catfish happens

mileage today: 12

on the iPod: "jack and diane" -- john cougar mellencamp

My family, like most Southerners, loves catfish. And hushpuppies. There are hundreds of catfish restaurants all over Arkansas, pretty much every town has one. Folks will swear by the catfish at their local post. Fiercely. For instance, I can tell you for a fact that the best fried shrimp you'll ever put in your mouth while not sitting on the coast of an ocean is at Leon's in Pine Bluff, AR. Leon's is my favorite catfish restaurant.

Catfish is a heavy meal. Aside from the aforementioned hushpuppies and fried shrimp, it's not uncommon for a catfish meal to also come with fried okra, french fries, pickled tomatoes, and really large portions of dessert. I tend to dip all of the foods, save for the dessert, in ketchup. It's so damn good. But definitely heavy. Last night I had three plates. Yup. I did. Went home fat and happy.

The cool weather that we'd been been enjoying disappeared precisely at 5:30 a.m. this morning. Damnit. We scheduled a long run of twenty miles to take advantage of the break in the heat, but should have gone yesterday when it was, bare minimum, still ten degrees cooler outside. I suppose none of us could be bothered to check the weather forecast online. I'm not for sure exactly was occupying my time, but it certainly wasn't checking the weather. I've learned my lesson.

So I wake up for the run with a stomach that feels like the three plates of catfish have magically turned into six. Laying in bed, I seriously considered texting Mrs. Murie and Mrs. Pugh to bail. But the pull of the run got me out of bed. Instant heartburn. Instant food baby. Felt awful. I managed to shower uber-quick and get out the door before I changed my mind. Cynthia Puckett shuttled me to the start after parking my truck along the further side of the course so that i'd have provisions to get me through the second half. She's a saint. Love her.

I wasn't through the first mile when I knew that the three catfish platters were a huge mistake. Thinking back, it makes total sense that you'd want to avoid heavy food the night before a long run. All of those stupid magazines and websites recommend eating something sensible with either carbs or protein. Pasta and chicken. Rice. Lean pork. A big-ass plate of fried catfish and hush puppies never makes the list. Clearly these magazines are not authored by Southerners.

By mile six I was mentally challenging myself to get through the first ten and then consider the rest. Mrs. Pugh, in a selfless act of graciousness, spent her own money at the White Oak Station convenience store to buy me a roll of mint-flavored Tums. In all their chalky goodness, I immediately ate four. The rest of the pack was gone within 20 minutes.

We're really liking our stops at the White Oak Station convenience store. We've been hitting it twice per run, once in both directions. They're starting to recognize us now and don't charge us for water. They also don't say anything when I take shots of Coca-Cola from the fountain. Mrs. Murie says she's going to start buying her gas there. I'm not ready to go that far. Just sayin'.

By mile eight i'd had enough. My stomach was done. The three platters of catfish had won. I ran ahead of the pack, knowing that if I didn't get to a bathroom soon there was going to be an accident. This is where I lost Mrs. Murie and Mrs. Pugh, leaving them behind to run at an appropriate pace. I didn't have a choice. It was time. Pronto.

We met back up at the turnaround, Chuckwagon Liquor, in the south side of town. We swapped stories of the two miles we'd run apart, myself coming clean that I was concerned about my pants and had to stop and let nature call. Back in a pack, we ran mile twelve together and stopped at my truck so that Mrs. Murie could use my cell to call Mr. Hagers, another teacher, to convince him to cover her welcome duty at church. If there's one thing a teacher dislikes, it's a duty. We're constantly passing them off on each other. Mr. Hagers, as always, came through in a pinch.

Mile twelve was the end of the line for me and I was cool with this turn of events. Wishing my running partners well and not wanting to drive home covered in my own sweat, I changed clothes in the back of my truck. I think Mrs. Pugh might have looked at an inopportune time and got more than what she bargained for. Oops.

Making it home shortly thereafter, I downed a bottle of Pepto Bismol and promptly went back to bed. I'd like to think that I've learned my lesson with eating catfish and hushpuppies, but it's difficult to teach an old dog new tricks. My goal is to just stay away until after the marathon. But i'll be back, never fear, with a healthy appetite and little self-control. And I'll leave fat and happy.