on the iPod: "jimi thing" -- the dave matthews band
countdown to NYC: 69 days
I am so extremely excited to be back in full-on marathon training. Granted, I've been putting in mileage toward NYC for the last couple of months, but I haven't felt like I was fully engaged in the process. It was more like I was going out for runs in the morning just because it was something to do. It was a social event. But for whatever reason, maybe it's the changing of the season, maybe it's getting back into a routine of going to work, maybe it's the pending arrival of the atomic spaghetti monsters, something clicked and I went from running for fun to running with a goal. And it's the biggest running goal i've ever undertaken in my life. It's the New York City Marathon.
I've penned nostalgically about how much I love training before, but it's worth revisiting: the regimented days, the mildly pleasurable soreness, the insatiable appetite, the pure exhaustion, the constant thirst, all of these are a part of what makes training spectacular. But greater than all of these is the focus and discipline needed to succeed. I find myself craving the long run, because I know that it will encompass all of the above, and, almost always, something unexpected thrown in. I'm not gonna lie about it: things are really really great right now.
Deciding to mix it up a little bit, Mrs. Murie and I started out from Panera as opposed to our usual jumping off point of Starbucks. It was a throwback of sorts, to winter of 2010, when we were training for the Little Rock Half Marathon and ran together for the first time. I remember it well. Mrs. Pugh had talked to me into training with her, and the two of us strong-armed Mrs. Murie to join in. She was already scheduled to run the Boston Marathon that April, so we convinced her Little Rock would be a good warm-up. That January seemed to be particularly cold, and the three of us formed what has become an amazing friendship while warming up post-run over hot chocolate and coffee. And the rest? Total history.
The weather was a classic August morning, hot and humid. Thankfully, however, abundant clouds were low in the sky and provided a substantial cover as the sun rose to greet a trail system crowded with runners of all paces and ability. As always with Mrs. Murie, our pace was swift from the beginning and didn't seem to let up for anything. We passed a myriad of familiar faces in the early miles: Gene and the Starbucks crew, Dr. Holloman, Painful Patty, Katie Helms, Wes Adams, and Sarah Hood. Even with the Memory Maker Triathlon going on, where our friend Deanna was, the trails were packed with runners.
In the final miles my legs were feeling exceptionally fresh. Sometimes that happens and it's always a welcomed surprise when it does. It can be a double-edged sword, however, if there's still a good chunk of distance to cover, because typically that surge of fresh legs will be finite in nature, and there's nothing worse than running out of gas. But yesterday morning wasn't one of those days, because everything seemed to happen at just the right time, and when I felt my legs respond I pushed them even harder. Serious distance runners will swear by this sort of training and say that pushing a pace toward the end of a run will ultimately produce stronger times on race day. I couldn't give a rip about all that, but rather prefer to follow the cues of my body. When it's time to pick it up a little bit, I do. When it's time to slow down, I'll do that, too.
Arriving back at Panera, everything felt perfect. Yeah, the humidity was out of control, but what're a couple of good Southern distance runners gonna do about humidity other than complain? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. About all you can do is drag the ice chest up to the table and put your feet in it.
Yeah, I did it. Right there on the front patio of Panera Bread in Fayetteville, Arkansas. There wasn't an empty parking spot in the whole place, what with all the soccer moms and geriatrics and bible studies and ex-hippies and book clubs and snot-nosed toddlers getting their coffee and cinnamon rolls. And there I was, not ten feet from the front door, with my disgustingly foul running shoes off and my feet in a Cancer Challenge ice chest. Not one of my finest moments, but that's what marathon training in 70% humidity will do to a fool like me. I couldn't be bothered. It's a wonder that management didn't ask us to leave and never come back. Poor Mrs. Murie had no choice, feigning approval while all along she was secretly ashamed to be sitting with me. Bless her heart, there's a special place in heaven for the people that have to put up with me, and she's at the top of the list.
Run.
Postscript. This is the 100th blog post. When I started the whole process of documenting my runs, I didn't know what would come of it. Two and half years later, I'm at a place where I love writing about running almost as much as I love the running itself. It's become a part of me, and I wholeheartedly look forward to Sunday afternoons. I hope i'm not the only one.
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