13 de Julio - Corriendo Larga, HACKERS, Que Romantica (Po-try)

Ten miles on a loop on the San Sebastian coastline feels more like six. Runners get this. With the temp at 75 degrees and surrounded by sun bathers and volleyball players and the rocky hillsides that form La Playa de la Concha, I looped back and forth to complete my ten mile run, and the hour and a half got swept out to sea with the pull of the tide. The sight of a tiny island just of the crescent-moon coast kept my eyes focused on the waves and my mind off my legs. There is no other way to write about that morning run. I try to avoid excessive use of adjectives in my writing, but as a good friend of mine, and a writer of a much higher caliber, would say: “That’s po-try.”

Two more long runs to go and I will have completed my training in Barcelona without a hitch. Besides carrying a little bit of extra weight around the mid-section and on my jowls. But those aren’t hitches, they’re symbols of my unending dedication to taste everything that is put in front of my face (thank God Spaniards rarely cook with onions and when they do, they tell you).

Mary finished her eight-miler on a run through old parts of the city. Her training has been very good. But when she opened up her computer that day slightly after noon, she saw that she was having an IM conversation with a relative and asking him to send her money because she got held at gunpoint in the London airport and needed a way to get home. Bastards - that’s all I have to say. We spent the next four hours making sure all of our financial passwords, emails, and all were secure, and Mary spent the day telling people she was just fine. Bastards - she had a great run that morning and they ruined it.

Five hours later, we ate cheeseburgers and drank wine and tried to forget what happened that day. Then we rolled up our pants and held hands and walked on the beach and watched the sun drop down over the green and brown mounds of earth that created the bay. Yes, Mag: Po-try.