I’ve known my husband for a long time. He likes to golf. After he golfs, he likes to tell me about all 18 holes. Every. Single. Hole.
The stories have a consistent theme, and they go like this.
“My short game fell apart, today.”
“I crushed a monster drive over 300 yards.”
“It was a par-4 dogleg, and there was a foursome of old women up ahead of me and I wanted to play through but…”
He takes me turn-by-turn through some of America’s most boring cow pastures, and I usually just nod and smile. But now that I’m running, I take him through each of my miles and tell him about pace, elevation, hydration strategies, and my sweat-to-body-odor ratio.
This past week, I planned on running 10 miles at the Carolina North Forest with my little running group. I couldn’t find the entrance and drove around for ten minutes like a nut. (Local people, is it by Seawell Elementary? I couldn’t find it.)
I knew that I had to run ASAP, or I would just quit on myself. I went back to the American Tobacco Trail and ran the entire 10 miles straight-through in 1:43, which might just be my personal best.
I came home and gave my husband a play-by-play of each mile, each turn, and each time I was passed by an asshole runner pushing a stroller. (I was also passed by a border collie who kept running ahead of me, then slowing down, then running ahead, then slowing down. I know he was just taunting me.)
I only have three more Saturdays with my running crew until the marathon. I sure hope I don’t get lost. And I can’t wait to bore the hell out of my husband. I’ve earned that right after listening to his I-almost-got-an-eagle-and-then-I-double-bogeyed-that-hole stories.