Shade Never Lasts on a Hot April Morning

We trained for almost four months in weather ranging from just above freezing to low 50s. I lost track of how many Saturdays and Sundays our little running crew suffered through brutal winds to build up to half-marathon strength again.

For the cold, we were prepared. In response, Mother Nature served up the hottest Country Music 1/2 Marathon in its 10-year history. The high passed 86 degrees yesterday and without hardly any cloud cover, a blistering path laid ahead.

The forecast was a source of consternation all week. Until our corral broke away from the starting line 10 minutes after the first starting gun, butterflies harassed my stomach.

Soon we heard our gun, the nervousness faded, and for the second straight year, I moved to running speed to strains of Almost Ready by Dinosaur Jr.

I wasn’t close to ready, but I could fake it for 13.1 miles.

While not the hottest race I ever ran – I think anything during August in Tennessee beat it by 10-15 degrees – but like most racers, I never had to cover such distance in the heat.

Friends helped Bryan and Dan promoted the gym just before the Mile 3 marker, offering a few high-fives. Heidi and Karen in the Belmont area, somewhere around Mile 7. My financial guy passed me not long after. Past Mile 11, a few good Samaritans offered small cups of beer for runners within sight of the Tennessee State Capitol. I took a swig and soldiered on, the split between the half-marathon and full marathon infusing a little inspiration into tired legs.

Those little moments got me moving again when I had to stop, which put the long months of Spinning to good use. Without intervals, I might not have made it in such good condition.

Water served twin purposes every mile on Saturday – one to drink, one to wear. Every dousing with water contributed to my crimson complexion.

As for my Ultra-sweat-proof sunscreen, it sloughed off my face and forehead within the first two miles, burning my eyes so badly I had to wipe my face clear to just to see without pain.

My friend’s old fraternity brother ran the full marathon, and looked off upon finishing the 26.2-miles journey, which had virtually no shade past the 18-mile mark.

I felt surprisingly good once I rehydrated. The bulky knee brace from 2008 got retired midway through 2009, and I hit the finish without a trace of knee pain. Spasming muscles were a different story. I stood for an hour after the race knowing the charley horses that awaited me if I dared to sit.

What resulted from running without pain? I finished about two minutes better than last year, well short of the 15 I hoped for. Granted, the weather came in 15 degrees better than last year (the 2009 start temperature was the same as the finishing temperature for 2008), but I wanted to improve, and the heat wouldn’t allow it.

As for a new personal best on the course, I have no choice but to hope for fairer weather in 2010. I had every intention of calling this my last Country Music Half Marathon, but the weather made it feel like a completely different course than last year. So I have to expect that for next year, and find a way to meet the challenge.

We'll Miss You, Old Friend

A long-awaited call came Sunday night - the caller had been off the grid for a while, but her message came as a surprise.

Our old friend Tim had died earlier that day after a few bouts in the hospital.

It didn't take long for memories to come rushing back in droves. For a long time, I ran with a group of friends a little older than myself. They were and still are a good bunch and always up for a party.

Tim's house in Worthington was the hub of activity. Rarely did a Memorial or Labor Day pass without the grill and other things firing up. There were Oscar parties, Halloween parties, New Year's Eve, and a memorable Thanksgiving in August when the power went out.

Hell, name a reason to celebrate - sometimes we didn't even need that - and people assembled at Tim's.

When you uproot from a place, it's easy to forget all the little things that served as the bedrock of your old life. I couldn't tell how many times I rode my bike past Tim's house or stopped when I saw the front door open. In more recent years, I often saw him walking Jethro in the park.

Having not seen him since I left, I continued to send Christmas cards every year. In the last one, I promised to get in touch when I came back to Columbus; for whatever reason, I didn't.

Even though he will be missed, I just hope that Tim found rest.

I hope that when he went, he knew that the ghosts from all those parties would always inhabit that friendly house on Clearview.

Stand By ... We'll Be Back Shortly

Work has got me slammed right now, so updates have been sparse. I don't see that changing until I finish my Texas report.

Until then, I only have nuggets:

Carl Pavano, We hardly knew ye: Nine runs in one-plus innings.This gamble could make Jason Johnson look like an ace. The bats are there, the starting pitching looks disastrous and this Indian summer looks long and brutal. Indians fans, vent your spleen by watching the Cavs instead.

Gonna Fly Now: Saturday I ran 11.2 miles, my last long run before the . Once the body approaches double digit mileage, muscles tighten immediately at any stops. But I ran without my knee brace and experienced no major knee pains. This could be a much different half-marathon this year.

Easter Everywhere: The four hours and time change to head to Atlanta for Easter proved too much for the man. Luckily a friend from work opens up her house for a big family and friends gathering. Why skip good wine, good strada and good company when I can get the Fox News talking points from my folks over the phone.

More Meloy Than You Can Shake a Stick At: I forgot I ordered the Colin Meloy Live disc and the compilation from Tarkio, and they showed up on my desk yesterday. So far, I dig Tarkio's country aspects - it sounds like the Decemberists crossed with Son Volt or Uncle Tupelo. I needed a break from the band's total immersion in prog-rock. Hazards of Love has good songs, but lacks the variety of their earlier efforts.

Random Observation: What makes movies set in West Texas so compelling? Here's four set there: Hud, No Country For Old Men, There Will Be Blood, and Paris, Texas. Good scripts and great acting help - I imagine Michael Bay could make craters out of the landscape and never demonstrate a scrap of directorial skill.

Here, There & Everywhere

BC is in town, I have miles to run before the Half-Marathon, an audio analysis on Medicaid to record Monday morning, and 10,000 words still to write on Texas.

Updates will be sporadic through the Half-Marathon.

OK, lest ye think writing has fallen by the wayside down in Music City, I give you Exhibits A-C:

At The Nashville Feed, I wrote about a bizarre confluence of musicians at the bluegrass-leaning Station Inn for the Tin Pan South Festival - Tommy Ramone (aka The Last Ramone Standing), bluegrass king Tim O'Brien, and I Fought the Law songsmith Sonny Curtis.

Over at wnew.com, I deliver a little dissertation on the best Welsh language rock album ever, courtesy of the Super Furry Animals. A language spoken by just one million people can be breathtakingly beautiful in a modern rock setting. Take that, Tom Jones.

Finally, I'm back on the commentary page at Suburban News (aka Somewhere Near Poverty), if only for a week. A chance encounter on Interstate 670 led me back to my old haunt - Basically, I am going to miss the smell created by Wonder Bread's baking operation in Columbus.

New media, old media, I don't care ... my whoredom for a byline knows no limits.

Laundry Saga: Time to Admit Defeat

After three years absent a washer/drier hookup, I am giving up the ghosts on my local laundromat.

I wrote off the Maytag place and its ancient, ineffective driers, throwing all my laundry eggs in the Sylvan Park laundromat’s basket. With cheap washers, passable driers and small crowds at off-peak times, I could run out and come home with a bag of drier-crisp underwear in under an hour.

Until Tuesday.

I never expected much from the place, but it delivers much less. Half the driers were marked out of order or had dark digital displays.

But technology was not the biggest problem.

Tobacco juice sealant on the front walk is one thing (there’s a side door).

But crackheads lining up for a fix in the bathroom goes far beyond the pale.

I’ve seen it once, in the hands of a man who no longer exists. Since I knew this man carried a supply, I asked to see it. I’ve never smoked it, nor desire to.

But I got a whiff of the same artificial rocks the dead man had in his pocket at the laundromat last night, just a few minutes after he asked me how late the 24-hour laundry palace stay opened. But the Laundromat is hardly in a bad neighborhood – it’s surrounded by a pack of restaurants, at least two are high-end. Houses on the block run from nice condo apartments to

No one spends a half-hour in a dingy bathroom without serious digestive problems or drug problems.

The derelict emerged from an early 1980s van, its navy blue paint peeled away in continents with North Dakota plates - not exactly a vehicle for blending in. Perhaps he fled the dangerously high Red River in Fargo.

But that ugly artificial smell told me otherwise.

I need a W/D hookup, or at least one of those high-end laundromats that only exist on film, because the rich don't need a laundromat in the real world.