Training in Texas

I'm training for some sort of running event again, either a half or a full marathon depending on how the knee holds up. It's scheduled for the end of September in Bellingham, WA. I'm training throughout the summer in Texas. Advantage much?

My first problem was finding the perfect time of the day to run. Temperatures have been well above 100 degrees lately, and for all of you who don't know what 106 feels like, it's hot. If the sun is out, running's a bad plan. So I either get up at 5 a.m. or wait until 8 p.m. when the day has cooled to a brisk 97˚F.

I run at a nearby park, about half a mile from my apartment. I usually walk there to give myself some warm-up time, crossing through a back alley used for smoking breaks and through a Brookshire's parking lot. I smile and nod at the smokers. Thanks for the secondhand smoke, I tell them. I much prefer that to oxygen when running. Then I walk past an Applebee's, where middle-aged men wave to me. I generally smile and nod at them too, just because it makes me laugh when I hear them tell each other, "She grinned at me," when they think I'm out of earshot. After that it's a few BBQ joints, a taco stand or two, and a donut shop while passersby in trucks honk and I roll my eyes.

The trail at the park is about 2.25 miles, which is great for short runs. The longer runs can get monotonous. It's not a bad park, though, especially in the evenings -- a good mix of Spanish and English, ponds fringed with people fishing in lawn chairs, a couple of playgrounds, and an ice cream truck. I run around and around, dodging dragonflies the size of sparrows while little boys holding fishing poles in one hand and cans of worms in the other dash by on their bikes. Running in the morning is a bit more unpleasant, since the smell of ribs smoking behind the BBQ joint about four feet from the trail makes me slightly nauseous when running 10 miles. But I power through.

The sweat's not fun. I never knew I could sweat like that. But I'll spare you the details. The thirst isn't too enjoyable either. Neither are the gnats that fly into my mouth or the 85% humidity that makes me feel like I should have donned a suit and tried swimming the designated mileage. But again, I tough it out.

Then I walk back, through the "hello"s and "hola"s and "mornin'"s and evenin'"s, and I slap the mosquitoes off my legs and I wonder how much of my skin melted off in the heat. And then I do it again the next day.

Why? Easy. Because it makes me feel like this.



Except that she doesn't look particularly sweaty, or covered in bites, or nauseous from the smell of ribs smoking, or frightened by nearly being impaled by a kid with a bike and a fishing pole, or annoyed at trucks honking at her. Guess she's not in Texas.