Ewing-Hopewell Death March Lite: 9 Miles

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Last night I had three pints of ale, a bowl of soup, and a plate of fish and chips for dinner.  For dessert, I enjoyed a slice of key lime pie, and two fingers of Irish whiskey.  Self-sabotage?  Check!  Breakfast was a peanut butter sandwich, a bunch of grapes, a cup of coffee, and about a half-liter of water.  I gave that about an hour to digest before hitting the road.

“Ewing-Hopewell Death March” was the name I gave my first ten-miler, after it almost killed me last October.  Since my calendar called for “only” nine miles this weekend, and the Trenton Mercer Airport loop road is closed until further notice, I made some slight tweaks to the original EHDM.  I think I managed to simultaneously shorten it and make it more difficult.  The weather was a bit on the brutal side; warm for mid-morning, with air that was simply chewy from the humidity.  Despite my abominable Friday night “nutrition,” however, my body more or less did what I asked of it.

Once I passed over I-95 and cheated death at her Exit 2 off-ramps, I was slowly transported to as happy a place as I could be; while on a nine-mile run, that is.  Suburb dissolves into country over the course of one mile.  I always give thanks for the rural splendor that exists just two miles from my front door.  Jacobs Creek babbles off to my left; so peacefully, that I forget about how Jonathan Nyce dumped his wife’s dead body in it, after he murdered her a few years back.  The occasional deer frolics.  The canopy of trees offers my lily-white hide additional protection from that mean old sun.  People who trash New Jersey – usually without ever really spending time in it – really need to see shit like this.

My time was total shite, but I really felt pretty decent the whole time.  Given what I’m preparing myself for, I will gladly take a slow nine miles of feeling great, over feeling like shit while knocking a few minutes off a run that, when you really consider the big picture, is totally meaningless.

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