The sun hung like an orange Chinese lantern in the eastern sky as I glided down the highway toward the stone gates. A light mist was hanging chest-high over the fields, encircling the solitary tree trunks. Farther off, the woods covered the ridge in a thick green blanket. In tribal memory, a cannon rumbled to life in the distance. I was looking for monkeys.
Flying monkeys, to be precise. They are the biggest threat to a person who has not been running as much as he would like. Pushing up a hill, showing off for a new acquaintence, that is when the monkeys show up. As we trudged up the first hill, I could hear them flapping their wings. This is no time to abandon common sense.
On the other hand, however, this run is going pretty well. As we near Deep Wells, I can still see the guys up front, including the one in the Five Fingers. Sure, I’m sweating, but I’m also running sub-nines. Not bad, all things considered. Maybe I could stretch into a full 11.2 miler. Well, but there is the cutoff. Best not to temp the monkeys when things have gone so well to this point.