JQR’s secret city

Deeds of endurance, which seem ordinary in philosophy, are rare in conduct, and Bathsheba was astonishing all around her now, for her philosophy was her conduct, and she seldom thought practicable what she did not practise. She was of the stuff of which great men’s mothers are made. She was indispensable to high generation, hated at tea parties, feared in shops, and loved at crises. Troy recumbent in his wife’s lap formed now the sole spectacle in the middle of the spacious room.

 
—Thomas Hardy, Far from the Madding Crowd, Chapter LIV
 
This is one of the best-known Thomas Hardy quotes out there. Generally everyone loves a mother, and everyone loves finding something to say about a mother. I happen to see it as a little bit of damning-with-faint-praise: accomplish all this and the most you achieve is to have a future president or poet laureate slip from your womb? (Quick, can you name Barack Obama’s mother?)
 
Bathsheba is attending a Christmas party at Boldwood’s, when all of a sudden her presumed-dead husband appears and shatters Boldwood’s chances of marrying Bathsheba on the rebound. So Boldwood, taking his cues from R. Kelly’s Trapped in the Closet videos (or the Jimmie Rodgers–popularized ‘Frankie and Johnny’ song), does what any insane admirer would do and shoots his rival dead.
 
Somehow, in this one episode, Hardy manages to unite Bathsheba’s earthy practicality in love—as expressed in her reluctance to dally with the affectionate male gaze—with her earthy practicality as a small business–woman. She is the all-practical All-Star here, combining her unquenched affection for Troy with sure steps to save his quickly waning life. 

It’s confusing, therefore, that Hardy then sets out to diminish her with the mother simile. Is it that her power over the narrative has reached such a point that he needs to undercut her authority in order to bring the book to a close?
 
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I blame the shoddy drugstore batteries someone sent me for expiring
just as the photo-moment arrived (or I arrived at the photo-moment):
Barack Obama's three-quarter profile on a sheet cake at the big
refectory. It's another quiet night here at the secret city; dusk has
settled over us while folks are still getting into position in
Washington.
 
On the fitness front, another strong day today. I wanted to take it
easy but coming up the one hill on my way to the back of the airfield,
I felt so strong. And besides, I have to be strong for Obama! Strong
for America! Today is no day to slack off, no way no how. Yes we can!
 
The wind was all over the place in some confusing fashion, and as I
did the other day, I guessed wrong so that when I thought I would be turning
into the back stretch and heading with the wind, I was actually
pushing into a headwind. Is it possible that there could be one
certain direction for the wind to blow from so that it feels as if
it's in my face the whole way? If this is so, how (and why) did the
Yugoslavs who built the secret city calculate it so that the roads are
lined up with that prevailing direction? Were they masochists or
something?
 
Fickle wind, I have my eye on you. I saw how toward the end of my
ride, the smoke off the burn pit was blowing west, although I could
feel the wind coming out of the northeast again. You try to fool me
into giving up, but I am strong today for Obama and have no patience
with your silly breezy games! I hit the wide open stretch just west of
the big perpendicular taxiway, all the while humming the howling riff from "Hatari" to myself, and getting myself ready for
the sharp turn onto the back stretch with the unfavorable wind in my
face. What a pleasure to make that turn (after looking both ways for
traffic), to feel the push of the sticky tires, warm from friction,
against the asphalt as I whip around 135 degrees without losing speed.
(Of course, I feel as if the wind is fully ready to turn itself 136
degrees to frustrate me.)
 
I pulled around the first lap in less than 22 minutes, and did the
second one in 22:05, so both laps were over 19 mph, the second day
in a row that I've accomplished this. I am convinced that by
writing about it (most vividly here)
I have made it easier for myself to master this skill.
 
In the running event, today was also a good day. On my predawn jog, I
reached the 370-mile milestone that gets me a metaphorical pat on the back from those
mysterious secret-city authorities. I have run at least 5.6 miles nine
days in a row. I confess, the pegs feel kind of tired, like they were
made out of chocolate that has slowly started to melt. I have been
just barely shuffling along for the last couple mornings, it feels
like, although I suspect that a big part of that is running on the
roadside verge in the dark and my anxiety at the likelihood of
twisting my ankle. I have three more of those 5.6-mile runs to go
before I get to the 100-mile goal I set for January, which shouldn't
be that hard in the 11 days left in the month. We've been enjoying
pretty good weather lately so I want to take full advantage of it; I
dread another cold snap or another rainy day.
 
(Today's picture is not the Obama cake, but Freedom Lake, at the east
end of the secret city, nestled in the canyon wall. Yes, we drink the
water.)

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Hey!!
me too!
 

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