At the darkest of night when the moonlight fades, the winds are still and the-sane-ones are in deep REM, we stood in a parking lot for the first-time questioning the brilliance of running a marathon. A car door opened in the distance and we weren’t alone, we just weren’t sure who we were alone with. The tall one (Lois) shoved a PB&J into my hydration pack and we stood, talking through the fueling logistics, wondering how a bag of Trail mix, a stash of pecans, 8 or so Aussie-bites and water felt like 25 extra pounds.
As we departed the parking lot I inquired from the lone stranger working on his bike with a flashlight if he would be so kind to call 911 in case he doesn’t encounter us along the dark secluded trail. He said he would indeed, sounding nothing like a serial-killer, and we were off.
We weaved along the B&A trail through Glen Burnie wearing headlamps and flashing blinkies and somewhere around mile 2 my sneaker needed adjusting. I removed the added cushy insole, but my arch was not feeling relief and I thought this was far too early to have foot problems, so we carried on another mile. Lo, then felt something amiss around her 3rd toe, so we stopped again to wrap that issue in a band-aid bow, and by now we were at Marley Station – mile marker 10. The hue of dawn brought out the early cyclists, including our non-serial killer who rode by, expressing relief there was no need to call 911 that morning and we agreed it was an excellent start to the day.
A total of 13.1 miles in one direction would take us to Annapolis along the B&A trail, followed by a 13.1 mile return trip back to the parking lot in Glen Burnie — the total of which would fulfill The Big Surreal –Covid’s version of The Big Sur marathon. We had only trained for short distances, 10 miles and less — but figured why let that stop us?
We reached the ranger station (pit stop) at mile marker 7.5, and took a moment to snack on a few bites of that PB&J. It was the most delicious sammie I’ve ever tasted, and we carried on, talking, joking, and stopping only when we laughed too hard. By now there was a steady stream of ‘good morning, ladies’ and ‘helloooo ladies’ and ‘look at all of your gear’ from the passing cyclists, the hundreds of groups of riders that ranged from casual to professional-wannabies and all sharing in the same cloud of mornin’ endorphins.
We were single file now, giving ample room for the cyclists to pass and that was OK, pleasantly distracted by the to-and-fro onslaught of bikers on racing wheels, toddlers on trikes, or the voices yelling “runners-up:, “walkers-up” — referring to us. We waived as they passed, ‘good morning’ all around, and having spent the last 8 months avoiding people, this return to the trails powered our souls and tied legs.
Reaching our turnaround spot, the balls of my feet burned like molten lava, and we watched a young father transport 2 toddlers in a large cart behind his bike. Lo mentioned how nice it would be to get a ride in that cart, and I would have been happy to share a few bites of my remaining sammie with the 2 year-olds. We considered the logistics of strapping Lo on the roof of that cart with her legs dangling, occasionally dragging and sparking along the pavement and soon we were back to laughing at this ridiculous imagery of hitching a ride with this young family half hoping the dad would turn back.
We made it to the cafe stop at mile 18, and noticed we were not the only ones who felt the need to stop and purchase a homemade cookie and a coffee. Lo downed her peanut butter cookie within minutes and I kept my cookie going a bit longer, spacing out the sugar hit and trying not to think about the blisters balls on my feet.
Lo needed a pitstop at the ranger station and I assured her it was right around the corner. It wasn’t, it was at least 2 miles away and this required some serious distraction. We heard heavy-breathing and heavier footsteps, and once we decided the sounds were not ours I dared to turn back and look. A large man, not-working-on-his-fitness, stoking one of a chain of cigarettes, chugging down a red bull, burping and holding tight to a bag of lotto tickets, was overtaking us. Sure enough this man-not-working-on-his-fitness passed us by, and we marveled at the moment wondering where we could get a red-bull. I turned back to look at Lo, not saying one word, we broke into a belly-roll — clearly we are fueling wrong, and the man-not-working-on-his-fitness was just the distraction needed to make it to the pit stop at the ranger station.
Eventually we reached Marley Station at mile 23 and stopped for a moment to watch a group of older men play with their radio-controlled miniature race cars. Although many malls — including Marley Station — have perished from Covid, men with toys appear, accompanied by food trucks and vendors selling t-shirts — and it is all OK in this repurposed world.
Three miles and change to go, and we made our way back to Glen Burnie — a place hours earlier we had experienced from darkness. By now, there were less pelotons of cyclists, less ‘helloooo ladies’ and the occasional ‘good morning’. It was good knowing it was still morning — thankful our time to complete the Big Surreal had not run out.
With 2 miles to the finish, we came up on a large parking lot that was converted into a food bank, and the sight of so many people lined up holding bags or boxes, anything they could carry to feed their families, tugged at my heart. My endorphin-high met with the steady hum of quiet desperation and I vowed my next trip along the B&A would include a stop to lend a hand.
We arrived back to where we started, sammies long-ago consumed, legs barely bending, feet no longer speaking, and thankful we had just pulled this marathon out-of-our-asses. It was a moment to appreciate how much we missed and needed our fellow humanity — the encouraging words, the simple ‘good morning’s — providing smiles, hope and fuel to carry-on.
The weather forecast is filled with phrases such as “Excessive Heat”, and recommendations to stay inside, find air conditioning, avoid exercise, and I thought about heeding those warnings. 
When the FitBit reads oh-four-thirty-ish, running gear includes headlamps and the thick wet morning air belongs in a sauna — you can stake claim to the label: Sleep-deprived East Coast runner. Or, simply someone who has lost their sensibilities.
Three back-to-back training days included a 13 mile jog/walk on the 4th of July (with fireworks detours), an 11 mile run the day after with less than 1/2 mile of actual trail running, and a final day of 6 miles that included 2 miles running home-runs over-n-over on the local baseball field. Here is where I discovered running the perimeter of the infield — it is approximately 1 tenth of a mile, so by my estimation I scored 20 home runs. 
The sistahood (sister-in-law’s Jane and Jill) are bonded by more than family, same age (within months), and hours and hours of training and partaking in exercise events that sometimes requires kicking and fussing (think open water swimming) to get to the start line. The sistas are bonded by a twinge of madness that includes never saying never — from ultra distance inline skating, bicycling touring the northeast, triathlons, duathlons, marathon running, or just running for donuts. 
Walking with a backward lean made it apparent we were descending from an unusually steep mountain. We posed at each intersection photo-bombing ourselves into side streets that rose to the clouds or dropped to the sea, all the time marveling at the cyclist commuters taking on the uphill challenge barely sweating. No doubt San Francisco cyclists are equipped with twin-engine quads and an extra set of lungs. 
Two lines of cars waited in formation, and we tucked our bicycles behind a Hummer and in the lee of a cement truck that partially blocked 30 knot winds from the south. A Hatteras Island Ferry official approached wearing a jacket with the words ‘Security’ and asked us for ID’s. Satisfied after comparing faces to driver licenses he then asked if we were aware of the winds. 
By a leisurely 8:30 am we hit the bicycle trail that ran parallel to Route 12 and headed south from Corolla. Winds blew strong from the south – at least 25 knots, and the beauty of riding into the winds meant we would finish our loopy ride with a tailwind. The bicycle trails twist and turn among giant sand dunes that resemble small hills, and weave through crooked low-lying trees and brush — the Outer Banks version of Florida mangroves — which protect this delicate sandbar from hurricanes and storms. When the trails meandered closer to the Sound-side, we soaked in spectacular sights of a vast waterway, tall sea grass and the occasional blue heron. As we neared Kitty Hawk, we caught a glimpse of the ocean where the dunes were short, and beach access included ocean views. We rode past a street corner garnished with yellow bricks, and on top of those bricks sat two ruby slippers, and we bonded with a ‘no place like home’ vibe. 
Lodging is cheap in Corolla NC; free hot cookies are available at the hotel, roads are empty, bicycle trails are empty and the routes for riding are unlimited. We began our ride 5 miles north of Duck, and headed north along Route 12 following what appeared to be a bicycle trail. Then, we deliberately got lost. 
Plain Jane Plain Talk 