both online and in-person teaching: asynchronous and synchronous learning, as the education wonks say. My poison ivy has dried up, as has the bank account, and I’m exhausted.
I’m praying that school opens uneventfully. Summer may have allowed me to indulge Walter-Mittylike fantasies of being a motorcycle racer, but I failed miserably at perfection. And I realize, now, how much I miss synchronous teaching, which until recently I didn’t even know I had been doing these 30-plus years. I miss students, colleagues, and I need a break from break. As a final gesture to summer goal setting, I’ll call my financial planner and tell him to back off my retirement date by at least five years. Perfection is overrated. I miss normal.
As a final gesture to summer goal setting, I’ll call my financial planner and tell him to back off my retirement date by at least five years.