one final training weekend

the weekend's mileage: seven

on the iPod: "comin' to your city" -- big and rich

It's been raining in Northwest Arkansas since last Tuesday. Really. Like pretty much constantly. Oh, and there's also been multiple hail storms and a few tornadoes on the ground. It's fair to say that the weather was less than perfect for a final weekend of marathon training, but i'd be lying if I said I was upset about it. The truth is that i've reveled in these spring thunderstorms and used them to force myself to slow down and relax. To contemplate and reflect. To breathe. And, in this Holy Week, to be thankful for all that I have. It has been perfect.

Sometimes the most moving events in life happen by accident. By chance. An argument could be made that happenstance makes them even sweeter. This very such occurrence crossed my path early in the week and had a profound impact. In an effort to help out, I volunteered at the last minute to acolyte for the Maundy Thursday service at St. Paul's. Per usual, I had nothing going on and they needed a crucifer, so it made sense to me. I love carrying a crucifix in procession. Doing so makes me feel close to god. Not unlike running, my understanding of faith is grounded in humble servitude and singularity.

Maundy Thursday celebrates the Last Supper and Christ's commandment to love one another, as he has loved us. The other component of Maundy Thursday, of which I had totally forgotten, is the washing of feet. From a historical perspective, this act had a huge impact on the disciples and their relationship with their prophet. They walked around in the desert all day and had really nasty feet. Like really nasty. So to have someone wash your feet was a pretty big deal.

When it dawned on me that the Maundy Thursday service would entail not only me touching a complete stranger's bare feet (that's gross), but also taking off my own shoes (even grosser), I immediately started scheming on how to back out. Guilt set in about 45 minutes later and I realized that my fate was to go through with it. How can you call a church and back out? You can't. My sister tells a really funny story about me years ago trying cancel an order of girl scout cookies because I didn't have any money. She shamed me into paying for the cookies. Remembering that lesson, I didn't make up any excuse, but I did vow to never again volunteer for Maundy Thursday services.

After taking a shower about an hour before the service and paying particular attention to my feet, I was ready. I grinned while wondering how many other parishoners were at home doing the exact same thing as me, never thinking how moving the service would be. It was.

The foot washing was unmemorable. It kind of just happened. So was the gospel reading, homily, and eucharist. But I left St. Paul's that evening with a wholly new understanding of the mercy that encapsulates Holy Week. At the end of the service, in complete silence, the Fathers slowly and methodically stripped the alter and chancel of everything, in an effort to prepare for the somberness of Good Friday. I stood in the back of the nave, watching with awe and respect and compassion. What I saw was stark and deeply emotional. As rain continued to pour and thunder crashed outside, the beauty was too much to understand and I couldn't help but cry. I continued to watch until nothing was left and the alter was completely dark. I'll never miss a Maundy Thursday service again.

In a needed turn of events, the skies dried up ever so briefly late Friday afternoon for a few hours and just in time for the Gulley Park Cow Paddy 5K. Just like my beloved hometown, the Cow Paddy had a carefree and funky vibe from the start. Locals were hangin' out, smiling and laughing as the gun time neared, seemingly oblivious to the dark skies overhead. Or maybe everybody had just resigned to the fact that we'd be running in the rain. Either way, the atmosphere was light and festive. Mrs. Murie and I drank a few beers in the parking lot and joined the other runners soon thereafter.

Though few and far between, early evening runs are always a blast, because most of them lack the competitive edge and focus more on throwing a good party. We seemed to fit right in. There were kids running around, dogs catching frisbees, local hippies watching, families cheering, and lots of friends from over the years there to run. The rain held off and Mrs. Murie and I both recorded PR's. I shaved about three minutes off my 5K time, coming in just a few seconds over 24 minutes. And the best news is I didn't step in any cowsh*t along the way. (Full disclosure: that was never really a possibility, as there aren't cows that graze in Gulley Park anymore, but I've heard there used to be.) I love Fayetteville so much.

My next stop is the Oklahoma City Marathon. I'm incredibly excited to go the distance for a second time and couldn't be happier to have Mrs. Pugh and Mrs. Murie there with me. They'll both be running the half marathon and have vowed to be a support team when finishing. They've even been threatening to bandit in and run the final miles alongside me. I know I can get through the event, but it'll definitely be crazy difficult and I'd love to see their smiling faces helping me along.

When I started training four months ago, I had some pretty lofty goals in terms of time, but I have long since abandoned those markers and instead am planning to go out and enjoy the morning, doing what I've come to love so much. I've written extensively about the fact that the sport has become my focus and identity, but I can't stress enough just exactly how much it's become a part of who I am. I simply love to run. Times and medals and t-shirts and swag bags are secondary to the innocent enjoyment of lacing up and finding a good trail. I can't wait to do that very thing next weekend in Oklahoma City. And in new places every weekend after that.

Run.