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.

training. starts. now.

today's distance: 13 miles

on the iPod: "rock-n-roll star" -- oasis

The alarm went off at 5:45 a.m., but I was already awake. Setting it the night before was simply a formality -- I knew that I'd be up and ready. Surprisingly, I got good sleep, which can't always be guaranteed when i'm focused on an event like a distance run. A training run. After taking it easy for two months, only running short mileage on any given day, the time had dawned to focus acutely on the goal at hand: a repeat performance at this year's Chicago Marathon. The date has been set for October 9th, 2011. That's roughly three months away, but it seems like an eternity. I wish it were tomorrow.

The July heat is in full effect this summer, and because of that our distance runs need to begin as early as possibly in an effort to avoid melting right into the pavement. There's no real way to avoid the temperatures, it simply must be endured, but runners have been known to leave out as early as 4:45 a.m. to get a jump on the sun. But Mrs. Murie, bless her heart, isn't a morning person. At all. She cherishes her slumber, so our starting time is always up for debate. And since today was her birthday, I caved in and let her pick. She chose 6:30.

Leaving out from our usual point -- Starbucks -- we hit the trail and quickly commented on the temperature, also debating whether or not bank clocks actually show the correct temperature at any given time. It seems to both of us that they are always a little bit extreme. But maybe it's because we've grown up in the Arkansas heat and have become accustomed to the sweltering conditions. Or maybe our brains have been fried. Remember that egg demonstration commercial, "this is your brain on drugs", from the 1980's? It was supposed to tell kids to not do drugs, but I was 10 and never knew what in the hell that meant. Now I think it means "don't run in the frickin' hot weather".

As usual with Mrs. Murie, the pace was quick from the onset. We blistered through the first half of the out-and-back, adding a loop around Wilson Park. This time last year I never would have been able to keep up with her, which is a testament to all the miles i've put in. I'm realizing that i've basically been running non-stop for about 20 months now, and i'm finally starting to see a substantial increase in pace. I'm still keeping things in perspective, however, and have no inclinations about trying to keep up with her in Chicago. In fact, we reiterated again this morning the plan to go out and run our own races. No pressure, no expectations. Just running 26.2 miles.

The second half was just as swift, with episodes of us running together as well as running apart. I found myself thinking about how nice the summer has been thus far and how much I've enjoyed it. My days have been filled with thoughtful appreciation for the amazing people I have around me. Friends and family. Mine are the best. Hands down. I also began to think about how small things in our lives add up. It's so incredibly easy to ignore moments that seem insignificant at the time, but later we realize that they've had a profound impact on ourselves or other people. Every interaction that we have carries impact. And the sum of who we are, and how we treat the people around us, ultimately becomes a part of a greater story of life. I often wonder what my verse in that story will be. I hope that it's a good one. A meaningful one.

Ending our first distance training run in a little but under two and a half hours, Mrs. Murie and I celebrated her birthday with chocolate-mocha-crappa-frappa-latta-chino drinks on the Starbucks patio. Not really coffee, per se, but rather a fancy chocolate milkshake. I've often snubbed my nose at these concoctions while ordering my standard venti Pike's Place Roast. That's black coffee. And when nobody's looking, I add a somewhat generous portion of half-and-half to cut the bitter taste just a little. But on this fine morning, after an even finer run, with one of the coolest birthday girls I know, I thoroughly enjoyed my chocolate milkshake thing. I even had whipped cream on it.

From here, the numbers only go up in terms of distance runs, and I couldn't be happier about it. I'd be lying if I didn't admit that this morning's 13-miler wasn't a little bit trying, but toward the end I found myself already thinking about the various 15- and 18-milers to come. Not to mention a 22-miler. The heat will make these runs even more challenging, but I'm up for a good fight.

The 2011 Chicago Marathon is three months away. Training. Starts. Now.

winning

recent mileage: alot

on the iPod: "georgia clay" -- josh kelley

While I stopped writing for a few weeks, I didn't stop running. There's been an 11 mile training run, the Cancer Challenge 10K (a waaay cool event), multiple five and six milers in the heat of the day, the Run For Vets this morning, two PR's, and one 1st place age division finish. I've never placed in my age division, much less first. I'm proud.

Summer running is so much fun. A lot of people assume that a person has to have lost touch with reality to want to lace up in the blazing, stifling heat of an Arkansas summer, but I find myself drawn to it. There's a deep, driving force that propels me to run in the summer months. I can't sit on a couch in the air conditioned bliss of my living room, watching Oprah, eating Cheetos. I must get out in the elements. I must push myself to go one more turn on the trail. One more block. One more road. One more hill.

In fact, the first run I ever took, some 12 years ago, was on a hot-as-heck early August evening. I remember it with striking clarity, and have often considered going back to the very street in that neighborhood for a repeat jog. Completely out of shape, with no lung capacity whatsoever, I pounded past my neighbor's houses toward the front of my subdivision, turned around half way, and walked home. I was in a process of discernment back then, and running became the glue that kept me together. I'm so glad the glue stuck. It changed everything. For the better.

This morning at 7:00 a.m., when I rolled in to Veteran's Park for the Run For Vets 4 Miler, the heat was already searing. It must have been in the low 80's. The humidity hadn't kicked in yet, but the heat was there. Full on. Mrs. Murie and her niece, Chloe, who is in town visiting from Georgia, were racing as well. The three of us greeted each other with smiles and anticipation for what promised to be a crazy hot morning run. I was excited.

In it's third year, the Run For Vets is a really cool event with a local feel. It's got that grassroots vibe with not alot of crowds, but some really good support and swag from local runners that plan it each year. Jerry Bailey, a grand friend from my college days, did a great job coordinating. And it's only fitting that this race falls each year on Independence Day weekend, honoring and remembering the amazing people that have fought and sacrificed for freedom and liberty.

The course was an out-and-back on the banks of Lake Fayetteville. We've run this portion of the trail system tons of times, but nothing can prepare a runner for the mean, nasty hill on the North Shore. And of course, it landed very close to the turn-around, so essentially we ran it twice in about a half mile stretch. It was a killer, but everybody survived to finish in good form. Don and Cynthia Puckett were on the levee portion to cheer me on. I love when they come to watch. It makes me think about future races and how cool it would be to have somebody great in my life that would be there to smile and yell and cheer at the finish line. I know those things happen when they are supposed to, so in the interim I won't worry and keep running. It's good.

Post-race found me drenched in sweat, but chocolate milk and orange slices made life swell again. I stuck around long enough to win a door prize and catch up with great friends: Deanna, Hershey, and Jerry, who is running Leadville, an epic 100 mile trail run in Colorado next month, but left before hearing my name called for placing first in my age division. When Jerry texted me about an hour later to let me know he had my dogtags (that's what the winners get), all I could do was smile and think that the other 37 year-olds in the race must have been total slow-ass lugs. How in the heck could that have happened? I'll never figure it out.

After a quick shower and changing into completely dry and sweat-free street clothes, I headed to the Farmer's Market for coffee and vegetables. As usual, it was great to visit with friends on the square and enjoy the things that make this Ozark Mountain town my home. We sat on the rock ledge of the expansive and lush gardens, catching up with each other and enjoying the morning. I could have stayed there, in that moment, for hours. Jerry was having breakfast at a local restaurant on the square and gave me my dogtags. I haven't taken them off since.

Summer and the heat are here and I couldn't be happier. The daily temps easily reach the 90's and the sunshine is abundant. It's relentless energy is the prime factor in any outdoor activity, and threatens to shut down the simplest of tasks. But not running. Not for me. I'm winning.