Taste of rain

I was halfway thru my first lap on the three-quarter mile track when the first drops of rain hit my skin, one on my right arm and one on my face, right in the middle of “Brass Monkey,” jarring me from my iPod induced trance.

Within seconds, it was pouring. My first inclination was to throw myself into the fetal position, using every bit of clothing and body mass I had to protect Nan until the rain stopped. But she was in her iPod cover, and tucked underneath my shirt, so I thought she would be OK.

My next inclination was to throw up my hands and scream, “Why! Why does it wait to rain until the minute I start running?” But I refrained.

And then something happened.

I found myself enjoying the rain. I didn’t speed up. Instead I continued to run at my usual pace, listening to the quiet noise the rain made falling thru the trees, feeling its coolness hit my skin.

By the time I got back around to the parking lot, I was drenched. My clothes felt heavy. I wanted to laugh. Part of me wanted to keep running.

Slowing to a walk, I looked heavenward and opened my mouth, letting the raindrops hit my tongue. It reminded me of being a kid. It reminded me I was alive.

I don’t know when or where my sometimes frustration with rain began. But today I remembered something I knew all along. There are much worse things in life than getting caught in the rain.

Sometimes there’s nothing better.

“I hear it talking through the trees and on the window pane. When I hear it I just can’t believe I never liked the rain…”

52:45

I survived my second-ever 10K race Saturday. The weather was perfect. Cool temperatures, a little inspiration, and a high-carb pasta dinner the night before all added up to a perfect storm, if you will, allowing me to shave more than seven minutes off my time from last year.

I’ve spent the past two days ingesting Tylenol and apologizing to my quads. My new low-impact, low-to-the-ground running style is tough on the thighs. Still, I was nowhere near as sore as I was after last year’s race. It’s amazing what a little training will do.

Now for you numerologists out there. (You know who you are.) My time of 52:45 was 7 minutes and 14 seconds faster than last year’s. What time did I post my blog entry Friday in which I mentioned the race? 7:14. Coincidence? There are no coincidences. Only a carefully planned string of days and events leading to our eventual demise.

Anyway, back to the less important stuff. I finished 104th out of 192 participants this year. And much like last year when I came in 152nd, there are no awards for 104th place, either. No “Most Improved From Last Year” trophy. No “34-Year-Old With The Best Taut Pre-Teen Swedish Boy Body” statuette. No “Top Finishing Bloggers” category. (Although I really think there should be one for that. Maybe I’ll mention it.)

As I mentioned Friday, I had loosely set a goal of running a 9 minute mile pace. When I reached the one mile mark Saturday, the timecheck guy called out 9:05. I thought to myself, I’ve got to pick it up a bit. I also thought, people actually run that in four minutes?!?! Geesh!

Almost to the two-mile mark, I came up on a fellow bandana-wearing runner. I surpassed him while thinking, So long Navy Bandana Guy. White Bandana rules! I reached the two-mile timecheck in 17:53. I had picked up the pace! (And by pace, I don’t mean salsa.)

As a race goes on, I begin to look for other runners who seem to be close to my pace. It’s sort of like if you’re on a long trip, you find a car that seems to be traveling at a good speed to follow on the interstate. Or maybe it’s not like that at all.

Nevertheless, between miles two and three, I spotted Green Shirt Hottie. Her ponytail swished back and forth with each stride she took. It was a bit hypnotic. She was probably thirty yards ahead of me, which meant she was running under a 9 minute pace. And she seemed to be passing several people, so I decided to speed up a bit and keep up with her.

I reached the three-mile mark in 26-something and the four-mile mark in 35-something. Still on a sub-nine minute pace. My side started acting like it wanted to cramp, but I pressed on, and it went away.

Shortly after the four-mile mark, I blew by some man who looked to be at least seventy-five. You’ve had your day, old timer. Harry Truman can’t save you now. White Bandana rules! Let’s not even get into the fact that he was ahead of me up until this point.

With about half a mile to go, I felt good, all things considered. So I began to pick up my pace and passed several people, including Green Shirt Hottie. Farewell, fair maiden. And shall our paths never cross again, vaya con dios.

The race finishes on an oval track. When I got my first glimpse of the clock, it was at 51-something. I was pleasantly surprised. My time averaged out to an 8:30 pace.

I ran into a friend after the race. This conversation ensued:
“I didn’t get here in time to see you finish, but my Dad said he saw you.”
“Oh really.”
“Yeah, he said Bone’s got a handkerchief on his head.”

See? I told ya. White Bandana rules!

The two-hour 24 season finale is tonight, which I know makes many of you happy, albeit perhaps for different reasons.

“Oh how I hope that you’re happy. I hear you’re somewhere in the sand. And how I wish I was an ocean. Maybe then, I’d get to see you again…”

Nashville now and then

My mom, my sister, and I journeyed up to Nashville last weekend for Mother’s Day. It was my idea to take Mom to Centennial Park and ride these little paddle boats around the lake there. We did that one time when I was probably eleven or twelve, and I thought it would make for a nice surprise.

There was but one small problem. They don’t have the paddle boats anymore. So instead we walked around the trail, which was peppered with duck droppings. Apparently, the ducks often make it a special point to get out of the water to defecate. Although now that I think about it, I guess it could have been from the pigeons. I’m not really qualified to differentiate between the two.

Mom and I did get a sno-cone. I got blue raspberry, mainly because I knew it would turn my teeth, lips, and tongue blue, which would slightly annoy my sister. Yes, I’m thirty-four. Mom got cherry (and you wonder where I get it from). She seemed to genuinely enjoy herself and be pleasantly surprised by the trip to the park, even though they didn’t have the boats.

As we sat by the lake for a bit, I was hit with some sort of time-warpish realization, thinking how twenty years or so of my life had disappeared since the last time I was at this very place. Those are always fun moments. If I were on prescription medication, I would have popped a couple of pills right about then.

When we were driving around earlier looking for the park, I received a text message, from my sister in the backseat. It read, “Mom cannot drive.” Mom used to drive dangerously fast. But not so much anymore. So when we left the park, I volunteered to drive the rest of the way.

We had dinner at Cock of the Walk, where we ate our fill of delicious fried catfish fillets and chicken tenders, hush puppies, cornbread, river fries, turnip greens, white beans, cole slaw, and onions. Washed down with some of the best sweet tea I’ve ever tasted. And I’ve sampled my fair share of sweet tea.

Nashville truly is one of my favorite cities. So many of the streets are familiar–Broadway, West End Avenue, Demonbreun, Thompson Lane. And of course, I always become nostalgiac thinking about or driving past the former location of Opryland. I’ve often thought of moving there. To Nashville, not Opryland. Although if that were possible…

It was a good day. My sister texting and calling me from the backseat. Mom freaking out each time I deftly and quickly maneuvered across four lanes of traffic. The times when just the three of us get to take a trip like that are rare anymore. I try and cherish them. It’s always good to visit Nashville every now and then.

——————–

Tomorrow, I’m running a 10K. I ran six miles Monday sort of as a simulation for the race. At least, according to the website, it’s six miles. But I did it in about 48 minutes, which makes me think it’s not quite that far.

I ran eight laps. The website says the track is three-quarters of a mile. But, I think it might actually be closer to two-thirds, because one time I took my pedo out there and that’s what it registered. If that’s the case, I still ran 5 1/3 miles.

I feel much more prepared than I did last year, when I had barely trained at all. I’m not sure where to set my goal for this year’s race. I’d like to run a 55:00, which would be around a nine-minute mile and about five minutes faster than last year. Mainly I just want to finish without tearing, pulling, spraining, or breaking anything.

“They paved paradise and put up a parking lot, with a pink hotel, a boutique, and a swinging hot spot…”

"All those who believe in psychokinesis, raise my hand…"

The title of this post is a quote from Steven Wright. It may seem random, and is, but I think it goes along well with the randomness of the post…

The Alabama football team’s annual A-Day game was Saturday. The game normally draws thirty to forty thousand fans. This year, with a new coach, new hope, and an unquenched thirst for a championship, they had to close the gates and stop letting people in early in the second quarter. Stadium capacity is a little over 92,000.

Even I was amazed at a crowd that large for what basically amounts to a glorified scrimmage. Still, it was a nice “tide” me over until the first game, which is now only 131 days away! Bama football fans are often called fanatical. And, well, we don’t really consider that an insult.

My Mom, sister, and I went. As we were about to enter the stadium, who do we see but my uncle, aunt, and two cousins. I mean, seriously, out of 100,000 people, what are the odds? I got my first sunburn of the year, sitting on an aluminum bleacher in the 80-degree Tuscaloosa heat for three hours.

Mom got tickled when the crowd started doing the wave. By the third time it came around, she couldn’t even stand up she was laughing so hard. It was great seeing her have fun. Even if it did lead my sister to remark to me, “We have got to get her out more.”

When I got home that evening, Pablo was swimming around. I mention this because it has become a rare sight. Although I haven’t written about it, I’ve been really worried about Pablo. He completely stopped eating two weeks ago and only comes out of his rock to get air, then goes right back in. Last Wednesday, I bought two kinds of fish medicine and some anti-fungus tablets at Wal-Mart, and started putting in his tank.

So when I saw him swimming around Saturday, I immediately tried feeding him. And he ate! For the first time in twelve days! I was as excited as I’ve been in a long time. And also hopeful that this means the medicine is working. I don’t know what’s wrong with the little fella, but I’m trying everything I can.

Saturday night, I drove over to Ben’s. Ben and I have been friends since first grade. The night my sister was born (at some absurd overnight hour), after I threw up in the ER waiting room, I wound up at Ben’s spending the night so that I could get to school the next day. These days, we don’t hang out that much or even talk too often since he got married. I think this was the first time I’d seen him since Festivus.

The house was alive with two kids, a one-year-old and a two-year-old, running crazy. His youngest was eating a banana popsicle. Part of it fell on the floor. He didn’t reach down and pick it up. Instead, he got down on all fours and ate it right off the carpet. Ben just laughed. It hit me in that moment that he was in love with his kids. What an awesome feeling that must be.

Sunday, I ran 4.5 miles, which is the farthest I’ve run since the 10K race last year. I’ve developed a new low-to-the-ground, low impact running style. It’s tougher on the thighs, but much easier on the knees. If you’re trying to visualize this at home, it may not sound like the most manly or aesthetically pleasing style, but it seems to be helping. This year’s race is May 19th. I’m hoping to better my time from last year, of course. I’m thinking of shooting for a nine minute mile pace.

In other news, I took my car to the mechanic today. It started hesitating and sounding like it was missing dying last weekend. At first, I thought (and hoped) I had just gotten some bad gas. But two cans of gas treatment and one can of fuel injector cleaner didn’t seem help. Nor did clutching the steering wheel, looking up at the stars, and saying, “Please, please, please start working.” Then I thought maybe some mobsters had mistaken me for the real Jason Morgan and filled my tank with sugar. But the mechanic said the catalytic converter is stopped up. That doesn’t sound too bad, although I haven’t gotten an estimate yet.

Finally, one of my favorite comedians, Steven Wright, is coming to Nashville!! He’s also supposed to be on Letterman tonight. Someone please remind me. (About Letterman, not the concert.)

“From Carolina down to Georgia, smell the jasmine and magnolia. Sleepy, sweet home Alabama, Roll Tide Roll…”