It was finally warm enough to go running tonight. There are still massive piles of snow out there, but the sidewalks are clear, and even at midnight it was fairly nice out there. My guilt over too many Burger King chicken sandwiches has been getting to me, so I forced myself to go through my routine. Felt nice to do it, even if it ate up a few hours in preparation and recovery. (I'm always starving after a run, which seems to defeat the purpose somewhat.)
Earlier, a friend was boasting how he had run a mini-marathon today, something like four miles, which, honestly, is nowhere near a marathon. He reminded me of something that happened in my senior year (and a half) of college. I used to run the same route every other night, pretty much like how I do now. This particular route was longer than the one I run these days, probably three or four miles total, depending on if I came back one of two ways, compared to my current two. One night, I decided to make a slight deviation from my course, assuming that some roads ran parallel and I would rejoin my usual route just a while later.
This, being Iowa City, where nothing is parallel (and even less is straight -- ha ha), failed to happen.
I ended up somewhere way out of town, how, I'll never have any idea. For quite a while, I had no clue where I was, but I knew that if I stopped, I would become impossibly cramped and not be able to get home. (I had no money to call, besides the fact that I was nowhere near a public phone.) Eventually, I emerged near a mall that I recognized and I was able to find my way back home.
This was two and a half or three hours later. I honestly can't remember exactly how long it had been, but I do remember heading straight for a long, hot bath.
I didn't exactly keep up a regular pace the whole time, nor did I ever go back to measure the route, but I must have run at least 18 miles, and that's my most conservative estimate.
Of course, since then, I don't run nearly as regularly (and it shows), but I can always tell the kids about the day Daddy Got Lost And Kept Going.
Earlier, a friend was boasting how he had run a mini-marathon today, something like four miles, which, honestly, is nowhere near a marathon. He reminded me of something that happened in my senior year (and a half) of college. I used to run the same route every other night, pretty much like how I do now. This particular route was longer than the one I run these days, probably three or four miles total, depending on if I came back one of two ways, compared to my current two. One night, I decided to make a slight deviation from my course, assuming that some roads ran parallel and I would rejoin my usual route just a while later.
This, being Iowa City, where nothing is parallel (and even less is straight -- ha ha), failed to happen.
I ended up somewhere way out of town, how, I'll never have any idea. For quite a while, I had no clue where I was, but I knew that if I stopped, I would become impossibly cramped and not be able to get home. (I had no money to call, besides the fact that I was nowhere near a public phone.) Eventually, I emerged near a mall that I recognized and I was able to find my way back home.
This was two and a half or three hours later. I honestly can't remember exactly how long it had been, but I do remember heading straight for a long, hot bath.
I didn't exactly keep up a regular pace the whole time, nor did I ever go back to measure the route, but I must have run at least 18 miles, and that's my most conservative estimate.
Of course, since then, I don't run nearly as regularly (and it shows), but I can always tell the kids about the day Daddy Got Lost And Kept Going.
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