A long post about a long run

It is, perhaps, a sign up something that 5:30 seems normal instead of early. There maybe should be something more troubling about being excited at that hour. Most disturbing is that my giddiness is in anticipation of a run of significant distance.  And while I may need help at some point, it was not this morning as I slid out the door in my lime green short shorts.

If you are following the saga of the short shorts, let me tell you that Body Glide is our friend and an absolute proof of the benevolent nature of the divine.  As I left the gate of the condo complex and headed across the short bridge to Folly Beach, it was clear that this run would not end with scorched inner thighs.  It would also not end before a scorching ball of fire had ascended in the sky, as it was just barely starting to do.

I turned right at the last possible chance before sand and headed to the western end of Folly Beach. The park at the end of the road was closed in a “this means you too” kind of way, which I assume never applies to nutjobs who go out and trot around in indecent clothing at first light.  There are typically no enforcement types around at that time of day, since we all know that hoodlums tend to go home by 4am.

At the end of the park parking lot, I found the beach.  Now, in years past, I had eschewed beach running as no fun.  It was too strenuous or too hot or both.  Turns out, if you go out before the heat of the day and run on the sand which is harder packed, you are good to go.  Who knew?  Well, all those people who talk about how great it is to run on the beach or course.  So now I will be one of those people.

I followed the beach west, wondering how long it would be until I reached the end of the island.  A bit more than half a mile, as it turns out.  Near the end, I could somewhat smell the disctintive scent of the salt marsh (my olfactoy abilitied being restricted by an uncouth lack of grooming which needs no further explination, except to say that for some people, not being able to smell a salt marsh might be just fine.  To me it smells like the Low Country and I imagine natives just nod their heads and smile when people complain about the stink. To some it may be the sweetest smell in the world.)

I rounded the tip of the island and ran for a short piece along the Folly River.  One assumes that this “river” is as much a “river” as the East River between Manhattan and Long Island is a “river.” Both are, in fact, tidal estuaries, and this one was at the moment flowing inland.  Looking east, I saw Apollo’s chariot begin it’s ascent of the sky above richly fed marsh grasses, wildly bent live oaks, and humble creek side cottages.  As the beach was rapidly becoming a bank, I turned back and headed for the ocean side of the island.

Progressing up the sands, I noticed a few more people now.  None fellow runners, but some walkers and a family taking pictures on the beach at dawn.  While private beach access is nice, it does not equate to “private beach,” something that septugenarians in summer pajamas should keep in mind for their sake and ours.  The fishing pier signaled the run’s half way point but did not give up any secrets as to how long it would take to get there, distances on the beach being funny like that.

And then, there I was at the landmark, knowing it was time to refill my water supply.  Loyal readers will recall that I have a sweat rate roughly eqivalent to a chocolate fountain, so I have to take my fluid sitch seriously. This also means filling up on water and gatoraide to avoid hyponatremia (I think that’s what you call it when you sweat out all your precious bodily nutrients and replace only the water and get a real bad headache and throw up. I’ve done that and it sucks. Add to that the fact that I metabolize things slowly and you get why I mix half water with half gatoraide (yes, gatoraide – everything else sucks) and don’t do gels and shit.)  So there I was, in the middle of the Folly Beach Kangaroo store, doing my little alchemy with the Batman style water bottle belt and the water and gatoraide.  They’ve seen stranger things in that store.

Restocked as I was, I headed further east along the beach.  There were more people on the shore, meaning more obstacles like children and furniture.  There were also a few fellow runners, and we greeted one another with the nod which means “salaam alaikum my brother. Enjoy your run.” Not too far from the pier, the crowds thinned out again, and the waves and I played a game wherein I got as close to them as I could and they tried to get my shoes wet.  I won, for the most part, but they eventually took up all the packed sand and I had to retreat to the paved road.

Along East Ashley avenue, families gathered on porches to eat breakfast while the bachelor next door looked out over the water and got high.  The island narrowed so that both marsh and ocean were visible from the road. Permanent residents (aka people with jobs) were pulling out of their driveways for work as the san men emptied the trash.  Greeting a cyclist I had seen on the other end of the island, I saw several runners headed my way. 

I turned around and fell in with them for a time. Returning to the point where the Atlantic was closest to this road, I spied surfers taking advantage of the high tide.  As the island widened, the street I was on veered toward the center.  Given the choice between blazing sun and beachfront boondoggles or live oak shade and quaint cottages, I chose the latter.  Numbered cross streets appeared, counting down my return to Central Avenue and the bridge home.

Reaching the bridge, the R2 Unit, which had been acting up all morning, wanted to play “Young Americans.” Again.  The first time was great, helping set an appropriate pace for this adventure.  The second time was fine, if a little awkward.  The third time made me want to pitch the droid into the Folly River, which I finally decided not to do.  Instead I turned off the music and trotted past the gate and into the condo complex.  The day had just started, but I had done everything I wanted to do.