Course Preview

We are on slightly different running schedules this week, Martha and I; she is running on Tuesday and Thursday, and I am running on Monday and Wednesday.  Martha enjoys previewing the race course (see post of February 2) and so do I.  So we drove to Morehead City this morning and, after some wrong turns, we managed to locate the start, finish, and mile splits of the 5-K - she running while I led the way in the car.

The half marathon course is nearly identical for the first three miles, then turns on Arendell and crosses that high, intimidating Causeway; we drove the course in the car and found some of the mile markers.

Of course, on race morning we will simply follow all the other runners in front of us.  So while previewing the course must seem obsessive-compulsive to a non-runner, it is a kind of ritual we always try to do (and we will often drive it after the race as well, a race debriefing).   It is helpful to find landmarks to look for, rough sections of road, the summits of hills (or bridges).  We previewed the Asheville Half Marathon course several years ago, Martha's first, and she said it helped her enormously to know where, for example, the very top of that killer hill at Asheville Country Club was located.

We can defeat most of our doubts if we know what is to come, can we not?  I will always remember pausing at Mile 22 at the OBX Marathon, on the very summit of the bridge to Manteo, throwing my arms in the air jubilantly, and crying "Yes! Yes!" to the consternation of some of my fellow-runners.  All downhill from here.

If only we could preview the course of our own lives as easily as this!  The rough stretches of road, the obstacles that could trip us up, the wrong turns to be avoided, the encouraging landmarks along the way, the deep shade under the live oak trees and the bright blazing terrifying open sky, the balm of relenting steepness and water stations, and the final turn that will take us to the finish line.

Succulent Seafood Chapter 2

Today I completed an easy three-mile run, and then we drove to Swansboro for the second in the "Succulent Seafood" series (see February 6 post), this one held at the White Oak Bistro.  The restaurant is on the shore of the White Oak River, and we were introduced to young Chef Chris, who prepared Clams Casino and Fish Tacos featuring blackened Red Drum.

Today's program was just as interesting as the last one at Amos Mosquitos.  Our informative events director from the N. C. Aquarium, an avid sports fisherman, talked to us about harvesting clams.  It is critical, he said, to harvest only in areas deemed save by the Division of Marine Fisheries due to pollution issues; the Division checks restaurants like this one on a regular basis to ensure that the clams are tagged as having been harvested from safe waters.  Our director enjoys digging for clams at dead low tide with his family, looking for the telltale holes made by their inhalant and exhalant siphons.  Images of clam digging which I found on-line indeed made this look like a peaceful activity.

Then he talked about catching Red Drum (the State Saltwater Fish, also called channel bass spotted bass, and red fish) which can grow as long as five or six feet and weigh as much as 90 pounds; the spawning males produce a drum-like noise, which he said workers at the aquarium can sometimes hear through the glass tanks.  Red Drum are a success story; they were declining in populations, but good management by Marine Fisheries have resulted in rebounding numbers.

They are also a success story for diners!  Chef Chris showed us how to identify fresh fish at the market, how to filet them, and how to blacken them in a cast iron frying pan.  Now we know.

We stopped for appetizers at the Island Grill on the way home, just down the road from us: Maryland crab cakes for Martha, scallops for me.  It is our last week here and we have prepared most of our evening meals in the condo, but this week we will splurge a little!

Sunday Sunrise

Another gorgeous Sunday morning sunrise!  Anyone who is following this blog must be growing a little tired of these photographs, but actually seeing the sunrise for a valley-dweller like me, as I have said before, is thrilling.  Morning in the mountains seems to happen so gradually this time of year, the sky becoming just a little brighter and brighter every hour, until it finally peeks anticlimactically over Queen Mountain sometime mid-morning.  But here it is more like the Big Bang of Creation!  "In the beginning, God said Let There Be Light!!  And there was light!!"

And even the western horizon is transformed into rosy lavender hues, windows here and there throwing back a bright golden reflection.  A person wants to linger for a long time in this magical first light of creation, "trailing clouds of glory,", as it were.

This was Women's Sunday at the Methodist Church; the offering collection was taken up by women, the men in the choir were sitting a little uncomfortably out in the congregation, and the message was delivered by Cindy Tripp, a Development Officer for the Methodist Home for Children.  She shared with us two heart-wrenching stories of children who had been abused and neglected, but then had been rescued by women like her who are serving on the front lines, as the women in most churches do - the foot soldiers in the trenches of this troubled world.

Pastor Powell told us about his upcoming series of sermons (now that we have completed the Ten Commandments, "Staying Between the Lines") beginning next Sunday called "Epic Fails."  I am sure he will be talking about the Golden Calf, David and Bathsheba, Peter's Denial; I couldn't help thinking about my upcoming half marathon.  It is easy to succumb to a little doubt before a big race.  As the legendary Alberto Salazar has said, "Running a marathon [or, at this stage in my life, a half-marathon] is in many ways an imponderable enterprise.  No matter how thoroughly you prepare, there is always an element of discovery and surprise, sometimes gratifying; more often, unfortunately, otherwise." 

Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler

Once again, for the third morning in a row, I awoke before sunrise and went down to the walkway to watch; today my early morning perseverance was rewarded by bright gold in a clear sky.

Last night we officially registered for next Saturday's races - the 5-K for Martha and the half marathon for me - so there is no turning back now; nothing concentrates training like knowing you have paid an entry fee (a pricey $75 for the half marathon) and there is a shirt and bib number with your name on it waiting for you at the packet pickup!

My traditional training plan one week before a marathon or half-marathon is to run at race pace for six miles, getting my legs accustomed to the steady pace that will get me to the finish line in the best way possible, which I have calculated based on recent race times to be 11-minute miles; slower than that and I will not have done my best, faster than that and I will burn and crash coming across that big bridge. (Why do all my big races out here on the coast seem to involve bridges toward the end?)  They call it a "Causeway" out here, and like the notorious bridge to Manteo at Mile 22 of the OBX Marathon, it is more of a psychological obstacle than a physical one for a runner who is accustomed to running Big Bearpen.  The route will take me across it twice, at Mile 4 and Mile 11.

It has turned very warm here, up in the 70s by 9:00 a.m., and we agreed that if it is this warm next week that will be our biggest obstacle, not bridges or distances.  By the time I had completed my first mile, I was drenched in sweat; for that reason, I amended the plan, deciding to complete only five miles, the final one on the beach where the breeze was a little cooler.  My times:

10:04
10:48
10:37
10:49
10:49

"Let the good times roll!"  That was not bad at all, except for that disastrous first mile (after 167 races, including 20 marathons, you would think I would know better than to make that rookie mistake, "Going out too fast").  Martha, too, had a fast, strong five-mile run; she will run well.

After a quick lunch, we drove across the above bridge, and a couple of others, to Beaufort, which we learned has been added to the list of  “America’s Quirkiest Towns” by Travel and Leisure Magazine. The event we attended lived up to the adjective "quirky," Mardi Gras on Middle Street, which was advertised as a festival of New Orleans food and music and "arguably the shortest parade in North Carolina."  It was held on Middle Street, one block behind Front Street and Taylor Creek in the heart of the historic district, and it did not disappoint.

We enjoyed some delicious Gumbo and an oyster "Po Boy" while listening to a group called Blue Moon Jazz set up in a parking lot.  The "Krewe" parade began at 3:00 and it was filled with crazy costumed residents vying for winning titles.  These ladies, "aged 40-70," were billed as the
"Bodacious Belles of Beaufort Chapter of Sweet Potato Queens," and they happily posed for a picture. 

These skeletons (clever radio-controlled toys) were a delight; they were evidently a fixture every year and crowd favorites.

These tall puppets were also a big hit, bending low to avoid tree branches and to high-five children along the way.

The crowd grew and grew.  We climbed to the balcony of one of the historic buildings along the street and had an eagle-eye view of the revelers:

Then the music turned seriously good as "Blue Moon Jazz" packed up and "Out of Nowhere" started tuning up, two searing electric guitars, a great lead singer with harmonica, and a drummer who took a couple of smoking breaks while drumming one-handed - some of the best Delta Blues we have heard since live music on Beale Street in Memphis last July.

Costumed Fat Tuesday couples started dancing in the street, and this little guy was getting into the rhythm.  "He's going to sleep well tonight!" Martha said.

And so will we.  Let the good times roll!  We headed back across the bridge just before the sun went down, stopped for a pizza, and curled up to read Tana French.  The wind was picking up outside, but we could hear two squealing children playing on the swing-set down below us sometime after dark, higher and higher, the chains squeaking and the palm fronds rattling in the wind.

Magpies

So now I am 68 years old, I mused to myself as I went out to watch the sunrise and do my morning Tai Chi.  A narrow band of clouds along the eastern horizon again sent reflections upward, as it had yesterday, but I could see a bright gleam trying to break through.

By mid-morning, the clouds had completely vanished and the beach beckoned to us; we are both reading Tana French books now, and that is the perfect place to settle down with a good book (and her fourth and fifth books are even better than the first three).  And today is a rest day for me between a fast run and a long run.  Others had the same idea, bright chairs scattered here and there, and by afternoon it had warmed enough to bring out surfers down near the pier, riding the occasional wave, most but not all of them wearing wet suits.

Some new neighbors arrived sometime last night while we were out celebrating at the restaurant:  a flock of magpies (as in, "a person who chatters noisily").  We have been here seven weeks now and the few residents around us have been very quiet; the walls and ceilings are also well-insulated.  But these magpies are right next door, and they left the sliding door to their balcony open as they chattered and laughed.  It was hard not to smile in understanding; being here puts people in vacation mode, brings out the excited child in many of us, and it is not unusual to see grown men sporting attire they would never be seen in at the office, clutching little bags of shells.  Around 10:00 p.m., they all winged their way down to the (unheated) outside pool, towels draped around their swimsuits, and noisily tried to open the gate without success.  Someone left behind on the balcony thought this was hilarious and shouted after them to "Use the Code!" (there is no coded lock on the pool gate).  Unable to gain access, they disappeared down the walkway to the beach, fluttering a little in the walkway lights as they disappeared.  I must have been asleep by the time they returned to their nest.

Birthday Thoughts

Today is my 68th birthday and I found myself awaking early enough to watch the sunrise - 6:45 this time of year - so that I could savor the day from beginning to end.

Morning clouds prevented me from seeing that familiar clear red spotlight appear on the horizon and rise out of the ocean, but I could sense that it was there all the same, in refracted light here and there, a game of sunrise mirrors; there was something almost theological in this hidden presence.  It finally appearing in gauzy revelation overhead when I started out running toward Fort Macon, the savory scent of bacon and sausage thick in he air; Deb is back from her knee surgery and the Resort Grill is open for business, its bright green "open" flag waving out by the road once again.  Of course I went running on my birthday - what better way to celebrate life and health and fitness?

I returned to the place where I run "intervals" at the Picnic Area, from the Yield sign to the Christmas Trees sign (which had been removed, finally, leaving a little square hole in the sand); they went well, with a final 0.55, my fastest since we have been here.  I may actually be in good enough shape to run this upcoming half marathon.  My last mile was completed on the beach at low tide, back to the condo, the third time this week that I have been able to finish up my run alongside the ocean.

My birthday destination today was Cape Lookout and its famous lighthouse, a 15-minute ferry trip from Harkers Island; we had a picnic lunch there, worried that there might not be any other passengers on the ferry and would thus have to cancel or incur doubled rates; but soon another couple arrived, and then an entire family, nearly 20 passengers in all including a couple with a beautiful, well-behaved, long-haired German Shepherd that made us want to own a dog again.

It is a beautiful lighthouse, and you see it from a long way off as you approach.  Cape Lookout and Shackleford Island were once one continuous barrier island, we were told by our ferry captain, but a hurricane decades ago opened up Barden Inlet between them and now they are separated by a gulf of open water.

Almost immediately when we disembarked, Martha spotted what looked like an Atlantic Moon Snail, but when she went to pick it up, we found it was already occupied, by this little hermit crab.  It pulled its legs tighter inside and waited for us to go away.

It was a calm day -  the sound was as still as a pond, gently lapping up onto the sand where we found our little crab.  "Take a look at this!" I told some young children who had some over on the ferry with us.  "Oh, they're everywhere," their Mom said dismissively, but this was the first one we had found like this in a shell.

 
The lighthouse is spectacular but unfortunately was closed to climbing this time of year.  I think I would have passed the height requirement depicted by this cartoon lighthouse at the visitor center, closed this time of year. 

Workmen were climbing on scaffolding, restoring the adjoining Keepers House.  "My boss said I would get a raise," laughed one of them from the very top.  The current lighthouse was constructed in 1859, replacing an earlier 1812 lighthouse constructed of brick with (strangely) wooden boards on the outside.  This older structure, in one of the most colossal feats of engineering ineptitude I have heard of, was found to be too short to be seen from sea; you can still see the remains of the old foundation.

It is a beautiful site, and the lighthouse is certainly photogenic.  The light rotated every 15 minutes, and I had tried without success to take a photo of its bright signal as we approached on the ferry.

Paths and walkways extend across the island to the open ocean through these tall long-leaf pines, which were planted deliberately to stabilize the dunes; normally barrier islands would contain only live oak trees.

On the other shore we wandered in bright sunlight, but we could see storms approaching on the horizon.  I wrote this in the sand with a scallop shell, at low tide, and I am sure it is gone by the time I am writing this (I thought somewhat melancholically), eroded by time and tide.

A little Tennyson came to mind.

Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'

We are not now that strength which in old days

Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;

One equal temper of heroic hearts,

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

It was only a ferry that we were riding back to Harkers Island, and nobody had to strap me to the mast under the spell of Siren's Songs, but I did feel a little like Ulysses with the wind and a little sound-spray in our faces.

It was a memorable birthday, and we stopped at the same place we discovered two weeks ago in Beaufort on Taylor Creek - Front Street Grill - for an afternoon break.

After we returned, I wrote a little in this blog, and then we went out to celebrate at a restaurant in Morehead City that we had not tried yet, a tapas place called Circa 81 and very good - delicious green-tail shrimp stuffed with crab, poached scallops, seared yellow fin, she-crab soup - all artistically presented.  On the table when we returned were birthday cards, and presents that Martha had given me earlier, including the fifth Tana French book she surprised me with yesterday.   My inbox when I checked it was filled with so many Happy Birthday well-wishes (with one notable exception) that I was overwhelmed.  Even more than the "life and health and fitness" that I began this day celebrating, I am so extraordinarily thankful for the friendship and love all around me, because what is life and health and fitness without that love? - especially the love of a beautiful wife, friends and neighbors, sailors who are going the journey with us.

So I end this day thinking about the shifting sands of these Outer Banks, always changing and moving, islands being created and destroyed and re-created.  And this tall navigational beacon that guides us all, that warns incoming ships of danger and at the same time indicates that there is safe harbor in the sound away from the wild ocean. 

Rising Tide

For some reason I awoke this morning feeling a little unsettled.  Perhaps it was because Martha had asked me last night, "How does it feel to be turning 68?"  I admitted to her that now I could no longer comfortably say that I was in my "mid 60s;" I will soon be in my "late 60s."  It's a number that surprises me when I hear it, and I do feel pretty good about where I am - healthy, struggling more or less successfully for Peace and Plenty, even planning to run a half marathon in less than two weeks -
but the rising tide of years makes us all think about our mortality.

"Make the most of your brief time on Earth," Garrison Keillor recently wrote in the Washington Post.  "Life is good if you have your health and not all bad even if you don’t, which is sometimes forgotten in an election year."  The best therapy for feeling "unsettled" (other than going for a run) is to take a walk on the beach.

The tide was rising and the sky was overcast, and there were only a few others out walking.  I heard the motor of this shrimp trawler sailing back to port.

When the tide is low, there seems to be more shore life activity along the beach.  The beach is wide and flat, and each wave brings in something interesting.  For these sandpipers it was dinner.

I think these are called Least Sandpipers (Calidris minutilla) - and isn't that a wonderful name? - the smallest I have seen on my walks.  They mostly feed on very small insects, as well as the protein-filled slime, or "biofilm," that comes in on the ride.  Their little legs are a blur!  Martha remembers that her Daddy called them "Martha Jane Birds" because they reminded him of her skinny legs as a very young child running at a fantastic pace on the beach.

A little farther along, I came upon these larger shore birds, equipped with long, probing bills; they may be Greenshanks (Tringa nebularia), or possible Snipes (Gallinago stenura), according to my haphazard internet research.

 
I was surprised to learn many years ago, by the way, that there really are snipes; I had declined invitations to go on a Snipe Hunt more than once when I first moved to Western North Carolina more than 40 years ago.  These real snipes stalked their prey in a more measured way, watching carefully as each wave washed in; when the waves retreated, a dozen or so bubbling holes could be seen frantically disappearing in the sand as tiny invisible snails or insects tried to bury themselves away from that long bill.

 And these gulls are always present, usually standing still when they are not soaring overhead, watching for the small fish and insects they feed on; they stalk out of the way grudgingly, and I sometimes imagine they have a scowl and huffily hunched shoulders.

We have noticed that in colder weather, they will sometimes stand on one leg.  I learned that this is a way of staying warm:  "By standing on one leg, and pulling the other leg up against the warmth of its body, a bird can reduce by up to half, the amount of heat lost through its legs. In short, they stand on one leg to warm up a little bit."  Leg-warmers not needed today.  But I was surprised that he missed this delectable little snack a little farther along the beach.

As I came near the Fort Macon Picnic Area, I came upon this shore-creature, made skinny by his wet fur, running into the surf again and again and then returning happily to his owner to shake water and jump on him.  I snapped his picture and told the man, "That is a picture of a perfectly happy dog!" and he laughed.

It is a joy to watch dogs play at the beach; it must be like paradise for them, the constant waves coming in, the smells, and OHMYGOD THE BIRDS!!! as they give futile chase to seagulls and sandpipers with absolute abandon.

I found some interesting shells, too; it was a good time of day for that, the tide so low, gently washing in, depositing one treasure after another unbroken, as if in cupped hands.

And then suddenly I came upon the most perfect sand dollar we have found, not yet bleached white by the sun, a whole and intact newly-minted coin.

I carried it gingerly all the way back to the condo; it was so thin and fragile that I thought it might snap in two, like the many brittle halves and quarters we see more often - loose change rattling in the surf.

It was indeed therapeutic - it was settling for the unsettled part of me - to walk along this peaceful shore, watching the years and the tide rising relentlessly.  There is nothing a man can do to keep the moon from pulling the tides up and down.

"Moon, turn the tides,

Gently gently away." - Jimi Hendrix

A young woman who had driven a red Jeep Wrangler onto the beach was wandering slowly in the water, gazing down, doing the same thing as I was.  Perhaps it was she who wrote this in the sand nearby, commemorating a sisterly seashore reunion.

Next to it someone had written "I Love Henry 🖤"  But by the time I had returned it had been washed away, only the faint heart remaining, scrubbed away by waves laden with tiny shells.

Cats in the Night

This peaceful sunset last night promised a deeply peaceful day today; it was so warm that we walked out to the dune-top deck to watch the last of the sunset, still glowing along the horizon.

This morning we awoke to more clear skies, even warmer temperatures - up as high as 67 by mid-afternoon - and almost no wind.  I ran four miles, down past the picnic area, and then back onto the beach at low tide for my final mile.  The ocean was so calm it lapped at the sand like a pond.  Martha had not yet left for her workout at Anytime Fitness so we drove there together and I grocery-shopped while she worked with her personal trainer.

This afternoon we applied a good coating of sun-block and went out onto the beach all afternoon, and it was glorious.  Sunbathing in February is extraordinarily satisfying!  When we came back to the condo, we saw this African Lion running smoothly across the lawn.

It was actually the local tiger cat; felines look so much like their larger ancestral forebears!  This little fellow has been very busy these days; every time I see him he is on the move, and more often than not his complicated maneuvers are efforts to outflank either a large gray cat with a bushy tail or a black and white cat.  Apparently there has been some upheaval in the feline neighborhood, possibly connected with the closing of the Resort Grill for two weeks; the plates of cat food I used to see on my way to the dumpster, out the back door, are no longer there.  But not to worry:  these felines are definitely well-fed; the gray one seems to drag his belly on the grass as he creeps along the edge of the yaupon holly.

Not only do we see them stalking one another every day - sometimes they will even flit furtively and swiftly through the lobby and the parking area - but we have also heard their eerie wailing cries of warfare in the wee hours of the morning; last week it woke Martha and she said it sounded like children squealing.  If these three are like other cats I have known, no blood has been drawn.  They simply stand in the night and howl and wail and scream at one other, and bristle so as to seem larger than they really are, and then one of them will fly away back to his territory.

We would call this primitive behavior saber rattling if these cats were nation states, or politicians, and if you watch the nightly news you might even notice similar behavior going on in Washington.  Sometimes it seems as if we have not evolved very much . . .

Be Content

There is so much sky and so much ocean here that it is hard not to notice how completely new and different each day is.  The view over the ocean is like a big canvas or chalkboard on which a brand-new, interesting picture appears every morning, beautiful in its own way.  Sometimes the clouds even look like chalk being erased by the wind.

This morning the view over the ocean was a tryptych.  To the east, where clouds obscured the sunrise, its light nevertheless shined brightly on the water, fading to dark clouds and fog farther from shore.

Straight in front of me I was looking at a complete different sky, as if someone had swiftly and with a broad brush swirled white clouds against a bright blue background.

And to the west, a single feather of dark blue extended gracefully up and away over a brilliant blue ocean.

On weekends we like to check for yard sales and estate sales in the newspaper, mostly so that we can discover new neighborhoods .  We remember wandering through a place called Kitty Hawk Landings last year at the Outer Banks, where every house had a canal adjoining it that led to the Sound and the ocean, as well as a driveway that led to a road and a highway.  We discovered a similar place in Morehead City yesterday, nice homes backing up to the Newport River.

This morning on the way to church we stopped at an estate sale in Beaufort, but it was a depressing sight - the scattered belongings of a man who had apparently died recently, china and little souvenirs and framed prints that meant something to him, suits and shirts still hanging in the closet - all the material things that a now-gone gentleman had managed to acquire in his lifetime.  It was the perfect introduction to this morning's sermon, preached by Pastor Jason, on Commandments No. 8 and 10, injunctions not to steal or covet, and on the futility of pursuing a material life.  “Do not lay up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy and where thieves break in and steal," we read responsively.  "For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also."  This was a good sermon to hear during these greedy, materialistic times in our nation.

"Keep your lives free from the love of money 

and be content with what you have, 

because God has said, 

Never will I leave you; never will I forsake you." - Hebrews 12:5

That was the title of the sermon:  "Be Content."  It is a concept and an attitude toward life that we like to call "Peace and Plenty" and that we have reflected on often during this Sabbatical and that we continue to work on in our own lives.

It was a warm afternoon and there were more people on the beach than I have seen since we arrived here in January, strolling arm in arm, collecting shells, even splashing in the surf a little.  They all seemed content to us on this warm Sabbath afternoon.

Big Day

When I was training for marathons, I relied for several years on Joe Henderson's book "Marathon Training," a 15-week (100-day) program that worked for me.  Every week he would have a chapter called "Big Day," and toward the end of the program my Big Days consisted of successive long runs of 12, 14, 12, 16, 12, 18, 12, and 20 miles.  It was always so surprising - and Martha remarked on this too - that in the last weeks of training we would consider a 12-mile run to be an "easy run."

I can no longer run those long miles, but training for a half marathon is becoming a serious focus for my running, and today I planned to run 12 miles - the farthest I have run in many months, and the last long run I will complete before the race in two weeks - my "Big Day."  So I found myself awaking before dawn and watched the sunrise again.  The day always seems to be bigger when you experience it from the very beginning - the thin gleam of red suddenly appearing on the horizon like a narrow spotlight beam, then widening rapidly into the brilliant arc, finally drifting upward into a clear sky.

The house adjoining our condos to the east was lit up so brilliantly that it looked as if it had burst into flames, and I watched it burn while I did my slow (and now self-conscious) Tai Chi on the deck.  Hello Rita, are you watching me?

A dawn squadron of pelicans was flying due west, as if flung skywards from the sunrise, and they floated by in perfect formation, its leader out in front.

I was well-prepared for the long run - energy gel tucked away in my two key pockets (for you runners out there who may be reading this, I have settled on Black Cherry flavored Shot Bloks in recent years), and the route carefully planned so that I could consume half the package at miles four and eight.  We distance runners can be a little obsessive-compulsive sometimes!

It is difficult to describe to a non-runner what it is like to complete a long training run like this.  The pace was slow and comfortable, and there were plenty of other runners out, including Martha, who met me somewhere around mile four, elated to be completing her first non-stop four-mile run in quite a while; she has finally regained her confidence and is beginning to get quickly back in condition again.  A young couple was preparing to settle their toddler in a jogging stroller at the picnic area, and although he could barely walk, he seemed to want to go with me, following me as I passed by with an enchanted expression (future runner?)  "He wants to come with me," I said.  They laughed, and when I saw them later down near Fort Macon they pointed me out as his training partner.  These little exchanges lift me up as I run the long miles, step by step, mile by miles, waving or saying some encouraging words:  "Looking good!"  "Beautiful day, isn't it?"  I passed an older women walking along the road using a rollator toward the end of the run, which reminded me of my mother.  And the long miles begin to wear and lengthen, the Big Day looms large all around, I fall into the rhythm of a slow, workman-like pace, the easy miles that will pay off on race day, not just in confidence but in time spent on my feet.   As in marathon training, the long run should be completed at a pace one- to two-minutes slower than race pace, which seems counter-intuitive to some.  But I have known at least two very capable first-time marathoners who completely blew up because they completed all their long runs at their planned race pace; they had been running "short" marathons for several weeks before the race.  You can only have one ultimately "Big Day":  Race Day.  Now is the time to build endurance, to put all that strength in the bank and not to withdraw it until Race Day.

There is a wonderful satisfaction from a long run completed as planned, as I have said before in this blog - the deep-down tired legs that will recover in a day or two, the muscle fiber that is already at work growing stronger and more prepared the rest of the day, crying out for protein and fluids.  The perfect time for that spicy Brunswick Stew that Friendly Market makes - an ideal recovery food!

And the other thing about a long run?  I always sleep soundly and peacefully at the end of a Big Day.