Twenty at the Twack

Regular readers will be aware that as few as eighteen miles can be considered a long run. But then, twenty is a number that separates the men from the girls, isn't it?

Our running friend sets out at about 5:30. He is running over to the track for today's planned long run. Last week he ran twenty for the first time in a while, but alas. It was only done on the treadmill. Today's long run would be outside and, running gods willing, not an inch less than twenty miles. The track is a nice place to do these lonely long runs because it's not as hard as roads, and there's less traffic. Not to mention any concern about getting lost. The constant turning can be a concern, but it can be mitigated by changing direction and running at least some miles in outside lanes.

Our runner notices salt trucks pre-treating the roads. It's not snowing yet, but some decent amount of the stuff is expected. Strange for April, but not for this one. There have been gobs of snow and it doesn't appear that it will end anytime soon. But it's dry so far today.

When he arrives at the track, he crawls under the fence as usual. No big deal. He does this fairly often, and as usual, there's no one around.

No one, that is, except for the cops. Our runner had been just barely settling down into a decent pace when he notices a police car checking the back of the high school building across the parking lot. He figures they will probably come over to the track next.

And they do. First shining their light from one side of the grandstand, and then the other. Our runner feels like he will get busted for sure. What to do? Crawl back out when they're not looking? No, that seems risky. Prepare to climb the impossibly high fence at a different corner? No, that would be really tough. Prepare excuses for his presence here, and think of different ways to beg for mercy? Yes, probably. Stop running and hide on the opposite side of the grandstand from the cops? Of course, and this strategy ends up getting deployed.

Although our runner had been sure he was seen early on, the cop car moves on. So maybe he dodged a bullet, so to speak. And so, our runner continues his trek at the track, a little shaken at first. But then he settles down to his go-to pace, and the run continues uneventfully.

Soon (okay, maybe not so soon) it's time to head home. Under the fence and onto the roads for the final three miles. He slows a little, but then picks it back up again to finish strong.

Another twenty is in the books.