Most of my days I travel through time at a rate of sixty minutes per hour. And most of those days that rate seems pretty reliable. There are outliers, however, when time (at least) feels like it's speeding up. Sixty minutes per hour feels more like thirty minutes per hour; while other instances feel like each hour drags on for three. And that's where I want to start: Entering year eight of 2020.
This is getting ridiculous, right? One of my oldest (by our chronology, not his age) friends is currently on a six-month deployment, and it certainly feels like he's been overseas for three years. I'm sure his wife agrees. Schools in Ohio went to remote learning in mid-March...but what year was that? 2015? Last millennium? Either way, today is February 2, and we're awaiting news from the Prognosticator of prognosticators, Punxsutawney Phil.
Which is why this is so strange. As indicated in my previous post, we took on the (inaugural?) Plywood Challenge in September. But that definitely feels like just a couple weeks ago. (I keep stressing "feels," as you may have noticed. Quick lesson: We can't rely on what something feels like. We have to trust what we know.) So go back with me six years to March, when the world went on pause and started cancelling (or at least reimagining) everything, including in-person running events. Over the course of that summer (probably three years ago, in July) the PWC was germinating. Then September 12 arrived.
6:30AM, in the Sheetz parking lot. We determined to meet there and ride together to the first leg, Don't Die Here. I couldn't believe it, but ST (who intended to run the first and last legs of the event) was there first! He's reliably late, so clearly this was a big deal, and possibly attributable to his infant son rousing him from slumber throughout the night. It was gonna be a big day. There are several memories from that leg. Notable: Running by REI's childhood home, and seeing this run as a sort of exorcism of the past. The Canadian Weave relieving himself near a cemetery (near, not on or in), and ST loping behind and declaring, "CW, I saw it." Nearly being hit by several trucks (clearly driving the speed limit, friends) because NO ONE IS RUNNING HERE, EVER! And, finally, the constant...um...aroma(?) that could very well rename this leg The Sewer Pipe. (Oh, and Cobra Kai and thanks to Mr. Brookes for his parking space.)
Next up: Haul Up Fifth, starting around 9:30AM. ST went home, but we picked up a few more runners and a cyclist. In addition to the growing posse, most noteworthy about this leg: Arguing (again) about fast food chicken supremacy...Chick-fil-a, Popeye's, and Raisin' Cane's (feel free to let me know your preference). Running by Our Lady of Mount Carmel where a funeral was in progress (inside, mind you). And wishing REI's eldest daughter a very happy birthday, as his family was celebrating at a coffee shop along our route. Oh, and the abundance of stroopwaffles in the trunk of my car!
It doesn't matter where you start, the McCollum Monster is going to be awful. Starting around 12:PM, after logging sixteen hilly (and, at times, stinky) miles, after cramming down food and slurping as many fluids as possible, after minimal stretching, it's that much more intimidating. I mean, we were lying on mats in the parking lot, quite a sight for the families who just wanted to visit Lanterman's Mill that sunny Saturday afternoon. My primary memory from this leg was seeing ST's brother, strolling through the park, about halfway through, which would be our twentieth mile. We stopped to have a brief idle chat, and when we started again, Tony Stark and I both noted that this event was getting tougher. The temperature was rising, and the sun was starting to bake us a bit, and we weren't looking forward to the final leg. (We'd dropped one runner and one cyclist for this route, but Sandy and Chris, who'd joined us on leg two, did this one, too.)
All Downhill from Here. What a crock! At this point, Sandy had decided to run a "broken marathon" throughout the day, but Chris had to head home. ST rejoined us. But starting to run at 2:30PM as planned was a bit of a struggle. Each time we jumped in our cars after completing a leg, our bodies immediately started to stiffen up, and by the time we'd start stretching in the next parking lot, it was too late. While our minds tried to convince us we were gliding along like Eliud Kipchoge, we really looked more like this. Our friend and her dog caught wind of our endeavor for the day, and they cheered us on a bit. (Sorry, T, for my surliness, but I was hurting.) Some of our wives jumped in with a mile(ish) to go, and that was enough encouragement for us to stumble into the finish line where we celebrated with custom tshirts, handmade "medals," and a whisky toast.
We ran. We walked. We shuffled. We laughed. We cursed. We had a blast. And we can't wait to do it again next year (we think).
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