Flying Pirate on the Horizon

This Saturday morning, we awoke to the mildest, most pleasant conditions we have experienced since we returned to Highlands.  The temperature was 50 degrees and the sky was overcast, although the sun kept partially-breaking through, nudging aside openings of blue sky and glimmers of Spring sunshine.  The forsythia and the daffodils were in bright full bloom.

I arrived at Founders Park early enough to run two or three miles before 9:00 a.m., the time when runners in our club meet together.  There was nobody there at that time, but when I emerged from the restroom my friend Fred was standing outside.  "Fred!"  I said.  "I was just thinking what a pitiful running club we have become, but then you showed up!"  He laughed.  Fred is always interesting to talk to, and we began one of those easy, wide-ranging conversations runners have, which included thanks for introducing me to Peter Robinson, author of the mystery books I have been reading, to the mileage of our respective sports cars (we have a Mini Cooper, he has a classic MG).  "Mine has either 85,000 miles, or 185,000 miles, or 285,000 miles," he said.  They didn't plan for that extra digit on the odometer in the 60s.  I thought to myself that the same thinking applied to the two of us; I just turned 70 and Fred just turned 80, and many smaller races still content themselves with the "60 and over" age group, let along the 80 and over.

After a mile or two we doubled back on the route so Fred could run some intervals, and there was Karen coming toward us, who had been a few minutes late.  Karen is retiring from her job at the library on Monday, and so I turned and ran with her so we could talk about books and Democratic Party politics.  Tag team running.  Martha was out, too, running a faster pace than any of us, and we paused to check on each other from time to time.  And so the miles flowed out behind me as I ran, even the last three which I completed entirely by myself, turning corners onto streets I don't often run on on a day when it seemed as if we had all the time in the world.

Ten miles:  a very satisfying feeling.  Last Saturday, I wrote:  "For myself, I'm going to be cautious, waiting until next Saturday's 10-mile long run to decide for sure."  I had stopped for walking breaks and stretches here and there, but I felt good, and that right knee had survived intact.  So after lunch I made the decision to go on line and sign up for my next race, my 20th half marathon, the Flying Pirate in Kitty Hawk.  It is a race I have completed four times so far on a beautiful course that meanders along Kitty Hawk Bay and Collington Creek, circles the Wright Memorial, and then terminates in a three-mile unpaved stretch before a final climb over a mulch-covered path across sand dunes to the finish.

The plan now will be to taper mileage over the next two weeks - no more long runs, no more fast runs - and show up at the starting line well-prepared and confident.  I've never been sure what a "Flying Pirate" is, exactly, but we will hope for a good day, run strong, and embrace the experience.