a single grain of sand

the weekend's distance run: 14 miles

on the iPod: "orange crush" -- r.e.m.

As with many of my friends and other Arkansas families, going to the Gulf Coast for a week is a commonplace tradition. A rite of passage. Families caravan summer after summer, faithfully to their beach of choice along the stretch of real estate affectionately known as The Redneck Riviera. It's great fun and the experience rarely changes: high-rise condos boasting outdoor decks facing the gorgeous white sand, seafood restaurants with fried shrimp and frozen drinks, cheap souvenir shops with beach-themed junk (Alvin's Island, anybody?), plenty of sunshine mixed in with an afternoon rain storm, and the most amazingly beautiful sunsets known to human kind. And rednecks. Most of which are wearing LSU hats.

These trips are often the highlight of my summer, as my family have been going as long as I can remember. We've been to so many of of the different beaches: Destin, Grayton Beach, Gulf Shores, Orange Beach, Seaside. It doesn't matter where we choose, I always spend my mornings walking to a pier some distance away, the afternoons drinking beer in the pools, and the early evenings reading at the edge of the water.

We almost always go out to dinner and it's not uncommon to see families from Arkansas that we know. There's typically a wait of about an hour, but that only serves as time to enjoy the cool evening air with a drink, watching happy kids running on the sandy beaches, young parents and old college friends laughing and listening to the acoustic guitar player on stage, and grandparents patiently sitting as they reflect on the day and trips past. I know that i'll be one of those grandparents one day and I can't wait. It's an ideal vacation, and I hope I never stop going.

This past week found us in Orange Beach again, but this trip was different in that I packed running shoes. I anticipated getting in two runs throughout the week, and immediately felt the urge on Day One to lace up. Forgoing the typical "beer-thirty" ritual of mid-afternoon, I instead stripped my swim trunks and was in running gear within minutes. Our condominium was located at the far east end close to the entrance to the Intercoastal Waterway, with an expansive four-lane bridge large enough for the million dollar yachts and commercial fishing boats to pass under each morning. My mother loves watching the vessels make their way into the open Gulf. She sat on our 14th story balcony every morning, drinking coffee and reading, glancing up to watch them. It made me happy that she got to do just that.

But, of course, that bridge was nothing more than a challenge to me. I knew immediately that it needed to be ran. Conquered. And I was going to do it. The afternoon was easily in the low 90's, and there was a constant sea breeze blowing in from the water. It didn't necessarily keep me from sweating incessantly and almost suffering a heat stoke, but I must admit that it felt great to have the wind at my back. Crossing the bridge was trying, with it's steep grade and surprisingly scary height. I found myself intensely focused throughout the process, and ready to run it again on the way back. But that wouldn't happen until this particular run took an even more eventful twist at the turnaround: The Florabama.

Possibly the granddaddy of all roadhouse bars, The Florabama is aptly named because of it's unique location. Directly straddling the state line of Florida and Alabama, this massively tacky beer joint stands out like a beacon and monument to Southern culture at it's finest hour. The Florabama has seen everything: rock-n-roll bands, country dudes, frat kids, fortysomethings who still want to be frat kids, drunken parents, bar fights, smashed bottles, congo lines, dance parties, topless girls, hammered boys, and more than one pile of vomit in the corner. There's been wet t-shirt contests, mud wrestling, line dancing, foam pits, the whole nine yards. And yet it survives, open seven days a week, always ready with a "hi ya'll" and a cold longneck. Before turning around and heading back, I had to stop for a picture.

After two days of not running, but rather a lot of doing absolutely nothing except reading on the beach, I headed out again for a second run, this time going west toward the center of Orange Beach. This placed high-rise after high-rise along my route, gleaming brightly in the afternoon sun which blazed down with no mercy. The ever-present wind felt great again, but it was no match for the temperature. I settled in with a five or six miler in mind, my iPod shuffling through a specific playlist i'd put together before leaving Fayetteville. It was heavy on the DMB, U2, Death Cab For Cutie, and Ben Folds. With some other stuff like Rascall Flatts and Kanye West thrown in to mix it up a little bit.

Almost instantaneously, one of the smaller toes on my left foot felt odd. It didn't make sense to me, as I rarely experience any sort of discomfort in my feet. I kept moving forward, but couldn't shake the feeling. I tried wiggling and moving, but that only seemed to make the pain increase. Hmmm.

Not wanting to stop, I tried to ignore what now felt like a blister. I focused on anything but my left foot. The blister got worse, and for the life of me I couldn't figure out what was causing the pain. So I stopped in front of some monstrosity of a condominium, one of the really high-end ones with massive fountains everywhere, to figure out the pain. As Range Rovers and Tahoes passed by, with their Ole Miss Alumni and Alabama Football stickers, I sat on the edge of the fountain and took my left shoe off. Then my sock. Nothing. Just toes. Toes that hurt.

I could clearly see a red irritated area, but nothing noticeable that would be causing a blister. Shoving my hand down in my sock, I expected to find a rock or some other foreign object. Finding absolutely nothing, I checked my left shoe. Still nothing. Soccer moms continued driving by, gawking at the sweaty mess of a guy staring at the inside of his shoe. I can only imagine they considered calling security.

As a last resort, I grabbed my toes at the point of discomfort. Again, nothing at first. Just pain. So I gingerly separated my two toes and the mystery was solved. I found the root of my discomfort and was dumbfounded at the discovery. I couldn't believe it. It had never dawned on me that something so small, so insignificant, so minuscule, could cause such an event. There it was. A single grain of sand.

Sitting on that ledge, with it now stuck to the end of my finger, I brought the grain closer to my face. It was coarse in texture and tiny in size, but I was completely aware of it's presence. After thoroughly inspecting it and experiencing it's mass, it was gone with a flick of my finger, but it wouldn't soon leave my mind. Like so many moments of minutia in my life, that single grain of sand sent my thoughts toward reflection.

It was simply a grain of sand -- one of billions, literally, only footsteps away on the genial, unreserved beaches that I love so very much. Lost amongst the unimaginable beauty of the coastline, that grain of sand doesn't stand out. It's completely unremarkable in nature, becoming a finitely small portion of an infinitely awesome landscape. But at the same time, a single grain of sand is unique. It does stand out.

In running i've found my way of standing out. It's become my definition of self. It makes me feel alive and unique and relevant in this world of broken people. I can't imagine my life without running, and I don't want to go back to the guy I used to be. There's simply no time in life to stand on the sidelines and watch it go by. What will make you feel alive? Whatever it is, find it and do it. Don't wait for tomorrow, because today is not a dress rehearsal.

Run.