In honor of the political campaign season, this photo above is a lie. I didn’t run Moab today. This photo is from 2011. But I wanted to be there with my friends, oh so bad. Running that half marathon alongside the Colorado River through the canyon is one of this country’s best experiences ever. Hope my friends enjoyed themselves this weekend. Wish I were there.
Instead, I ran my own half marathon on the Boulder backroads. My week was too busy for travel as I just returned, close to midnight Monday, from my Niece Christi’s wedding in New Braunfels, Texas. This is Christi, pictured above, with her father Mike, sister Mindi and mother, my sister Nancy. Christi is a school teacher in San Antonio. Mindi is an officer with the Hays County Sheriff’s Department.
It was a happy day for my mother too. While she’s appreciative of her ten grandchildren, only three great grandchildren aren’t enough and she’d like to have more of those.
I was pleased to see my sisters as well. They all live a thousand miles from me and we don’t get together often enough. I hope they were surprised to discover that my bangs are longer than all of theirs’. I also saw some nieces whom I haven’t seen in decades. Such a great trip.
Clearly though, my little sister was the happiest of us all. Mother and daughter were beautiful walking down the aisle. The wedding was held outside and the Central Texas skies held back the flood waters just long enough to pull off this wedding Sunday evening.
Okay, maybe the bride and groom were the happiest. Kevin is also a teacher at the same elementary school as Christi. They coordinated their wedding date with spring break. But enough about all these shiny, happy people. This is a running blog.
Today’s run may have equalled Moab in awesomeness. I run so often on the little LoBo Trail outside my door and I don’t get out to the Boulder backroads enough. The hard-packed clay, with streaks of rich brown and slate, is ideal for long runs. I eschewed my Hokas for my old running shoes and felt like myself again. My hamstring injuries are fading. My old Salomon trail shoes have over 2000 miles on them, but give me a responsiveness on the dirt that I’ve missed. My overly-cushioned Hokas are deaf by comparison.
North of the Boulder Res, I ran past fields of hops ready to grow for the local brewpubs, equine facilities, polo ranches, and over quaint bridges arched across Left Hand Creek. It was 50° around noon with late winter sunlight filtering down through leafless Cottonwood. An absolute runners dream for thirteen miles. I came up behind another runner, over-dressed in tights and jacket, as we both left the road for a section of trail. A garbage truck was nearly blocking the opening in the fence to the trail. He took a less confrontational route around the far side. I was enjoying my downhill stride too much to be bothered and darted between the busy sanitation worker and his monster truck, threading the needle to reach the trail. I didn’t slow down or go wide. Every run is a race. I couldn’t be in Moab this weekend, but I had a good run.
