3.58 mi(ish) / 43 min(ish) / super-wicked-fast! mpm(ish)
So I actually did get a run in on Saturday. I drove my flannel-clad self home and arrived just in time to hand off the keys to the wife who was on her way to work. I minded the wee-one, did dishes, did laundry, minded wee-one, repeat . . . .
I had just gotten most of the house picked up when the wife came home from work and we traded car keys once more. It was raining pretty good but I didn't care. I loaded up the dawg and headed out.
When I arrived at the park in shorts, a t-shirt and sweatshirt - it occurred to me that I should leave the sweatshirt in the car so that I would have something dry to change into when I was done. The temp was in the 50's so I figured it was warm enough.
There is something about a devil-may-care tossing it all to the wind and getting out in the rain totally unprepared . . .
It reminded me of my Jr. High days when we used to live in a massive 500-unit apartment complex. There was a gang of kids there and we all caroused around together. During spring and late summer, we would all head to the local diamond to play baseball. During fall and winter we occasionally headed to the field for tackle football.
But rain in the fall or winter meant one thing . . . . Smear the "Q***r" The term didn't strike any of us as derogatory in the early 80's when we were in Jr. High and just discovering girls - let's just say it starts with "Q" and rhymes with "steer".
This is that age-old game where everyone on the field tries to tackle the one with the football. Once tackled, you randomly toss the ball up and the next person to grab it takes off until they get tackled and so on. We would come home exhausted. Covered in mud (if we were lucky) mingled with a little blood here and there (if we were luckier still). It's one of those sandlot memories from my childhood.
Once in college, a rainstorm created 2 feet of mud on a section of San Diego's Sunset Cliffs. Some dorm-mates asked if I was up for some mud football and I jumped at the chance. We all headed down but truth-be-told, they did it wrong. These guys were actually interested in "plays" and points and winning. All I wanted to do was get muddy and (a little) bloody and tackle and be tackled. I walked away from the game thinking, "Well, that's it. It will never be like it used to be . . . 10 years ago at that city park field . . ."
Until this past Saturday.
I don't know what it was but when I stepped out into the rain with the Dawg at my side, I cranked up the Itunes and decided "Let's go for it". We ran and ran and ran . . . .
The dawg went berserk that we were out running in the rain and so did I. We hooted and hollard and waved at the rare other runners. The tourists saw us running past and you could see their faces brighten when they saw how happy the two of us were . . .
Near the end of the run, the rain stopped and the sun broke through and it was one of those transcendent moments when the entire world reflects it's true beauty.
When we finally got back to the car and collected ourselves, I realized that my entire body was screaming in pain. I had been "giving it the gas" for the past 43 minutes and it was telling me about it now . . . I got in the car and thought of something my father-in-law occasionally says after eating an enormous, artery-clogging, soul-satisfying meal . . . . he will lean back on the couch, stretch out and with a big smile exclaim . . ."That was good . . . . I hope it doesn't kill me right away . . ."
Everything hurt - It wouldn't surprise me if I had pushed myself onto the injured list once again - and with a satisfied smile I thought, "I would gladly postpone running a marathon for an entire year just to have a run like that . . ."
No photos this time - you can't take a picture of the face of God - you can't photograph glory . . . .
0 comments:
Post a Comment