OBX: Attempt at #19

Saturday night I fell asleep quickly and stayed there soundly with the help of the ocean waves. 

I woke before my alarm, before even the predawn light, to shuffle around the room as my thoughts rolled through the early morning brain fog.

Prerace thoughts play out in their own tune but follow a similar chord progression, alongside ritualistic activities: Drink a glass of water (Maybe I shouldn't have had that third beer last night). Start chewing on that bagel (How does this have no taste? Maybe because I have no saliva in my mouth). Drink a cup of coffee (Ohhh, yeah. Okay. I'm waking up now. Hello saliva). Visit the restroom. Check: race bib - secure? Gu's - in pockets? Camelbak - not leaking? Garmin - on wrist? Drink another glass of water. 

There is a familiar math to it. There is often pacing. In the presence of other runners, there is idle chit-chat of sometimes unfinished sentences. 

And there is always the question: how will today go?

That question pops up again and again in those hours before the race, but evaporates as soon as the race starts.

Then a different kind of math begins to unfold. And a different question:

What will I learn today?

OBX: Saturday in Pictures

I sat in bed last Saturday morning, writing my previous post, thinking about the string of sunrise photographers I saw on the beach. How wonderful to be sharing a moment of silence with perfect strangers. 

I sat, scrolling through the photos, trying to write words, thinking about the pourover coffee I would make with David and Glenna when they roused themselves. 

When the text came through, I headed up and entered a room already smelling of freshly ground No. 46.

I love the ritual of pourover coffee. I love it more when I get to share it with friends. It becomes a sublime experience when you get to sit out on a balcony and look to the left and see this:

The best kind of struggle

Yesterday, as the sun slipped away, David, Glenna, and I tucked into their car and headed east. Their car took me on roads I'd not traveled yet in my time in NC. We sped along in the dark on Highway 64, through a near empty swath of land, towards the Abermarle Sound. 

After stopping for supper in Williamston, we all settled back into our seats for the last hour under a very dark sky saturated with stars.

In this warm space devoid of colors, snapshots from the week came filtering back.

#19: One Week to Go, Eyes Wide Open

One week from today, I will be sitting in a car, heading back from a part of the Atlantic Shore to which I've never been.

Heading back after completing my 13th half marathon, lolling in a post-race glow; heading back with one more finisher's medal and - or so my plan calls for - a new PR, something that starts with a 1:4.

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The Box

Tonight, I took it out for the first time since the spring.

I'm pretty sure I've had it since the first time I moved away from St. Louis.

I want to say that's when my grandmother gave it to me. The "Erin" written in marker on the faded fabric looks to be from around that time - when I was seven years old - moving with my family from St. Louis to Carmel, a suburb outside of Indianapolis.  

The first things stored in there were no doubt treasures at the time - and I still have some of them, random as they are - a brass pill box and small porcelain pig purchased for a quarter apiece from a garage sale (these survived, the feather "fountain" pen did not); a ribbon for swimming the most laps for a cancer benefit; one of the rosaries and the picture book of saints I was given for my First Communion.