freshly mowed grass

yesterday's mileage: 22

on the iPod: "vertigo" -- U2

My sister's birthday was Friday night. She wanted to have a small cookout on her back deck, but we had other plans for her, turning it into a full party with about 45 people. It was a total surprise and my parents pulled it off without a hitch. The weather couldn't have been nicer and her immaculately groomed backyard was the perfect setting, with spring blooms punching out like candy from the winter's ground. I love spending time back there and seeing her gardens. Amidst great friends, kids playing, grilling, and birthday cake, all I could think about was running. It was, as usual, on the forefront of my mind.

Due to the above-average temps, I briefly reconsidered our starting time of 7:00 a.m., but Mrs. Pugh and I, thinking that it very possibly could be warm on May 1st in Oklahoma City, agreed to stick with the plan. Going to bed that night, unable to sleep well, I knew it was a calculated decision, but I didn't know exactly how decisive it would be until the next morning. Running 22 miles was going to be an extreme challenge regardless of the weather.

After making a quick gatorade drop at Bentonville High School, Mrs. Pugh and I left out from the Bark Park determined to enjoy our last long training run before three weeks of tapering. We were both in amazingly good spirits. Our pace needed to be markedly slower than previous runs in an effort to mimic race day conditions as much as possible. We even allowed ourselves to walk the Crystal Bridges hill in mile three. Seeing no benefit in running a hill while training for a completely flat course, it just made sense. I wanted to run it desperately, but held back.

Despite the above-normal temperature, the day was shaping up to be one of those Saturdays that everybody loves. We passed through a well-developed neighborhood with multiple families having garage sales. It was fun to see people out enjoying the spring air. Tulips were in full bloom everywhere we looked.

We continued through the neighborhood at what felt like a great pace. I had settled in with a comfortable pace and was enjoying my long run. Approaching an old man on his riding lawn mower, the world around me seemed to stand still and I became intently focused and reflective. The distinct smell of the freshly mowed grass catapulted me back to my childhood and memories began to flood my cognition. Possibly more than anything else, it's the smell I associate with growing up. I was suddenly that kid again, completely afraid of what was to come, but so incredibly content in the present. My childhood was a complete dichotomy, as I seemingly ran and played through the ideal world in which to grow up. I had everything I needed to enjoy life to the fullest, but inside kept an insurmountable secret that threatened every understanding of life that I had. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't figure out why everything was so great and so terrible at the same time. And why none of my friends felt the same way. So I simply continued to play and go to school and go to church and be happy. On the outside.

Oblivious to the olfactory cue he was providing, the old man continued to mow as I ran by. He glanced in my direction with no emotion on his face whatsoever, but seemed to be completely at peace. I waved at him, slightly and reserved. He acknowledged me by nodding his head. I could look at him and tell that he was exactly where he wanted to be. I began to run harder.

It must have been somewhere around mile eight, as we followed portions of the Bentonville Half Marathon course, that we both realized the sun was going to be our nemesis on what was a gorgeous April morning. As it rose low in the eastern sky, it began a relentless pounding of energy and heat that wouldn't let up for the rest of the day. There wasn't a cloud in the sky or a shade tree to be found as we slogged through the mid miles. To say that the sun was taxing would be an understatement. Around mile 13 I could physically feel my lack of pace. I could also sense it in my great, dear running friend, but I didn't mention it at the time. Not only is running an internal struggle, but an accomplishment as well, and I was proud of both of us for working so hard toward a singular goal. While I was worried about the miles that lay ahead, I chose to not acknowledge it. We took a quick break for gatorade and pushed forward.

I'm not exactly for sure the reason why, nor am I interested in trying to figure it out, but I would be remiss if I didn't admit that the latter miles were difficult. In fact, Mrs. Pugh's recurring left hip injury resurfaced and she had to pull out completely around mile 16. She was so incredibly gracious about the entire experience, never once complaining or crying, while at the same time encouraging me to keep going without her. She mentioned the inevitable disappointment that would follow and I reminded her that it was just an injury that she couldn't control. Nothing more, nothing less. I thought about her for the remaining 6 miles and wondered how she was doing. I knew that she'd be okay, but I didn't want my friend to hurt.

By mile 19 my entire body was aching. I distinctly remember this same feeling last October during the Chicago Marathon. I'd never felt this sort of pain before and haven't since then. Focusing on small goals and trying to do my best, I began to question my abilities in terms of running 26.2 miles and wondered if I wasn't making a mistake. The best I could do was to run for about a minute then walk for that same time span. My right calf was cramping and my shoulders felt like they were carrying buckets of concrete on them. I wasn't enjoying the moment. At all. Struggling back to the Bark Park, I thought how miserable it would have been to go another 4.2 miles. I'm fairly certain, in that moment, I would have had to walk a substantial portion of it. I felt dejected and sad, not proud of my ability to run.

Driving home, I passed the beautiful downtown Bentonville square and noticed the temperature on the bank sign: 82 degrees. Right there I made the decision to let go of any expectations regarding time and to simply focus on finishing in Oklahoma City. My second marathon is three weeks away and I don't want it to be a miserable experience, but rather a time to celebrate pushing my limits to the extreme, and then looking back on my efforts with pride and enthusiasm.

I won't soon forget that old man on the mower. In fact, I've been thinking about him all weekend. I've wondered if he was a scared kid, too, and if he ever gets scared now. I do. Maybe for him, the solace and deep hum of a riding lawnmower is his salve. Maybe the smell of freshly cut grass reminds him that everything happens as planned. If so, he's correct; and i'm happy that he knows the same things I do. Except for me, the knowledge comes in lacing up and going the distance. It's never an easy road, but things along the way, like an old man quietly mowing his yard, can change the trip for the better, making it a true journey.

The remarkable part is that sometimes we are those things in people's lives and don't even know it. I hope that I am, at least every once in a while.