Almost Spring

I don't know a single runner in Highlands who is not looking forward to Spring by now.  We all have had our winter gear out for months, and it has gotten much use.  Mine is all stacked neatly in a cabinet over the clothes dryer, in a wide variety of fabric and thickness:  rain hat, two headbands (one fleece, one moisture-wicking), stocking cap, ski mask (which I have not had to use this year), two different kinds of gloves, a pair of fleece mittens, three or four long-sleeve shirts in graduating thicknesses, and my trusty CW-X tights.

In February it's Almost Spring, and any kind of weather condition is possible, sometimes on the same day, or even on the same run.  One day feels like summer; the next reminds you that winter's sharp bite is still there.  Climb that little hill over by Satulah Ridge Road, out of the sun, and the temperature drops 20 degrees; turn into that sunny stretch by the school gymnasium and you roll up your sleeves.  Martha and I just walked down the road and all of the contrasts of the season were there to see:  snow still lying on one side of the road and a long icicle dangling from a broken branch, green grass beginning to come up on the other.  At Gladys Nix's house, there are daffodils blooming in profusion to the left of her front steps, but nary a one to the right.

I love this season of contrasts as we approach the vernal equinox, leaning from side to side into sunlight and darkness, warmth and cold, summer on the left and winter on the right.  We're on the verge of a new season, and soon I can put away the winter gear for awhile.

Out of Doors on my Birthday

This was indeed a happy birthday for me today!  I have received so many greetings from my friends and family, and especially many very thoughtful gifts from Martha, that it makes me glad to be in a place in my life where things are going so well.  And because this blog is called Highlands Roadrunner, I was especially thankful this morning for the "window of opportunity" I had, between the rain this morning and the predicted rain this afternoon, to go on a short run.  (Have I ever missed running on my birthday?)  Because running, and especially running in a place like Highlands, is a wonderful gift that I acknowledge with reverent thanks, not the least because this old 67-year-old runner (a new number to which I must now become accustomed!) has nearly recovered from injury and is finally back on the road again.

J. P. Krol, who maintains that great blog high atop Mt. LeConte where he is the winter caretaker (http://www.highonleconte.com/daily-posts), said it well today.  He had run down the Bullhead and Old Sugarlands trails.  "I didn't see another person on the soggy trails. It was pure exhilaration," he wrote.

"I love the freedom, the strength and joy that comes with trail running in the Smokies. I feel most alive when I am processing those rocks and roots, determining my foot placement in a split second and breathing hard with effort. We are made to feel such vibrancy in our bodies, to play in the woods and enjoy the lull of the mind that comes with real exercise."

Well said as usual.  I arrived at Founders Park in fog and light drizzle this morning, conditions that might  have seemed uncomfortable to a non-runner.  But a little discomfort is a good thing, as J. P. captured so well in his blog.  At the end of the day we are perhaps even more thankful for that "vibrancy in our bodies" that follows a good, hard run out of doors.  And what a wonderful phrase that is:  out of doors!  Out on the road there are no doors, only the limits of our own fitness which we constantly push against.  And the endless play of light and shadow, the gleaming beads of drizzle dangling from the tips of rhododendron leaves, the sweet musky smell of leaves, and coming down Main Street in the final half-mile, the savory smell of cooking from the restaurants and coffee being roasted at Mountain Fresh.  Happy Birthday, Highlands Roadrunner.

Frostbite on a Sunday Afternoon

Frostbite was not much of a danger on Sunday as we drove to Fletcher to run in the 24th Annual Frostbite Races.  My little race book tells me that I first ran it in 2005, and this was the sixth time I made the climb up that long, long hill.  This race has turned into a big, quality event, attracting 500 runners in 2016, and normally the conditions are daunting.  Last year it was 25° F. and the wind speed was 18 mph, which equated to a -2° wind chill, and I remember equally frigid conditions in several of the other races.   But Sunday it was a balmy 60° F., and I even decided to wear my race singlet - a good choice, in the end, because the hilly, rural course begins at the Lelia Patterson Center and begins almost immediately to climb up Howard Gap Road; the young and the unprepared begin walking within the first quarter-mile.  

 Summer Gear in February

 A light rain which had been threatening all afternoon, cool and refreshing, arrived as we lined up for the 5-K, and the fields and woods along the course had that deep, metallic fragrance that we often experience during a summer rain.

My first "comeback" race was the Cocoa 5-K (see post of February 6), which I was able to run without walking, although that sprained ligament just below my right knee felt a little tight.  Now, two weeks later, I could not feel any pain or tightness whatsoever, just the overall stress of racing and being out of shape from not having run much distance over the winter.  I was elated!  I felt strong, catching Martha toward the top of the hill, reaching the turn-around, a Frisbee in the road - a Frisbee! - and watching her catch me and pass me going downhill.  We both had respectable times - 33:08 for her and 33:38 for me - and felt, as always on this course, as if something extraordinary had been accomplished.  This is not a course for those who only like to run flat races!  

"The greater the obstacle, the more glory in overcoming it." - Moliere

 Did I mention the lentil soup at the finish line?  It reminded me of that completely satisfying, hot vegetable soup on offer at the finish of the Rocket city Marathon, about the only thing I can keep down after a marathon - nothing like it!  

At the awards ceremony, we were photographed with the Frostbite Penguin Mascot (which I had thought at the finish line might be a Howard-Gap-Road-induced hallucination), who presented us with a pair of unique snowflake pottery candle holders - first place for Martha and third for me.

What a good day!  To run a hard race with the person I love, eat some good Mexican food in Brevard on the way home, and then watch the penultimate episode of Downton Abbey, which turned out to be the best of the season.  "I believe in love," Dame Maggie purred, and so do we!

Hey It's Good

I'm not a big John Denver fan, but for some reason the lyrics to one of his songs were going through my head yesterday as we arrived back in Highlands from our extended Winter Escape:

Hey, it's good to be back home again

Sometimes this old farm feels like a long lost friend

Yes, 'n, hey it's good to be back home again

We don't have a farm, really, but it was indeed wonderful to roll into Highlands again, which always seems especially beautiful after you've been gone for awhile:  the glory of Whiteside Mountain and its overlook, shining with icicles on the road from Cashiers, the piles of snow recumbent in the northern shadows, and Highlands' picturesque Main Street going about its business.  While Martha was going through the car wash, I popped into Bryson's to get the essentials - orange juice, eggs, milk - and the first person I saw was our neighbor, Dori, who gave me a big hug.  After being anonymous for so long, it was wonderful to be recognized and welcomed home.

So we say good-bye to the Beach (for a couple of months, anyway):

 
And hello to that familiar rakish-hat of Satulah Mountain, viewed from our deck this morning:

I headed out for a three-mile run this morning and it felt comfortable to be running on the same familiar roads I've been running on for 32 years, up the hills I have climbed countless times, cold in the shade and warm in the sunshine.  And here came Vicki down the road, just completing her own run - so nice to see a fellow runner out on this beautiful day!  And to be back home again.

From Jonas to Olympia

We will be leaving Atlantic Beach tomorrow, and this morning we are experiencing a storm worse than the one last weekend, as if the beach wants to give us a little souvenir to remember her by.  The palm trees are horizontal, deck furniture was in danger of disappearing into the sky and flying out over the Atlantic a few minutes ago (before I grabbed them and whisked them inside), and the handles of the sliding glass doors are shaking and vibrating with an unnerving forcefulness.  This is the eastern-most edge of Winter Storm Olympia, I understand, which here is producing violent wind and rain and west of here produced an as-yet-unknown amount of snow and ice (we will tune in to the Weather Channel in a few minutes to see how much).  Which is why we did not leave Monday.

On our Winter Escape we went from Jonas, which we escaped just in time and which pursued us to Clemson nearly four weeks ago, to Olympia - how did we go through so many names within such a short span?

I sure don't remember Kayla, Lexi, Mars, or Nacio (how the heck do they come up with these names, anyway?)   Maybe it would be better not to name every storm that comes along.  It seems like we are having a much worse winter when all of these strangely-named creatures are stomping across the country like rampaging giants.

The rain started coming in yesterday afternoon, and we both wanted to get in one good run before hitting the road tomorrow.  So I played with my iPhone all afternoon, going from Intellicast to Weather Channel to MyRadar (my favorite weather app, which simply displays very specific and animated local radar for every region of the country).  Finally I spotted what I thought was a window between the big green splotches of rain drifting in off the Atlantic from the south, one after the other, like enemies approaching in some weird video game.  I made it to Fort Macon and back, and just as I turned into the driveway back at our condo it starting to spit some rain, just enough to cool me off a little (the temperature was nearly 60).  Martha was not so lucky; she left about 30 minutes after I did and I passed her on the road.  By the time I got to the room, grabbed the car keys, and headed down the road to fetch her, it was really coming down.  So I suppose our little grey Honda CRV was her knight in shining armor, as I flung the door open and she gratefully wrapped herself in a blanket!

 
Isn't it nice to get back to a warm and cozy place after such a run, take a hot shower, put on comfortable clothes, pour a glass of wine?  The little rewards of life are so much more pleasurable after facing adversity.

Striving Together

Shakespeare has been much on my mind today after yesterday's very respectable performance of Macbeth, which is not an easy play for amateur players to pull off.   Although it was advertised as taking place in "post-apocalyptic Scotland," it was true to the original and included all my favorite parts. Surely the Bard was at the height of his powers when he wrote this play.

I thought of that quote from Julius Caesar which is a favorite of mine, and which I tried without success to post to my friend Christine's blog (I encountered an error about a gateway or something):

 

“Bid me run, and I will strive with things impossible.”

She had been talking about her family and how it was divided in different ways, and how she and Emily and Philip had run a race this past weekend.  As readers of this blog know, Martha has beaten me twice in half-marathons in the past two years at the Outer Banks before I was injured.  It keeps us runners on our toes when we test ourselves, in training runs or as anonymous participants in races.  But it takes us into a different dimension when we compete in a personal way against friends and family members.  (It teaches us humility for one thing!) 

The word “competition” comes from the Latin “com-petere,” which means “to strive together.”  That’s a different light on competition.  We strive with things impossible, we test our limits, when we compete.  

That's why I'm not just a runner, I'm a competitor.  And I'm eyeing that next race six days from now.

 

 

― William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar

Double Double, Toil and Trouble

As I said on Facebook today, we are going to see a play this afternoon in New Bern, discovered by serendipity on the window of a shop yesterday after we visited Tryon Palace and were shopping downtown on a cold and windy day:

"There don't seem to be any romantic comedies playing today, but we found out that the Rivertowne Players are doing Macbeth in New Bern. So I'm taking my Valentine to see one of Shakespeare's bloodiest and most horrific plays."

As readers of this blog will know by now, I have an unusually avid appreciation for Shakespeare, and indeed this is one of his most unusual tragedies.  It is incredible to think that this play was written over 400 years ago, yet here it is being performed by a troupe of amateur players on a stage less than an hour from here.  Perhaps it may be even more relevant than ever in this period of powerful ambition playing out on the Stage of our current political primary elections!  I hope the players will do as Shakespeare himself advised in Hamlet:

"Be not too tame neither, but let your own discretion be your tutor: suit the action to the word, the word to the action; with this special o'erstep not the modesty of nature: for any thing so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was and is, to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature; to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure."

And so, onward we go, to the early 17th Century, to learn why in the end we still have a fascination for this bloody murderer from early Scottish history who spoke some of the most beautiful and devastating words in the English language:
 

"Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,

Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,

To the last syllable of recorded time;

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools

The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,

And then is heard no more. It is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

Signifying nothing."

Happy Valentine's Day!

Atlantic Beach Wintry Mix

I usually don't mind running in light rain or in snow.  But this morning's forecast called for that stuff that meteorologists have come to call "wintry mix," a mixture of snow and ice and freezing rain that is too wet to brush off and so cold that it seems to penetrate anything but Gore-Tex.  It can be miserable.   I have been on some memorable long runs in wintry-mix conditions. 

But I awoke early and got a mile or two in before it started in earest, so I was warmed up a bit.  By the third mile my Early Winters shirt, which normally will repel light moisture, was becoming soaked, and I could see and feel little flecks of sleet mixed in with the rain.  I passed a couple, inexplicably carrying trekking poles (on a wide sidewalk), who were bundled up and water-proofed so tightly that I would not have been able to recognize them had they been acquaiintances.  Some workmen were carrying plywood sheets into a house under construction, and I exchanged waves with them, smelling that wonderful fragrance of fresh lumber.  I can sometimes take a kind of perverse pleasure in being nearly the only person out in harsh conditions, and I did that this morning, distracting myself from the cold rain by looking around at everything, smelling everything.  I saw some cute beach houses on some of the side streets I had not yet explored.  This street had what seemed to be a box of pastel sticks upended, facing the cold blue-green ocean:

It really wasn't bad at all! - being out of doors, almost no traffic, only the occasional carpenter or sidewalk-trekker out to share the biting, clean fragrance of the rain, and to hear and see the gentle crash of the surf on the other side of the dunes. In reality, it was good to be out here putting in a few miles before the heavier rain came later in the morning, as if these miles were provisions, as satisfying to accumulate as firewood stacked carefully on the back porch before a snowstorm. 

Cloud Watching

We have noticed before when spending time at the beach that there is always something new and interesting to see.  The ocean, or course, is never the same - always a different shade of blue or deep green, always a different texture, calm and still one day like a lake gently lapping on the sand, and the next day roaring with whitecaps and sending lines of sea-foam scuttling up the beach.  The first day we were here we saw the sharp black fins of dolphins in the surf, and we have also gotten out the binoculars to watch several huge cargo freighters coming from Morehead City.  If you are ever bored by walking along the ocean, you just aren't paying attention.

In the same way, the sky is always changing here, and we notice it more.  Perhaps that is because we live in a valley the rest of the year, and here there is just so much sky to look at! - far out over the ocean with its ever-changing clouds coming and going.  Sometimes it is that most ordinary light shade of blue we call "sky blue" where puffs of clouds drift by in measured, stately procession:

In the afternoon, the refracted light of the sunset begins to tinge everything in broad strokes of purples and violets and pinks, reflected back by the gleaming ocean:

What a glorious display!  Sometimes we keep turning our heads back to look at it again and again as we return from our walk to the pier with the sunset at our back:

And best of all are those magical sunsets where big diagonal curtains appear across the sky, with perhaps a deeper gleam, as if there is a bright hot fire burning on the surface of the ocean.  It would be difficult for even the most jaded and cynical not to catch their breath in awe at what Barbara Brown Taylor calls An Altar in the World, only waiting to be acknowledged and appreciated.

Treadmill Running

One of the options that many snowed-in runners might be turning to this winter is the treadmill.   I know many runners who swear by the treadmill as a way to maintain fitness in a controlled environment.  Alaskan runner Chris Clark made headlines when she qualified for the women's U. S. Olympic marathon team in 2000 on a treadmill.  And I just read an amazing story in this month's Running Journal about a runner in Raleigh, Jeff Lynch, who just broke the Guinness World Record for treadmill running, completing a little over 84 miles in 12 hours.  (To prepare for the event, he says he ran three road marathons back-to-back in three days last June.)  There are always runners out there who can extend the boundaries of what we think might be humanly possible, like the 50 marathons in 50 states in 50 days that Dean Karnazes famously ran several years ago.  But a treadmill record is something I truly cannot understand, because I am that rare runner who cannot run even a single mile on the treadmill.

Martha often walks on the treadmill in our basement in inclement weather and wonders why I would venture out in the cold and the snow when I can run indoors.   For me, it's not just my long stride (which after all is growing shorter each year), it's the mental focus that I seem incapable of bringing to bear on this discipline.  True, I could watch TV or listen to music more easily on a TV to help pass the time (Jeff had food and fluid constantly around him, fans blowing on him, and lots of support from friends while he ran).  But there is something about the simple act of moving forward and covering ground that I have missed so profoundly on those occasions when I have attempted to conquer the treadmill.  I know, I know; that little track keeps moving and you are covering miles, but aren't you really standing in the same place in the end?  Isn't it like driving one of those virtual cars in an amusement arcade?

Thanks, but I'll risk frostbite before giving up that glorious sensation of covering ground, even if it may be around and around a track.  Of watching the world pass by in all its bright, flashing, dog-chased, pot-hole ridden glory as we live a life out of doors. 

Running with Old Friends

The howling storm finally subsided overnight, but not before intensifying during the afternoon.  I went out to have a quick workout at the gym here and to stock up on Super Bowl food, and the car was literally shaking from side to side while still sitting under cover of the condos here, as if it were already in motion and speeding down a bumpy, unpaved road.  And the ride across the high Atlantic Beach bridge to Morehead City was a little scary; it felt as if I were continually being shoved into the oncoming lane, and our Honda CRV is not a light vehicle.

Overnight the rain stopped, but the wind kept blowing into the early hours so that it dried up all the deep puddles; the parking lot was perfectly dry, and the walkway to the dune-top deck as well, which was remarkable considering all the rain that had fallen.  Perhaps horizontal rain merely blows away into the ocean!  It seemed as if the palm trees around the pool were missing some fronds, but they were nowhere to be seen - likely blown far out to sea.  The sky, too, had been swept clear of any trace of clouds, and it was that deep cerulean blue so common out here after a front passes through.

Our old friend Dixie Stewart (I mean old in that we have known her a long time, for she is younger than I am by far) lives out here with her husband Dr. Richard Stewart, and today we met up for a 4-mile training run.  Once a member of Highlands Roadrunners Club, always a member!  We have kept up with Dixie's exploits on Facebook - she seems to be trying to run half-marathons in every state these days - and she is still in great shape.  I struggled to keep up with her and Martha as we ran along Ocean Ridge Drive, a long, quiet street one-block back from the ocean.  It is always wonderful to run with old friends again, talk about what they have been doing, ask about what is coming up - the life of a runner! - staying fit and strong and (as Dixie told me) just keeping moving.

A Day of Rest

This changeable beach weather has turned a page once again, and after a clear day yesterday we awoke this Sabbath morning to strong wind and rain beating against the windows.  I opened the front door and could hear the wind literally whistling down the long partially-open corridor, big puddles of water up on the carpet, and a peculiar vibrating sound that echoes constantly in the background in this kind of wind - up to 35 mph this afternoon, with gusts that surge higher - which I have decided is the rattling of the many steel railings in this building.  It is an eerie sound, a low apprehensive rumbling continually in the background.  The outdoor swimming pool glows bright blue after dark when the lights come on, but this morning it looks like much of the water is in danger of flying out, and the little palm trees surrounding it are flopping wildly from side to side in the gale, in danger of loosing all of their loose fronds.

We did get out this morning to attend for the second time the First United Methodist Church in Morehead City, perhaps the friendliest church we have every visited (and we enjoy visiting many different churches while on vacation).  We were even given, as first time visitors last week, a little bag of welcoming information containing also a small loaf of sweet bread, made in my imagination by the skilled hands of some lovely little bespectacled lady in her home kitchen.  We also heard a very good choir and perhaps the most interesting bell ringers I have ever heard - "Bells of Praise" - which included, at times, tapping some of the bells with little drumsticks, and inverting them and running a little wooden mallet around the rims so that they hummed like Tibetan singing bowls. 

Today the Senior Pastor, Powell Osteen, delivered an excellent sermon on that especially difficult portion of scripture, the Transfiguration, and talked to us about our gradual, day-to-day transfiguration into servants of Christ - very thoughtful.  The 80-year old organist played the Bach postlude "Christe Eleison" particularly well.

After braving the powerful wind and rain, which threatened to keep the exit doors to the church closed as if to lock us up in this warm, friendly sanctuary which we for some reason wished to leave, we were glad to return through the whistling corridor and the rattling handrails and the humming Tibetan wind to our warm, dry little place here on the beach, the ocean wild with whitecaps out the window and across the wind-whipped grasses on the sand dunes.  A good day to rest on our laurels, get comfy, and prepare to watch the game tonight.

Another Beautiful Race Morning

In retrospect, it was uncharitable of me to accuse the Cocoa 5-K organizers of providing an ill-fitting shirt.  It fits perfectly!  It does, however, depict the expected cute logo of the Chocolate Festival, which appears to be a chocolate bar running, in fear and trembling I suppose, for a bite has already been taken out of a corner of its body by some pursuing chocoholic.

It was a good morning!  We awoke in plenty of time for the short drive across the bridge to Morehead City's handsome Civic Center complex.  It is always exciting to see runners milling around, some of the lean young boys already warming up, families pushing strollers, dogs wearing T-shirts - the usual hustle and bustle before a small charity race.  The sky was clear, the chilly wind had died down a bit - perfect conditions!  We talked to two young women who admitted this was their first race.

The course itself wound through many parking lots, and then went along a sidewalk beside busy Arendell Street before entering a quiet residential area, an out and back course.  But the speed bumps and cracks were a concern, and one young woman fell hard on the sidewalk early in the race.  I was fearful of a similar mishap, stubbing a toe and reversing in an instant all of my gains over the past few weeks.  But I did no such thing, and was pleased to run 3.1 miles non-stop at a faster pace than I had expected - 10:30 miles for the first two miles, and a finish time of 33:11 - good enough for second place in my 10-year age group.  And, more importantly, relatively pain-free.  Something of a comeback for me.

Martha was the real champion today, however!  She ran strong and fast, finishing in somewhere under 29 minutes (exact times were not available - there was a mix-up, as there often is in a small race like this) and taking first place in her age group.  I was proud of her - when we circled around the barrel at the half-way point, she passed by looking strong and fluid, her neck and shoulders straight, with a determined look on her face.

If there is a better way to spend a Saturday morning, I do not know what it is.

Cocoa 5-K

Races.  They are the goal of many runners, and I have certainly run my share of them over the past two decades or more - 159 of them, including those 20 marathons enshrined upon the wall behind our fireplace.  "If you don't have a challenge, find one,." said running's great philosopher, Dr. George Sheehan.  What would life without challenges be like?  And sometimes we don't find challenges; sometimes they find us, track us down, confront us when least expected.  Those are the challenges that I have found it is most important to undertake.

I well remember two years ago in April when, on our way to the Outer Banks, Martha and I stopped overnight in Edenton.  While we were walking around Town on a Friday afternoon, we saw a poster in a shop window advertizing a 5-K to be held the very next day - the "EK5K" - its starting line a mere two blocks from the B&B where we were staying.  We looked at each other and instantly knew what the other was thinking.

And what a great morning that turned out to be!  How can any self-respecting runner ignore such a challenge, a glove slapped in one's face?  Our friend Fred once visited Indianapolis for a conference, discovered that there was a half marathon the next day, and ran it out of the blue.

So that's what we are planning to do tomorrow, run a race out of the blue.  Well, not exactly out of the blue, since we saw advertising for this event a week ago.  Apparently the Cocoa 5-K is a big event here, and 4.8 miles from our front door, across the bridge in Morehead City.  Even though I expect to run no faster than an eleven- or twelve-minute mile, this is a challenge which cannot be ignored.

So today is a day of preparation, and I find myself becoming excited by the prospect of the familiar challenge of another race, intent on all of those little details that are as equally important (on a smaller scale) as for a marathon:  using the emery board on the sharp edges of my toenails, checking the predicted weather forecast, laying out appropriate running clothes, and planning out a day of rest and simple pasta for dinner.  These are comforting rituals to go through, and those runners who have never run a race of any distance are missing one of the great rewards of the running life - not a trophy, an ill-fitting T-shirt (very likely depicting a running chocolate bar), or even a good finish time or age-group award, but the simple thrill of lining up with a small group of like-minded runners at a starting line and simply accomplishing a goal.

Frasier Firs at the Beach

Mid-way through my 6-mile run yesterday, I circled through the Fort Macon State Park Picnic Area, which is about one mile from where we are staying.  As noted yesterday, it was so warm that I had removed my shirt and tied it around my waist, and I was enjoying the sunshine and the light breeze on my bare skin and the sand dunes all around.  As I circled through the picnic area, I had a sudden sensation that I had not expected - the scent of Frasier Fir on the air.  I had already read about this program - locals are encouraged to dump their Christmas trees in certain areas, and then they are piled up in a compact little ridge of greenery and used to help stabilize the sand dunes.  But I had not expected this sharp, pungent, piney aroma suddenly all around me!  It made me suddenly remember Mt. LeConte and the many times we have climbed that mountain, ascending higher and higher on the Alum Cave trail until deciduous trees were left behind and on both sides of the trail Frasier Firs perfuming the air, as sweet as frankincense and myrrh - 6500 feet higher and touching the clouds, far, far from this place where I was running without a shirt at sea level.  Interesting contrast!

Shirtless Running

The weather is apparently very changeable out here in Atlantic Beach.  Yesterday afternoon the wind was blowing and it was a little chilly, so we bundled up in jackets with hoods and gloves.  This morning we awoke to balmy 65-degree conditions, and midway on my 6-mile run to Fort Macon, I took off my shirt.  What a wonderful feeling, to run unencumbered by shirt!  Also, nobody knows me out here.

Don't worry, I won't post a picture for the innocent follower of this blog.  I am reminded of that comment that Queen Gertrude made (just before she downed the poisoned pearl):

"He’s fat, and scant of breath.—

Here, Hamlet, take my napkin, rub thy brows.

The queen carouses to thy fortune, Hamlet."   Act V, Scene 2

Weather predictions are also notoriously poor both here and at the northern Outer Banks where we normally vacation.  Even worse than a groundhog.  All week, the prediction has been for "mostly cloudy" conditions while the sun has shone brightly - shirtlessly, almost! - in a completely cloudless sky.  Today my weather app, usually so reliable in Highlands, again predicted partly cloudy skies, but fortunately it was wrong and we awoke once again to blue, blue sky, and not a shadow of cloud.  Good running weather!

Groundhog Day

I went out onto the dune-top deck early today to do my morning Tai Chi, when I suddenly because so terrified by the bright sunshine that I nearly ran indoors, thus condemning the entire East Coast to another six weeks of winter. 

Yes, it sounds a little weird, doesn't it?

I was happy to learn that Punxsutawney Phil did not see his shadow in Pennsylvania today, and so he predicted an early Spring.  I hope his dubious prediction comes true, because the older I get the more I dislike cold weather.  It's not just the cold, because a resourceful runner can bundle up against nearly any condition.  As Highlands Hiker owner David Wilkes told me last winter (see blog of last February) when I stopped by his store mid-run to buy a ski-mask on one especially vicious, windy day, "There is no bad weather, only inadequate gear." True, he is in the gear business, but he has a point.  I have run comfortably in light rain or snow while cars passing by have looked on aghast.  It is more the chance of slipping on ice or snow that I worry about; I'm already injured, and I don't need any additional injury now. 

So I suppose the older I get the more I have really come to understand and appreciate how wonderful the opportunity of being out of doors has become, and especially this gift of running that does so much to heal the body, mind, and soul.  So this winter break in Atlantic Beach is especially welcome because we can be out of doors, out in the fresh air and the sunshine, being more fully ourselves. 

Dr. George Sheehan said it well (courtesy of my friend J. P. Krol in his blog High on Mt. LeConte - http://www.highonleconte.com/daily-posts):

"What running does is allow it to happen. Creativity must be spontaneous. It cannot be forced. Cannot be produced on demand. Running frees me from that urgency, that ambition, those goals. There I can escape time and passively await the revelation of the way things are."

Atlantic Beach

Pursuant to the stern sign posted on the second floor of the condo where we are staying in Atlantic Beach, we have not been tempted to feed the gulls (they seem to do very well on their own, standing silently facing the ocean, then suddenly in one accord taking flight, diving into the surf when they know some small marine creatures have arrived on the incoming tide), to retain the luggage carts that we used upon arrival, nor to store mysterious "items" in the hallways. 

But we have been running, and running often.  Not in these hallways, but on these flat roads, east to Fort Macon and south to the causeway from Morehead City.  Five miles last Monday, four on Wednesday, and a solid six on Saturday.  And this morning we ran the last mile of our three-mile run back on this beach, this big, wide, flat beach.  I seldom run on beaches, but this beach is so wide that 4 X 4s drive down it to watch the sunset. 

Although I understand that most of the snow has melted in Highlands, I do not think we would be enjoying this kind of mileage, these long, flat miles that do an injured runner like myself so much good.  I actually found myself running fast this week, and we are contemplating running a local 5-K on Saturday.  Now that would be a big step forward!

But whether we decide to race or not, there is something so very special about running out here on the sand, with the surf on one side, mostly-vacant houses behind the sand dunes on the other, and the long expanse of beach ahead and behind, a gull winging its way overhead, a sandpiper hustling of the way.  Surely this restorative little trip to Atlantic Beach will help to heal the strained ligaments and calm the restless mind.