Spring is coming. This time next week we shall have arrived at the date on the calendar occupied by the Vernal Equinox. What a cool turn of phrase - vernal equinox. I swear that if my wife and I ever have another child as long as the doctor promises me he/she will never get any longer (taller or whatever) than fifty inches we are naming that child "vernal equinox" although I believe that "Oops" has more cachet.
The transition from Winter to Spring here 'NTSG has not been without incident. Certain of our neighbors will be paddling out from under the Nor'easter that visited itself upon us this past weekend. It rained steadily and hard until apparently the skies ran out of water to dump down upon us. In a perfect world, the rain would fall in no greater amounts than the ground it is descending upon possesses the ability to receive. As you may have heard the world we live in is not a perfect one. Do not take my word for it. Ask Bill how he is making out with his perpetual plea for pony rides as birthday presents and whether he anticipates this April to bring the same old, same old.
Once the rain started falling Saturday it made me appreciate why the smart people of Venice purchased their city with the optional canals included. All that water needs someplace to go. And since it cares not whether your home and your belongings occupy the space that it needs to go, it will happily seek to share their space. Your reaction to the new, hopefully temporary co-tenancy shall be something far short of happiness.
While we moved to the high side of 'NTSG a decade ago - with Floyd's relentless rocking of us in the Fall of '99 being the proverbial final straw - the weekend's ridiculous weather managed to wreak havoc only on my half-marathon training. Yesterday there was not a window of relative dryness during which I could run my scheduled 10 miles outdoors. Thus, I was trapped on the treadmill. And while I have discovered the joy of hulu.com and navigated my entire trek as if I was an ancient mariner it was nevertheless a very frustrating experience. Perhaps it was because I had missed my scheduled run on Friday, which I made up for by running a brisk 3 miles on Saturday afternoon, which in turn deprived my creaky legs of the 48 hours of rest they would have hoped to receive leading up to a run of 10 miles, perhaps it was being trapped on the treadmill or perhaps it was just me stinking up the joint even before I started to perspire. After making my way through 10 miles outdoors one week earlier in 94 minutes - the less than 10 minute per mile pace for which I am aiming - I labored through 10 miles on the treadmill in 110 minutes.
Funny, I do not recall stopping for a bite to eat or a shower along the way although the huge uptick in time from one Sunday to the next suggests that I did. Whatever the explanation for it, the bottom line was that it turned out not to be a confidence-inspiring day. Usually I finish running and while I am tired, I am at least satisfied by my effort and by having achieved my goal. Yesterday all I was - in addition to being really annoyed at myself - was tired.
All in all, it was most certainly not what the doctor ordered one week away from having to run 10 miles in the company of others in Freehold and approximately one month away from running in the half-marathon for which I foolishly registered.
How does a man in motion actually manage to get no closer to achieving his goal? After yesterday I suspect I am closer to knowing the answer to that question than I want to be.