Darkest before the dawn.

The goal was to be done before 8:00. The plan was to take the kids to a water park for a couple of hours as a part of a church activity, and afterward, the husband was off to work for the afternoon and evening. That left just the early morning to get the training run in, and with the Kansas heat, it was the ideal time to do it anyway.

On paper, that was the plan. And it seemed like a good plan.

Then 4:45 a.m. rolled around, and my alarm went off.

It seemed like less of an awesome plan.

It also seemed like less of an awesome plan as I filled my hydration belt with water and Hammer Gel, and thought about running 18 miles.

Eighteen miles.

The furthest I’d ever run before was 16 miles just a couple weeks prior, and that seemed like it was about enough to kill me. The husband mapped out a route with considerably fewer hills, though, so I should be okay. I’d since purchased my pepper spray, so the sense of security was more abundant (better believe I’ll be purchasing one of these when they come out). 

I fiddled around a bit. Took my time getting dressed. Pumped a little bit longer than usual to make sure the seven month old had enough to eat during my time outside. The anxiety stirred my inside with fear of being unable to finish something I started. 

5:07. Ugh. Couldn’t put it off any longer.

I discovered something interesting about starting my run that early. There is a space of time that is running bliss—the sun has just come up, or is starting to, and there is a soft light that fills the world. The air still has a bit of a chill in it, enough to cancel out some of the awfulness of Midwestern humidity, and there is a prideful glee in being out, running, while the rest of the world remains sane and sleeps during those early hours. It is a beautiful time, a peaceful time.

The space of time just before that, though, which happened to be the first forty minutes of my run, is about as anxiety-producing as it comes.

The chosen route had me running out on some rural roads for 4.5 miles, and then crossing a major highway to more rural roads (yay, Kansas!). This was meant to avoid traffic and have some nice scenery, as well as avoid having to deal with crosswalks and stop lights. The unfortunate side effect of all of this was that apparently Kansas does not believe in street lights over rural roads, and I spent the first forty minutes running in pitch darkness. The occasional car was an immense relief, as the brief time spent with headlights nearly blinding my view also allowed me to see where the devil I was going. 

The cool morning air and the temporary serenity that comes with running while the world sleeps allowed me to become complacent. I plugged along on the left hand side of the road, thinking about how far I’d come as a runner—a story I’ll write another day. My thoughts circled about moments of laughter, accomplishment, and moments of disappointment and self loathing. The dark world around me seemed to disappear as I reminisced about where I had been, when something suddenly caught my eye. 

What the…

It appeared to be the size of a large cat, rustling in the grass just a few feet from where I stood. My cat ran away a few weeks ago, and since then I have become accustomed to looking at every moving furry thing first to determine if it is my transient feline companion. In the blackness, it was hard to see, and instead of going to instinct where I would avoid any furry creature, I fell into the programmed curiosity of hoping to find Chuck.

As soon as I was about two feet from the creature, it moved in a very distinct way, revealing exactly what it was. With its hindquarters toward me, in a very slow, calculating move, it raised its tail.

In the darkness of northeastern rural Kansas, in the very early hours of the morning, there was a sudden cry into the nothingness:

“WHAT THE DEVIL?! AUGH! SKUNK! FRAKKIN’ A! I’M RUNNING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROAD!”

Hammer gel is reduced in necessity on that kind of adrenaline kick. Now, to arrange that setup come my marathon this October—that would be ideal. While less than pleasant for my mental state and most likely my blood pressure, it did not seem to have a detrimental effect on my ability to complete the eighteen miles.

Average pace: 9:08

Though if I put the Garmin information into my computer (I’m terrible about doing that), I imagine my pace at about a mile and a half in suddenly spiked to a much, much faster pace. 

Frakkin’ nature.