85 degrees, hot sun in the blistering swelter of Midwestern summer.  Perfect weather for a run, at least in my mind. But then, in those days, any time of day or weather was a perfect day for running. I took each season as an opportunity to explore my physical limits of endurance, relishing the beauty of each season.

Now of course, we advise runners to avoid the heat and if a run is chosen, make sure you make frequent water stops either by carrying a bottle or a camelback, or have a hot chick follow you with a car providing water breaks when needed. (Unfortunately, I didn’t learn that trick till much later.)

But I figured manly runners didn’t need that stuff and just needed to gut it out.  I practiced the science of SRCarson, and no one else, and that’s probably why my stubborn attitude got me in trouble more times than not.

Loved running in a torrential downpour, soaking my running shorts and shirt stuck almost like glue to my crimson skin, the water obscuring my vision while I sloshed harder and faster.  Biting blizzards were also particularly attractive, and I would go out for a 15 miler running hard on the snow and ice, slipping down into the road intersections while the drivers yelled obscenities at me. Then, I jumped on the hood of their fat smoky cars and ran off into the deep snowy fields, never to be seen again. When I was back home to my college apartment, I was exhausted, but exhilarated, icicles hanging from my nose with cheeks as red as Santa Claus caught goosing the cute mommy with a miniskirt at the mall.

Loved it.  Nothing better.

But in high school, in the summers, I ran to the beach when I had the spontaneous urge to do so, or I ran to the neighboring town 10 miles away, and then came back to complete a 20 miler. So I hit the road in the 85 degree heat, passing through the cornfield scenery and farm houses and after 3 miles, I was released into the world of 4 lane highways, traveling north to Lake Michigan. My heart pounded a little harder than it should have because the cars weren’t accustomed to runners on the side of the highway, and it was probably illegal anyway, and the whoosh of the cars actually accelerating past me just forced me to run with more determination.  The jerks.  Don’t they know this was an imaginary runner’sright of way?Didn’t  they know that Frank Shorter changed everything for us skinny runners?

Interestingly, each change in scenery was in 5 or 10 mile increments, predictably.  After 5 miles I was off the 4 lane highway successfully and now into the main street of the town, heading due north to the cool waters of the lake they called Michigan.  The lack of water by this time had caked my mouth and my lips cracked into an ugly crease, so I ran into a yard and drank out of somebody’s dirty garden hose relishing the metallic taste, then ran the hose over my head, and took off refreshed and dripping back on my adventure.

At 8 miles I could smell the water of the lake and the trucks hauling their motorboats. It  seemed to continue nonstop as if jockeying to be first in line for Fourth of July fireworks. Then finally, I hit the soft sand of the beach, exactly at 10 miles, ran directly to the shoreline, glanced at some of the hot girls laying on the beach, all tanned and oiled, jumped into the water, then never breaking stride, headed back south, for my long ten mile track back home to the countryside.

I was 16 maybe almost 17 and probably a good thing I didn’t have a girlfriend because she wouldn’t have tolerated me for long, you know, just taking off and running, smelly and all. Yeah, it was Forest Gumpish, and I wore Nike Cortez shoes as well.

The trip back was tougher, of course and my muscles decided to tighten, probably from dehydration, but I didn’t realize it, or wouldn’t admit it.  Blisters decided to form on my feet from the wet soaking and jumping on and off curbs and sand and curved macadam roads.

And finally, I was home, a successful 20 mile run, experiencing changes in countryside and scenery that few can imagine, yet all the while, feeling invincible and free to suck in the air and taste the beauty, no one to stop me, not even my parents who I thought never knew.

It was my secret, my love, my fantasy of freedom of flight with legs on fire.

SRC