A Tuesday Nite Recovery Run

The Preamble
Dateline Pittsfield, MA. T. Plus two days since the 13.1 mile trail thing, and my body was feeling the full wrath of a major physical beat down. Monday morning, less than 24 hours after the blast that was Curly's Half Marathon, I was making every attempt to drag my sorry ass out of the rack at 5AM for the early morning 7 miler. On this day we're talking no trivial endeavor. The toll that the previous days physical assault had beset on my body was massive. Summer was losing its grip at a rapid pace and the pre dawn hours of crisp autumn air and total darkness were sapping any trace of motivation that my body could muster.

The evening Recovery Run

So my most dearest friend, as has been documented time and time again. The dainty Ms Peeps, who I believe is a descendant of royalty, wants to go for an evening run. The absolute idiot that I am will certainly entertain that idea. The running plan, and I quote" Let's do something of low mileage and slow"

Johnny A. Gets Involved

The planned run is a done deal. We meet somewhere nearby and go for about an hour at most easy run. As is the case whenever Ms. Peeps gets involved, a last minute text flies in. Johnny A. wants to go and I need to sit tight and let things unfold. OK, now we have a casually planned easy hour at most tandem run turned trio. No biggy you say. I love this Johnny A. guy to death, well I don't really know him, but he seems OK. Now the simple plan starts to involve Starbucks, cars and complication. I am not down with this latest development. I am sore, I got limited time and I've had better attitudes than the current one that is building momentum. So We have a nice simple 6 miler planned, but no. JA wants to Fuck the whole thing up. Neither Laurie nor I want a thing to do with cars, complicated plans or indecisiveness. We just want to run and we wanna run now, and get it over with but good ole Jonny A. wants to complicate this whole thing.

Screw Him

It's been a long day and I am not dealing with this crappola. Lady Laurie shows up at my house and is about as decisive as the weather. As is usually the case, I take this train that is starting to jump the rails and get her back on track. Two words flew out of my mouth "Let's Go", and now.

Johnny A takes the Wheel

So now that we have to go Dalton Division Road, I suppose we can figure some sort of compromise. It's perhaps 6:30 by now, about an hour at most of daylight and I'm ready to knock out a 6 mile cookie cutter loop. I would even entertain a 3 mile out and back. God no, that would be too easy. The fact alone that JA is wearing a reflective vest is already making my hair hurt. So the 10 minute miler says, lets head over Hubbard and out to Dalton. Hubbard Ave. is about as runner friendly as O'Hare runway 5A, complete with guard rails, a single lane underpass and an industrial park. This little stretch of running bliss is followed up with possibly the busiest, six way intersection in Berkshire County. So now our options are narrowing down to 2, neither of which are going to get us home before 7:30. Double back for a repeat performance of the worst running stretch in North America, or an additional 6 mile loop through Dalton. The latter seemed like a more than acceptable option, even though I am saddled with two companions not only capable of walking 2/3 of the route, but a duo of speedsters that will turn this loop into an all nighter. Even that made too much sense for our fearless engineer who was determined to test my waning patience, and fragile friendship that was hanging in the balance. Brilliant boy wonder now floats out an even more brilliant plan than I thought was humanly possible. What you are about to read is not a typo of sorts, not a fictional enhancement, not my my mind running wild. Johnny boy wants to run through the dump, yes the landfill, that place you go for one reason, and one reason only. To bring your trash. Well this was quite the dump, complete with methane vents, oil burning furnaces and here we go again, a swamp.

It Gets Worse

So let's recap, The Plan: A recovery run, (a slow low mileage workout). The Status: An hour and one half later, it's dark, getting cold, it's late, we're dangerously close to being lost, footing is going from pavement to dirt to sand to standing water to a freeking swamp. As we're crashing through lacerating brambles, biting flies and seemingly headed nowhere, the egg head engineer says, " There's a path somewhere that takes us right out to High Street". Needless to say, his credibility has vaporized and I'm gettin pissed. Keep in mind, Ms. Peeps is just plugging along like she was pushing a cart through the produce isle at Price Chopper. But hell, she's gotta be beat as hell and ready to pick up a stick and crack this goof ball over the head and dump him in the muck. Now it's approaching 8:30 and even a med-evac wouldn't get us back before 10. Just when the patience rod was bent to a point that both ends were touching and that unmistakin creaking sound that is followed by a sharp snapping noise seems imminent, streetlights appear out of nowhere.

The Run Home

That feeling of pavement under foot never felt so sweet. The damage was done. Soaking wet mucky shoes, mosquito ravaged skin, about 6 miles home as the crow flies and a bad ass attitude. I'm thinkin 6 minute miles, wide open throttle on a B line back to 85 Leona. Johnny A. can call a cab for all I care, but my dear friend Laurie, clearly gassed and ready for an air conditioned ride home, is testing my confidence that she has the will to complete this disaster by foot. Well, I am just gonna have to find out later what kind of gile and mental fortitude she can muster up, cause I ain't doin 9's back.

We Made It

I arrive at the Aldridge estate at about 9:00 or so and figure if they unravel so bad and have to walk, I'll just high tail it home and worry for a minute or two and pound a couple ice cold beers. But alas, round the corner they come. A couple comments about his vertical well grounded mailbox, the fresh coat of driveway sealer and edging and the cordial offering of some tap water. Just like mom back in the 70's, the bumbling bachelor returns with a couple of crystal/ plastic tumblers, round ice cubes and freshly drawn tap water. Not quite a BBQ with honey ribs and a pint of Guinness, but well, that's JA, and that's why he's still single.