I have never been one to immerse myself in tight social groups.  I love to have good girlfriends as much as the next gal, but something about the clique- the tight knit group of a number of girls who all do everything together all the time- never appealed to me.  I hated the idea that any time I called Sue, I had to also call Jane, who would then call Mary, and sure enough a quick trip out for lunch would soon become a 5 girl strong affair that took an hour just to decide on where to go.  But in the same fashion that I have always hated to be a part of a clique, I can’t stand other cliques that I am not a part of either because I hate to be left out of anything.  Even if I don’t want to be in the clique, I still always want to be invited to everything that mary, sue, and jane are doing.  It really is a catch 22 that I have struggled with for my entire social life.

But Saturday morning I found myself in the midst of a new click.  A running click.  I have been longing for a real running group for years.  Over the past few years I have worked my way through a few different running partners.  My original partner moved away.  Fortunately, she introduced me to another partner first.  Then I moved away.  Then my partner got too fast for me.  Then I met a new partner.  Then she stopped running.  Then she started again.  Then an old running partner moved back to town.  Suddenly I found myself overwhelmed with the feeling like I was cheating on everyone.  Any time I was running with someone, it meant I was not running with someone else.  But wait, I had an idea.  Could it be that we could actually all run together?  I gave it a shot, and sent out the email. 

So at 8am the past three Saturdays, we have actually managed some group runs.  Meshing all of our paces is a little tough, and some in the group are more concerned with good conversation, while others are more concerned with good personal times, but in the end, we’re all out there together and get to chat over latte’s when we are done. So now I am just hoping that as long as I can convince everyone to keep showing up, we can work out the details a little more each week because I am thrilled to finally have my very own clique that actually clicks.  There really is strength in numbers.  Knowing my friends are going to go for a run without me if I don’t get my butt out of bed- is enough to get me to put on my shoes.  Because who knows what I’ll miss if I’m not there!  But unlike so many other cliques, you are welcome to join us anytime.  And if you miss a day, we won’t take you off the phone tree either.

EarthTalkTM
From the Editors of E/The Environmental Magazine

Dear EarthTalk: Are there any electric bicycles or scooters that make for a nice cheap, green-friendly commute? – Sean Foley, Nashua, NH

Bicycle commuting has long been a symbol of greener living, and it is great exercise, too. But most people are probably not up to commutes much beyond five or 10 miles one-way in the interest of time and in not arriving at work too pooped (or sweaty) to pop.

Now a number of battery-powered two-wheelers are coming on the market that won’t get you your exercise but will get you from point A to B and back with minimal environmental impact. Consumers can start greening up their commutes on such vehicles for as little as $1,500 plus about 25 cents a day in electricity costs-not bad at all when you consider that a new car costs thousands of dollars more up front and chugs mass quantities off expensive and polluting gasoline.

Many of us conjuring up images of electric bikes and scooters may envision the finicky mopeds of the 70s and 80s, but today’s offerings are much improved and quite diverse.

Those who want to go fast but stay green should check out some of the electric scooters made by Miami-based EVTAMERICA. Each of the company’s three models tops out at a maximum speed of 45 miles per hour-respectable even on the highway. “People want to go at least 40 mph,” says the company’s co-owner, Fernando Pruna. “Everything built before could only do 25 or 30.”

Meanwhile, eGO of Somerville, Massachusetts makes electric bikes that can speed along at 25 miles per hour in “go fast” mode, but also have a “go far” mode, which trades off speed for distance (some 24 miles on a single charge). While eGO’s bikes may look diminutive, they are known for their strength. “Our bikes are powerful enough to tow a car,” says Kevin Kazlauskas, the company’s operations manager. “These are not toys, and customers aren’t treating them like toys.”

Another option might be an electric scooter made by Houston-based Veloteq. These scooters only go 20 miles per hour at top speed, but they can cover up to 50 miles on a single charge, which is more than enough distance to get most commuters back and forth to work, as long as they can avoid fast-moving highways along the way. A side benefit of the speed limitation on Veloteq’s vehicles is that they are typically exempt from licensing, registration and insurance regulations in most jurisdictions-yet another way to save money over those car drivers still mired in their 20th century car commutes.

Opting for one of these new scooters or bikes over a car commute will take a big bite out of your carbon footprint, but the future promises even greener versions. The lead-acid batteries that most models use today will soon be replaced with greener and more efficient varieties, lithium ion and nickel zinc being two of the more promising formats. These new fangled batteries will make the vehicles cost more, at least initially, but they will also trim bike weight significantly and provide a lot more distance per charge. And eGo is working on a model with a small solar array behind the seat to extend the bike’s range once its electric charge starts to run low.

CONTACTS: EVTAMERICA, www.evtamerica.com; eGO, www.egovehicles.com; Veloteq, www.veloteq.com.

GOT AN ENVIRONMENTAL QUESTION? Send it to: EarthTalk, c/o E/The Environmental Magazine, P.O. Box 5098, Westport, CT 06881; submit it at: www.emagazine.com/earthtalk/thisweek/, or e-mail: earthtalk@emagazine.com. Read past columns at: www.emagazine.com/earthtalk/archives.php.

By Margo McDonough

When my four kids were little, it was a good day when I could go to the bathroom without someone banging on the door. I solved all their problems, from skinned knees to bruised feelings. It was draining and exhausting but so very gratifying. There was no one better in the world than Mommy and they reminded me of that fact every day.

These days, the tables have turned. I’m the one knocking on closed bedroom doors, imposing time limits on texting and Wii, and insisting the kids take a break from their friends and spend time together as a family.

With the three younger ones, sports have been a way to stay connected. In winter, I sit in dank gyms at basketball games; in spring, at muddy soccer fields; and in summer, at sweltering baseball fields; cheering them on, and cheering them up if they lose.

But my oldest son, Ryan, lost interest in organized sports, and in his family, back in middle school. By the beginning of high school, the transformation was complete. He had morphed from a good-natured, mile-a-minute-talker who loved helping with the little kids into an angry young man who balked at sitting down for a family dinner. He wanted to argue about everything, from politics and international affairs to whether he should be allowed to stay in the house alone for a week. He even wanted to find some particle of a difference when I did agree with him.

Things got no better as the years went on. When the college brochures started clogging our mailbox, I realized that time was running out. We wouldn’t have many more chances to connect before Ryan left home; many more chances to mend this badly frayed relationship.

Casting about for an activity we could do together, I saw an ad for a half-marathon training team for a local charity. That was it — Ryan and I could help a good cause and in the process spend time together. I was so excited about the plan I had hatched that I rushed home to tell Ryan, somehow expecting he’d be just as excited.

“I dunno” was his response. But after telling him the half-marathon was in Phoenix, in January, Ryan’s eyes flickered. He hates East Coast winters as much as I do. He was in.

Our first workout wasn’t a resounding success – big, fat raindrops started falling before we had gone a mile and the lightening arrived soon after that. But we returned the next weekend. And the one after that. Throughout the fall and early winter, Ryan and I were regulars at the neighborhood park. Sometimes we only trained for an hour, as he had better places to go and better things to do. Most of the time, he would grunt one-syllable responses to my questions so after a while I’d shut up and we’d jog in silence.

But, still, he continued to show up every weekend.

And every now and again, there were cracks in the emotional wall that clung to Ryan just as tightly as his black T-shirts. He began to talk, about something in the news or a place he wanted to travel someday. And, at times, he even shared personal tidbits, about school or friends.

At home, Ryan continued to balk at joining in the dinnertime conversations and we had our usual battles over curfew. But neither of us brought these conflicts to our time together in the park.

In mid-January, we set off for Phoenix. Race day would eventually turn sunny and warm but at dawn, at the starting line, the air was crisp and the mood was tense. Runners stretched hamstrings and calves as they queued up in an endless line of corrals. Most wore top-of-the-line running shoes and fiercely determined looks. Ryan had on skateboard shoes. No surprise there; he insists they’re more comfortable than sneakers. What did surprise me with was his face, missing its scowl or bored gaze. Instead, he wore a smile. A genuine smile that lit up his eyes; those deep chocolate-brown eyes that used to look at me in adoration. At that moment, the guys up front would never catch me. I had already won this race.

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Sixteen weeks and 93 swim, bike, run, weight, and yoga workouts later I finished my first Olympic distance triathlon.  In typical bryn fashion, (the one where I need a goal clearly broken down into reasonable segments, on an excel spreadsheet and posted above my desk) I have been ticking workouts off the list all summer long.  For once I followed my plan a little more loosely knowing that what I was learning along the way was probably more valuable than what I started with- since I didn’t know much to begin with.  I added ocean swims around week 5 and Masters swim around week 10 and continued to let workouts, routes, schedules and training partners come and go as life and training merited.  Eventually, through a series of ups and downs I made it to race day.

There are many people (mostly my dad and husband) who would be ashamed to hear that I almost cried at the starting line.  There I was amongst the other white cappers in my heat, panicking.   Full fledged don’t-talk-to-me-I-am-focusing, where the hell are the buoys and how the hell am I expected to swim all the way out there, sort of panic.  It was a foggy, foggy morning and I learned that my new blue tinted goggles didn’t do much for cutting through a blanket of haze thick enough to hide to the fluorescent beach balls that were placed to signify our turn around points.  Somewhere between choking back an impending sobfest and taking my goggles on and off 60 times to de-fog them, thankfully, the gun went off and put me out of my misery.  I slowly worked my way into the water via the other timid back of the packers and found that as soon as my head was underwater, my nerves melted away.

There is an anonymity about being in the water that I have decided I love.  Someone may see me out there, but no one knows it’s me.  I can be as fast or slow as I want and nobody knows but me.  No one is watching thinking- bryn, pass that guy!  And not only does nobody recognize me, but I can’t tell who anyone else is either.  For the entire 36 minutes I had no idea where my friends were (are they ahead of me, or behind?) or who that guy in the heat behind me was, who already caught up to me (even with a 6 minute head start!)  I settled into my groove and just got to swim.  My watch was hidden under the sleeve of my wetsuit so I had no idea if it had taken me 30 minutes or 50, but when I got to the transition zone and saw that more than half of the bikes in my lane were still there, I called it a success.  Thanks to good ol’ Vic, my new masters coach, for once I actually finished comfortably in the middle.  Who knew after all this time, I could swim??

I’ll spare you the post mortem on the entire race, but the short version is I went on to have a successful bike ride- declared successful due to no flat tires or other bike malfunctions and never being left alone, the last poor sap on the course like I had imagined- and I had a run that put me securely back in my place of captain of team mediocre.  The race as a whole gets declared a success thanks to finishing 20 minutes faster than expected and actually having fun almost the whole time.  (I’ll brush the 302nd place finish out of 320 total competitors under the rug, for those of you wondering.)  And the crowd of friendly spectators was the best.  One of the many great perks to racing in your own town is having all of your friends on the course either racing themselves or out to watch.  (The other great perk is getting to ride your bike to the start line and not having to find a parking spot!)  At the end of the race as we all parted ways and cruised out of the parking lot sweaty, wet, filthy and exhausted, I just had to ask: so what are we doing next?  Three days later I have a race on the calendar, a plan in place, and a new running posse forming as we speak.  But I’m not starting the plan until next week.  This week, I am eating and sleeping and enjoying my success because at the end of the day, 2nd or 302nd, I get another notch in my athletic bedpost all the same.