Eighteen

They come, creeping out of the shadows. Dedicated souls, they rise before dawn and gather in the darkness. Anticipation hangs in the air, heavy. They wait, anxious and ready as a herd of wild horses. Ready.


From Saturday, 1.27.2007:

It was not my favorite course. A decent course, but not my favorite. A chunk of it was out-and-back on the North Little Rock River Trail, which was good mental practice for a similar section of the race route. The similar section where runners get lonely and tired and where the doubts creep in.

Starting at the back of the pack--after everyone had arrived, signed in, and queried Tom about everything under the sun--we worked our way out into Burns Park. Tom and Chris were planning a trail run, but would go the first four miles with Jenna and I, so our little pod trotted along together, reeling walkers and runners in as we went.

At four, the crackheads peeled off into the woods while Jenna and I dug in for the long haul. Did I mention it was raining? Not hard. Just enough to be wet.

The 51% principle didn't apply today. Our point of entry on the River Trail, where we started the out-and-back toward downtown (meaning we were running away from the finish, was at ten miles. It wasn't until we turned around in Riverfront Park, around mile thirteen, that my brain got happier. However, my body got steadily more weary. Achy tired pain settled in my hips and glutes. Jenna was good to have along, in part because our conversation makes the miles go by, and because she reminded me to eat at a point when I got a funky attitude and began voicing it.

Around mile sixteen we were really ready to be done. On runs like this, it's typical to think, "Wow, I really feel like crap and am beat all to hell...and if this were race day, I'd still have ten miles to go. That's at least an hour and a half more. Bleh." Or something like that. Part of training is to learn how that goes...how to anticipate it...deal with it...solve it.

Somewhere there near the end, Jenna dropped a glove. "Awwwwwwww," we both groaned, she in complaint about having to stop running and bend over, and me in empathy, knowing how that feels. Stopping and starting are skills normal people take for granted. She scooped up the glove with protest and we continued. "I am really glad that wasn't me," I thought out loud. Jenna laughed.

Not two minutes later, while taking a drink, you will have already guessed what happened: One of my water bottles slipped from my fingers while taking a drink. "Awwwwwwwww," we both groaned again. It was laughable, I guess. We were pretty delirious. It also hurt like hell.

At mile seventeen, I thought about how much I really wasn't enjoying the run anymore. About how hungry I was. About how I hate it when people leave half-used rolls of toilet paper on the holder in our bathrooms at work, unattached. About how I never use them, how I put them all on the shelf behind the toilet, because who knows how many times they've fallen on the floor? How if somebody else wants to reach up there and use them, super. But not me. I thought about how good it would be to eat after this run. I started planning things I would eat on that day. The list included pizza and beer and ice cream at a very minimum.

Concensus from the Garmin (GPS) slaves revealed that the course was a little long, perhaps 18.4. 3:08.

What makes no sense, the part that gives credibility to the whole "crackhead" thing, wherein running is truly an addiction, is that it was only hours before I felt ready to run again. Of course my body wasn't, but my brain was.

Let's go.