burned retinas, inevitable therapy

yesterday's long run:  18 miles
on the iPod:  "touch the sky" -- kanye west, featuring lupe fiasco


For distance running, 18 is the magic number.  It's the distance that signifies a pronounced physical exertion, regardless of a runner's ability or athletic prowess.  Or in my case, lack thereof.  Scientists and academic-types, with their lab coats and clipboards and fancy treadmills, will tell you that 18 miles is the point at which glycogen levels in muscles are completely depleted, leaving zero energy for any sort of movement, much less running a stupid marathon.  It has something to do with carbohydrates and all that stuff.  I don't even try to understand the nuances, though I know plenty of runners who will only eat certain foods and would rather rub broken glass in between their toes than do something like eat a bag of Cheetos every once in a while.  I'm completely cool with eating a big plate of spaghetti, but I draw the line at trying to figure out how all that works.  I just want to run.  A lot.


But this is what I can tell you about running 18 miles:  it's quite possibly my favorite distance, second only to 26.2.  It's the perfect measurement of planning, fun, endurance, pace, cramps, and sweat.  It's the distance that seems to separate the weekend warriors from the marathon trainers, and it makes me incredibly happy to fall into the latter category.  Anytime someone says they're going out for 18, rest assured that they know what the heck they are doing.  Then lace up and ask if you can go with them.  It's where the real fun begins.


Because Mrs. Murie is the planner of our group, she chose to mix it up a little bit and made an executive decision that we would leave from Dickson Street.  I supported this wholeheartedly, knowing that an out-and-back route would be great on the trail system.  Change is good on occasion and it was good to run north to Lake Fayetteville as the morning rapidly increased in temperature.  Within minutes we were hitting a blistering pace, but it felt great and we went with it, only slowing down the tiniest bit around mile six.  While running the spillway at Lake Fayetteville, I saw two walkers approaching and immediately recognized my friends Bruce and Laura Wilkins.  Runners themselves, having accomplished marathons and half-marathons, they are two of the coolest and fun people I know.  For real.  I've gotten to know them over the years at St. Paul's where they are both heavily involved in pretty much everything, but particularly the children's and youth education programs.  Bruce is currently rehabbing a minor injury and is taking a break from running, but he'll be back with a vengeance.  I know for a fact that he's already registered for some heavy-hitting races in 2012 and I couldn't be happier for him.  Both of them are top-notch people that i'm glad to call friends.  Laura took a quick picture of Mrs. Murie and I before we kept running.

     
The latter miles were great.  My legs were churning out power and strength that I hadn't felt in quite some time.  Mrs. Murie surged ahead and I would catch up, then she would surge ahead again.  Our paces are still relatively divergent and that's totally cool, because she pushes me to increase my speed.  Regardless, I felt completely dialed in and focused on the mileage.  Under a crystal blue sky, the sun rose substantially in the eastern sky and the temps were climbing.  Wearing a black shirt might not have been the smartest move to make, but no one has ever accused me of being a "scientific rocket".  Any Razorback football fan worth his hog hat will recognize that pop culture reference and agree with me.  Thanks for the memories, Coach Ford. 


With about four miles to go, it was quickly becoming one of those perfect running mornings.  It felt great to be out doing what we love so much, and my thoughts were on the Nashville Marathon, that is now only seven weeks away.  The trails were filling up with all kinds of activity as we headed south back toward Dickson Street; passing other runners, families, dog walkers, and lots of bikes.  Without thinking of the consequences, but rather as a byproduct of really enjoying the moment, and also because my black shirt really was heating me up fairly significantly, I ripped it off and went shirtless for the first time in 2012.  Yep.


I did it and I didn't care.  The whole world could see my big ugly white stomach exposed to the elements and I didn't give a rip.  The morning was too nice and the run was too perfect to care.  Throngs of locals shielded their eyes from the horror, desperately trying to distract the children from the monstrosity before them.  Dogs wimpered.  Sorority girls smirked in disgust.  Zombies appeared from the bushes.  An elderly woman with a walker passed out.  Two robins dropped dead.  A scholarly undergrad, no doubt on a leisurely to stroll to contemplate the meaning of life, cried out "Oh, the humanity!"


And me?  I just kept running.  


Before I knew it, and after tackling the Maple Street hill in the final 100 yards, we were back on Dickson Street and realizing that we'd done the 18 miler in just under 3 hours.  Wow.  I wasn't expecting any sort of time like that and was pleasantly surprised to think what that will mean in terms of a time for Nashville.  I'm not quite ready to think about it completely, but it looks promising.  


We finished at Common Grounds on the back deck, Mrs. Murie enjoying an iced mocha while I opted for a Bloody Mary.  Have a bloody, buddy!  Right?  That was a no-brainer.

Luckily for all involved, they have a "no shoes, no shirt, no service" policy, so our fellow patio  diners were spared the trauma of my bare torso.  If you happened to be one of the unluckly souls who witnessed me in the final miles, please accept my apologies and know that I was in the zone and couldn't help myself.  Send me your medical bills and I'll see what I can do...