Imagine the smell

My wife has been sensitive to smells as long as I've known her. In a previous life, she must have been a bloodhound. If I snack on something, say some Kalamata olives or a dill pickle spear, and she enters the kitchen well after I've finished, she'll sniff and ask "what have you been eating?" If I don't reply immediately, she usually guesses.

There's a scene in Snow White and the Seven Dwarves where Snow White teaches the dwarves how to bathe. "Do we have to wash where it doesn't show?" one of them asks. Stop and think about that. That is a practical question from someone who works in a mine all day and whose house was a trash heap of dirty dishes and filthy clothes before this princess arrived. Why bother washing some place where it won't be appreciated?

So I have to wonder. What did this dwarf cottage smell like when Snow White first arrived? What would my wife do if she came upon this cottage?

Walk past it, I think.

We gather together

My wife will start cooking the organic, free-range turkey breast around 10:00 a.m. My parents' brown Buick will pull into the driveway shortly after 11:00. My mom is bringing iced tea, both sweet and unsweetened. My father-in-law will arrrive between noon and 12:30. This year, my sister is driving to Connecticut with her husband and daughter to visit her mother and sisters in law. Otherwise she'd be here with deviled eggs.

We'll gather around the dining room table with its extra leaf around 1:00 or 1:30. We got the turkey breast for free because of a mixup at the store. They couldn't find my wife's original order even though she placed it in person last week. They offered this turkey breast at a reduced rate, but she still balked at the price. So the store manager said, "Happy Thanksgiving!"

We have much to be thankful for.

Rigor mortis

I ran the half-marathon I'd planned, a slower 20 miler than I wanted, and the slowest 10K of my life this past Saturday at the Richmond Marathon.

I was 1:57:02 at the half - on pace to break 4 hours. I was 3:06:17 at 20 miles, which was slower than I needed to be to break 4, but that goal was still within reach.

I finished the marathon in 4:35:58 - the worst time I've ever posted for 26.2.

I felt great before the gun. It was about 40 degrees, clear, and the humidity was low. Wearing a short sleeve Coolmax shirt, split shorts, new sunglasses, my fuel belt loaded with four bottles of Gatorade and four gels, and my trusty Gel Kayanos on my feet, I found the 4:00 pace team and started very comfortably and smoothly with them. I felt great at 6. I felt great at 10. I felt great at the half. Starting to tire at 16, I fell slightly behind the 4:00 pace leader, who turned and reminded me "it's only a 10 mile training run from here." He was still within sight at 18.

Just before I crossed the mat at 20, I got a cramp in my left calf.

Between 20 and the finish line, I couldn't cover any significant distance without a sharp jolt in my calf or hamstring. A discouraging pattern emerged: the cramp would stop me dead in my tracks, I would stretch, then walk, then move as if cross-country skiing, then jog, and then BOOP, the stabbing pain would return and I would have to stop again. One time, I thought to myself, "if I weren't in so much pain, I would be incredibly impressed with the muscle definition of that calf." And most of the time I was thinking, "where's the next mile marker?"

I wasn't alone. I encountered several other runners, men and women, young and old, all stopped and stretching, frowning and limping.

The last .2 mile was downhill but I couldn't take advantage of it. No more than 200 feet from the finish line, I had to stop. A medical volunteer on the side shouted to me "is there anything I can do?" "No" I croaked. I heard the announcer call out "Michael Harvey, from Raleigh, North Carolina!" Grimacing, I hobbled over the finish line. I wonder what the finish photo will look like.

A young boy put the medal around my neck. I wrapped a foil blanket around my shoulders and let them clip the chip off my shoe. I walked around the chute for several minutes, trying to work out the cramps.

I hobbled down the street to the food station. I guzzled a bottle of recovery drink and snarfed two bananas, a bagel, and a slice of cold pizza. Grabbing another two bottles of recovery drink, I retrieved my belongings from the bag check and limped back to my hotel room.

I called home - my daughter had already looked up my time on the web. "Sorry about your time dad." "You can always run half marathons," my wife observed.

I called Christopher, who reminded me "dude, you finished!" We briefly spoke about entering Myrtle Beach in February, but agreed it would be a hard sell to our wives.

It's Saturday

The Richmond Marathon is this Saturday. I ran 4 on the treadmill yesterday, and I probably will not have time to run today, so I'll plan to run 4 tomorrow. Then that's it. I'm ready.

Crashed and burned

I spoke with Christopher yesterday about his experience at the New York Marathon this past Sunday. He said that he passed the mile 24 marker at 3:47. Somewhere between there and mile 25, something happened, and the next thing he knows, he's waking up in a medical tent. DNF. He's disappointed but very philosophical about it.