sheer ignorance, unexplainable failure

today's distance: 6 miles

on the iPod: "acquiesce" -- oasis

With snow and ice covering the trail system, Mrs. Murie and I set out for a long run through the streets of my suburban neighborhood. I like my house and am proud to own it, but am not particularly crazy about the surroundings. There's a shameful lack of any sort of distinct character, accompanied by a noticeable shortage of trees. I've planted four on my property, but my neighbors can't be bothered. The good news, however, is that with no tree canopy overhead, the snow melts almost instantly when the sun comes out and running can commence. Win.

I'd love to live in central Fayetteville, and will someday. The truth is that I covet my sister's house in Wilson Park and am slowly and diligently planting subliminal suggestions that she should move and sell it to me. She's hasn't budged. Damnit. The other option is to win HGTV's annual Dream Home contest and move into some amazingly badass house in an even more amazingly badass location. I register online daily.

Mrs. Murie and I had a great, albeit quick, run. Week three of marathon training only calls for a six mile weekender, which seems incredibly short. But I'm willing to go with the expert advice. They don't tell me how to teach Psychology, so I won't tell them how to train for a marathon. But only six miles? I wanted to double that. Per usual when running with Mrs. Murie, the pace was crazy fast. She's so far ahead of me in terms of ability, and I love running with her because it pushes me. Our discussions centered around the same things as always: upcoming races, teaching, faith, and banal stuff that peaks our interest.

Speaking of upcoming races, after 24 hours of sheer ignorance and unexplainable failure, I got registered for the St. Patty's Day 8K in Chicago. Woot! It falls on the first weekend of spring break and I can't wait to hang out with Jason and Sarah and do some running in one of my favorite cities. This will be my first trip back since the marathon and it'll be great to lace up again in Grant Park. But the whole trip damn near didn't happen. Read on.

I found a reasonably priced direct flight and was even happier that it was on United, which meant I could use a voucher I got a few months ago for getting bumped off a flight to DC. Free weekend in Chicago. Score. I scanned the united.com checkout page for the appropriate box for which to enter my voucher number. To my chagrin, said box doesn't exist. Hmmm. Switching to Plan B, I found a 1-800 number for reservations and enjoyed the canned music when I was immediately placed on hold. Deciding it must be five o'clock somewhere, I cracked a beer to wait it out. I also started a game of Angry Bird on my iPhone 4. I'm addicted. Exactly eleven minutes later, Peggy picks up. The same Peggy that's on the Discover commercials. I'm immediately skeptical about how this is going to work out.

Surprisingly, the call begins relatively smooth and uneventful until Peggy finds out that i'm using a voucher. He tells me that he can reserve the flight for me, but that I must drive to the nearest ticket counter and surrender (that's the actual word he used) the voucher to a United agent. And that I have 24 hours to do so or the reservation will be voided. Assuming that Peggy is confused, I tell him that there is an identification number on the voucher and that surely I can simply give it to him over the phone to take care of the reservation. No. Peggy reiterates the United Airlines policy and procedure on voucher travel (that's the actual phrase he used) and tells me again that I have 24 hours to get to a ticket counter. Thanks, Peggy.

By this point it's been snowing for at least 12 hours and the roads are shot. Seeing that the temperatures aren't going near above-freezing anytime soon, and being mildly interested in fulfilling some sort of freaky car accident death wish, I set out in the ice and snow to Northwest Arkansas Regional Airport to surrender my voucher to the nearest ticket agent. While trying to avoid ditches, random dogs, and oncoming traffic, I begin to ponder the fact that our singular airport for the entire region is located way-the-hell in the middle of cowfields off five different country highways that haven't seen improvement dollars in years. Who was the brain trust that chose this land for a regional airport in the first place? Thanks, Wal-Mart. Ticket in hand, I calm myself for the ride home.

I've had a smile on my face ever since, knowing that another race is now just around the corner. And it being in Chicago makes it even better. I've never run an 8K, which must be somewhere around 5 miles, so regardless of how well I do I'll fly back home with a new PR. Maybe i'll call Peggy and let him know I couldn't have done it without him.