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There is not one person who has been more supportive of my growing running addiction than my wife, or as most people will attest who know her and me, my Better 99%. She’s done crazy things like race our family around Richmond to see me at every party zone in my first marathon (which even involved a hostile face-to-face with one of Richmond’s finest) and groan encouragingly as I’ve gone out early on Saturdays for a long run. Because she’s so supportive, I was a little taken aback when she laughed at me before I went out to run on the snowy streets the other day. “You’ll fall and break something,” she giggled, obviously feeling a deep sense of concern for my well-being. I tried to convince her that I wouldn’t, but she kept bringing up the numerous near falls during the Great Snowball Fight of 2010 a few weeks ago, and of course, I had nothing.

She was so convinced that I was going to get hurt, that she insisted on before and after pictures, apparently so she could document for all time that she was right and I was wrong. I obliged, but kept wondering if she would lose her B99 status if I really did get hurt and she took the time to take a picture before calling 911. Surely that would drop her to something like B60, or B40, wouldn’t it? Anyway, we documented my physical condition at the start of my run (I believe the technical term is “hot”) and I went out for one of the more relaxing runs I’ve had in a while. There is absolutely nothing better than running in the quiet of snow. The peaceful feeling is even strong enough to overcome the occasional terror one feels at the sound of approaching cars sliding on the slick spots.

I got home intact and forced my B99 to snap the after picture. For the record, she didn’t really want to, either because it provided evidence that I was right or because she was disappointed at the lack of blood and protruding bones. Yep. She’s reeeaaaall supportive.

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I don’t normally post about single runs, but this one was notable for a couple of reasons. First, it was my longest since the Second 26.2 Mile Meltdown, and B, because of what my sister said when I got to the Y to see my nephew play a scintillating game of 4-year old basketball (which is exactly like real basketball except for the added jumping, twirling, sliding, and triple-dribbling). When I walked into the gym, she laughed and said something about how my running had changed the way we use the word “run” now. Seems that when I had texted her the night before that I would “run in” to see the game and then “run home” after it was over, she had assumed I meant in the car. Of course, that is what I would have meant 3 years ago. Apparently, I really am a runner.

As it turned out, though, I didn’t run in and run back. Instead I took a very round about route from my house in New London to the YMCA in Albemarle. I love to reference the city-to-city route, because it sounds like the kind of long run an elite runner would do, but in reality I only have to run about 4 or 5 miles to get to Albemarle. I usually leave that detail out, though, because people look at me differently when they hear that. I’d rather stay with the “you’re almost like a god” look which the city-to-city reference usually produces. We runners need all the positive feedback we can get, you know.

So, I took the long way (away from) home, and then caught a ride back. All in all it was a great run, and my average pace for this run was almost identical to my Half Marathon PR pace. I’m pretty sure I’ll be busting that up this year. Oh, and my nephew dominated, and by dominated, I mean he scored and double-dribbled less than the other 4 year-olds. Ahh, the NBA awaits.

*my apologies to Supertramp for ruining their song title