Look at that big rock, Heath said, just as we were finishing up our morning baby jogger run. He was even pointing. At a giant rock. Right where we walked yesterday in front of the ASU stadium. It was huge. I don't know how I missed it.
But my question about the Rock has been answered. It's a giant rock. It's in front of the ASU stadium. It was donated by the Shipwash family. That's all I know.
I had a pleasant run around the campus and downtown Boone, while Mark and his pals were running up Grandfather Mountain. It was 9am when I started my run, so they were already 2 and a half hours into the marathon. As we ran around the sleepy (at that moment. We went back later in the afternoon when it was wide awake, and a lot less interesting.) mountain town, we encountered very few people. A stunning amount of fog. And a lovely mountainous backdrop for our 68 degree run. The kids even asked for blankets.
We rolled downtown, past the Boone fire station. Heath immediately spotted the brush rig. He has big plans for manning the brush rig. For some time he wanted to do this in San Diego. As of today, he would settle for fighting mountain fires in Boone. Oddly, or not so oddly, enough, the fire station is tucked between the ASU campus attire store and a old/newfangled hookah shop.
We finished our run close to 10. I'd promised Heath a romp around the football field. The girls lacrosse team was busy playing, so we settled for watching the ladies "hit the ball with sticks" for a while, then raced around an adjacent, vacant field. Around 10:30 the Boone fire department released their screaming rescue trucks, followed by multiple wailing ambulances. This was my cue to head on up the mountain to pick up Daddy.
After a shamefully long wrestling match (and the help of a kind fellow and his somewhat smug/cold/annoyed gal pal) with the baby jogger, all children and gear was reloaded in the car and we were off to find daddy. The original plan was to follow a fellow runner's girlfriend up the mountain so we would have plenty of car space to cart all four accomplished athletes back to the house. No one knew just how spotty the cell service was going to be, so I suddenly found myself without contact. Without directions. And only a vague sense of where this so-called Grandfather Mountain is. Up. (221 and Linville seemed familiar.)
So I took off and hoped for the best, occasionally making a phone call only to be lost, or not even connected. Through Blowing Rock. Past a BRP entrance. Then up. And up. And round. And round. We went. And round. And up. And up some more. Just when I was worried that I might not be right with my directions, I saw it. The sign. It read: Caution: Marathon in Progress from 6:30am-Noon. That's when it really hit me. Mark was running up a mountain. No traffic cones. No traffic directors. Few water stations. Few spectators, and even fewer race volunteers. (Apparently there were some Park Rangers on the parkway. If you did not comply with their Run Single-File rule, you WOULD get a ticket.) Out loud I said, Daddy is running up this mountain.
Heath said, Except there's no sidewalk. He was concerned. And right. No sidewalks. The streets wound so tightly, there's no room for error for cars, much less error for cars riding along with runners. Stella was asleep. The sloooow (because that's the only way you can do it) wind of the narrow two-lane highway was too much for her to resist drifting off for a little morning snooze.
And then I see him. Not Mark. Some other guy. The leader of the end of the pack. The marathon caboose. He's an older fellow. Shirtless. A little hobbly. But still running. A few minutes pass, and I see two more runners. Ladies. In matching aqua floral tankinis and black running shorts. I rolled down the window, gave them a little woo-hoo. Then I had a bright idea of taking pictures as I coast along. I got a few. Then I got a Card Full red warning.
No more picture taking. But lots more runners. Many are walking. Many are walking, then jogging, then walking, then bending over, then stopping, then walking again. At this point it's nearing 11:30. 5 hours since start time. It was STRONGLY suggested that if one cannot finish the race in 5 hours, one should not run. As fun as it would be to see Mark, I am hoping he is well past the finish line and anxiously waiting for his ride.
The running crowds begin to thicken, and I know I must be close to the end. The car crests the "hill" and there it is. The Grandfather Mountain entrance. And there he is. Mark wearing an accomplished smile, and a medal. Heath and I start screaming and waving wildly. I frantically jerk the car over, hoping to not bump into any runners or bikers or tourists. Heath immediately spots the bloody spot on Mark's white t-shirt. I guess the band-aids weren't enough to keep the ole chaffing from happening. "You got blood, Daddy." When he found out it was from his nipples, he was even more intrigued.
After some Highland Games, marathon, mountain tourism traffic complications, we officially get Mark in the car. He is finished. He is thrilled. He was pretty darn untrained. And he still finished in 4 hours and 30 minutes. Great, great, great.
Now, I wonder...could we both run it next year? (Do not quote me on that.)
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