midweek mileage: two 6 milers
on the iPod: "never gonna leave this bed" -- maroon five
My sister Susan and I have always been great friends. We are both our own, unique people with respect to personality and interests, strengths and weaknesses, what makes us who we are; but fundamentally we are very similar. And being siblings, it goes without saying that we understand one another in ways that our separate friends do not.
Like most American families, she and I experienced an idyllic life growing up. We both had our own rooms, there was a great backyard, and our grandmother, whom we loved dearly, lived within walking distance. Ours was a great little neighborhood with tons of kids our age around all the time. Jodie and Jamie, Chris, Amanda and Angela, Bart, the Carruthers girls, Shane and Blake, and of course Stephanie; these were our friends. And while she and I rarely played together, we were nonetheless very close. It was sort of unspoken that we both liked the other. Last week, while having dinner with mutual friends, Susan retold the story of the night that Bart and I hid in the bushes and threw water balloons when her date, Bradley Hughes, brought her home and kissed her goodnight. We've retold that story countless times, and it's become a touch point for me in understanding our childhood relationship.
With both of us in college at the University of Arkansas, we became fast friends, on our way to adulthood. And as we transitioned from college to being twentysomethings, that continued. I think it was partly a function of both needing the support of the other, but also because Fayetteville was, and still is, a fun place to be. I have so many really good memories of those years. Since then, we've both gone through substantial, singular events in life that have come to define our character and resolve; first myself and then, more recently, her. During those periods, the other was right there every single step of the way. Suffice it to say that she knows me probably better than anyone else on the planet. I love her very much.
So the rain started sometime Friday afternoon. I called Mrs. Murie to inquire about our plan for the 21 miler we were slated to run the following morning. Typically Mrs. Murie is the prepared member of our twosome. She's the one that has the mileage mapped out, the ballpark on when we'll finish, the correct gear for the given temperature, the money for gatorade stops, et cetera. I'm the one that kinda just shows up and runs by the seat of my ass. But this time Mrs. Murie had no idea that rain was a concern. We discussed it for about 11 seconds and decided it wouldn't be an issue. "See ya at 7:00 a.m., friend. You better be ready to run!", she said. Click.
Sure enough, the next morning 7:00 a.m. rolls around and the rain hasn't gone anywhere. After checking the radar on our iPhones about 1,000 times and mulling around and talking to other runners, we seemed to see a break in the clouds and headed out, extremely excited to get in our second 21 miler in two weeks. I was happy and ready to be challenged. I had pushed myself heavily in the mid-week runs, particularly in the second one, sprinting the final mile; and this long run was going to be the killer icing on the cake. The clouds were still overhead, but the air was dry and crisp. Things were going perfect. Until mile 3.
The first downpour wasn't all that bad, really, because we were able to jump under a Lake Fayetteville pavilion that conveniently had a bathroom. Score. It only lasted a few minutes and we were off again. We hadn't gone a quarter mile when, BAM!, another deluge. Seriously. Finding an overhang in a newly constructed strip mall, Mrs. Murie, the eternal optimist, gazed westward at what looked to be fairer skies. Deluge #2 lasted a good five minutes and then we were back running, happy that we had cover during during those isolated weather hiccups. Surely that would be the end of it. Not so much...
Pressing forward and logging some fairly speedy miles, we were connecting with the southward portion of the Skull Creek trail when I felt a few drops falling again. Quickly a few drops turned into a few more, which turned into a lot more. Then a full-on rain event, and this time there was no shelter to be found. We tried to ignore the rain in an effort to save face, each of us not wanting to be the one to bring it up. But when it continued to increase in what seemed to be exponentially, there was no denying a decision would have to be made. We weren't more than six miles into a final training run and things were already looking really bad. By the time we made it to the creeper tunnel it was a storm, complete with thunder and lightning, so we regrouped under the cover of concrete and earth. Waiting it out for a good 10 minutes, the western skies once again seemed to clear, and we decided to keep going. Nevermind the fact that Mrs. Murie and I were both soaking wet by this point, we both wanted a long run. I knew how I felt, and I could see that same drive in my friend.
Round three started out much like round two, overcast and barely sprinkling, but easily runable. Round three also lasted about as long as round two did, because it couldn't have been more than five minutes before the skied opened up again. This time is was quick and powerful. Buckets of rain. Making it to the cover of the Gregory Park train bridge, we tucked tail and called it quits, turning back for the three mile trek to Starbucks. It rained the whole way.
We dried off as best we could and went in for coffee and conversation, but my heart wasn't in it. At all. It seems a bit melodramatic, but I felt empty. I desperately wanted to run 21 miles in the cool, crisp morning air of mid-September. Being denied that run made me feel lost and disappointed. I so very much wanted to make the rain stop and have the sun come out of hiding. I think we both would have immediately headed back out for more mileage were that the case, but that's not how life works.
I deliberately kept myself busy the rest of the day in an effort to not feel dejected. I read the paper cover-to-cover, drank a pot of coffee, cleaned the house, played with Abe Lincoln, watched the Auburn/Clemson football game; anything to keep my mind off not running. I was still craving the event. All the while, rain continued to douse my backyard and all of Northwest Arkansas.
God must be an Arkansas Razorback football fan, because a few hours later when it came time to play a game, the skies cleared and the clouds dried up permanently. Uncle Lewis, Randy K. and myself met up for pre-game beers on Dickson and then headed to the tailgate. The atmosphere was electric with Arkansas fans creating a sea of red that blanketed campus. It was all there: bar-b-que, coolers, tents, music, students, alumni, families. Even in that moment, surrounded by the passion and fun that defines football in the South, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was missing. I couldn't get rid of the emptiness in my stomach. I wanted to rewind the day and start over again, but this time replace the rain with the heat and sunshine of August.
Arkansas scored on the fourth play of the game in what turned out to be a closer contest than the previous two, but still a win. My mind wasn't on football and I struggled to not think about the morning. Directly in front of me was a lady that I thought might understand how I felt. She seemed to be in her 40's, sitting with her family, and looked to be pretty fit. But the tell-tall sign was that fact that she was probably the only person in the entire stadium of 72,000 people that wasn't wearing red. Instead, she was wearing a fitted Nike windbreaker. It was navy blue with a green stripe on each shoulder and I immediately knew what that meant: she had run the 2011 Boston Marathon.
At the end of the first quarter I tapped her on the shoulder and we immediately began talking about running. She was gracious when I guffawed about her finishing the greatest marathon in the world, and encouraging to me when I told her that a BQ (Boston qualifying time) was most likely not a possibility for me. She, too, had gone out that morning in the rain for some mileage and completely understood the emotions attached to having to call it quits early. We talked about upcoming races and some of our favorites over the years. Our conversation was exactly what I needed; it changed my cognition of the morning from thoughts of frustration and disappointment to understanding and acceptance. Right there, in the middle of Donald W. Reynolds Razorback Stadium, I let it go. And it felt amazing.
That exchange, with a complete and total stranger, reminded me of something that I've grown to appreciate over the last few years while watching my sister so beautifully walk in a new direction. It's something that I learned years ago during my own walk, a walk that wasn't without peaks and valleys, but one that I'm so incredibly proud and happy to have made. Simply stated, it is this: the best course is to always accept life for what it is and not try to constantly change what can't be controlled. Instead of trying to make the rules, we should take the good and the bad, knowing that things will surely change when we least expect them to. The one thing we can control, however, is our reactions to what life sends our way. We can choose to accept everything that happens, even when we can't understand why. Even rain on a long-run morning.
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