saturday long run - big fire

ok, so saturday morning, we meet at 8:30 in front of the Temple Beth Israel's annex, at the corner of 38th and Shoal Creek.

DO NOT PARK IN THE TEMPLE'S PARKING LOT. the best thing to do is to head north on shoal creek a bit, and park in the neighborhoods on the streets to the right of shoal creek, just a block or two down.

we'll be running the "big fire" route. it's a popular route that a lot of groups run. there are mile markers on the road, and it's pretty easy - we'll head north on shoal creek, then turn around and come back. people can turn back at the 3, 4, or 5 mile marks, to give them a 6, 8, or 10 mile run.

i've always felt like this was an important run, probably because it was my first eight-mile run. if you think about it, the vast majority of runners will never run eight miles, limiting themselves to 5 and 10k's. so, it's an accomplishment, and an important step on the road to running a half marathon or marathon.

the name apparently originated with the ut track team. everyone always wants to know why it's called "big fire." i do know the answer, if anyone really cares, but i'd rather post two possible variations on the legend, both written late one night last year while watching too much television...

ok, just the one... running humor... not so good... and yes, i ripped off some of my own writing in it. it was like, 3 in the morning, and i was very tired...

see you saturday.


Big Fire 2.0 – The Shoal Creek Incident

The rental Buick turned onto a small side street and parked. Other people were parking, clad in a mix of shorts and long tights, long-sleeved and short-sleeved shirts. The only constants were the running shoes, and even those were varied in brand and color and stage of use.

Mulder got out of the car, stretched, and looked over the top of the car as his partner got out.

Got out.

Except she wasn’t getting out.

He ducked back down. His partner, Scully, was still laid back in her seat, her eyes hidden by the bill of her Nike running cap, her mouth hanging open. She was either dead, or she hated him.

“Mulder, I hate you. Why are we here? Why are we here at 5:30 in the morning? And just where the hell is here?”

“We’re here for a run, Scully, in beautiful Austin, Texas, on legendary Shoal Creek Avenue, site of the Shoal Creek Incident of 1983, known ‘round these here parts as ‘The Big Fire.’ The run starts at 6:00, and we need time to stretch. You’re a doctor – you wouldn’t want us to run 10 miles without stretching, would you?”

She pulled up her cap to stare at him. “This had better be good.”

They walked down the dark street towards a large group of runners gathering in front of a synagogue, and Mulder began to explain, mostly out of excitement, but partially to distract himself. Seeing Scully in a form-fitting running shirt, half-tights and running shoes made him uneasy. Or something.

“Before dawn on December 12, 1983, at about 6:30am, a group of runners from the University of Texas witnessed an event, a conflagration just over the creek bed that this road runs along. They all reported a sphere of colored lights moving erratically and soundlessly, tracking them for a few seconds of their run, and then exploding. Voila, the local legend of ‘Big Fire.’ This is Northern America’s Tunguska Event, Scully.”

“Mulder, the explosion over Tunguska in 1908, which was likely the result of a meteoroid exploding in the atmosphere, was reported all over the world. It was measured by seismographs across the Eurasian continent, barometers in Britain, and it lit night skies for days afterwards. There was physical evidence of the occurrence – two thousand square kilometers of leveled trees.

“But this… a fire in a creek bed? God, Mulder, this doesn’t even begin to compare. This is not in any way an X-file. And besides, being on such a small scale makes it all the more likely that there’s a simple, rational, unexciting explanation that doesn’t require me to be awake at this hour!”

The running group’s coach, an elfish woman in mittens and a knit hat, was singing out, “Hellewww” to get the attention of the runners.

“I would agree, Scully, but no one else knew about it because no one but runners are awake and outside at this hour. Furthermore, the eyewitness accounts that we do have set this event apart. You and I both know that supernatural events are often accompanied by strong olfactory sensations, like the scent of roses at visitations by saints or the Virgin Mary. Many of the runners reported a strong scent of alcohol that morning.

“Then there’s the cover-up. A couple of dozen runners that morning saw it, but clearly, the government and the local homeowner’s association doesn’t want anyone to know about it. How do you account for the fact that there have been no books written about it, no television shows? Or, what about the fact that all eight people from a separate running group out here that morning, that also witnessed the event, are now all dead?”

“Really?”

“Yes. OK, well, all eight were part of an 80 and over running group. And the youngest was actually 86… but you have to admit it’s odd that that person didn’t at least live to 96.

“But there’s more. Many of the runners today have no idea why the run is called ‘Big Fire.’ It’s as if their collective memories have been wiped clean using the same kind of technology the CIA was experimenting with in the mid 1970’s.

“And then there’s the gelatinous substance that distance runners began to ingest as a general practice in the years following the Big Fire Incident. It’s a substance that seems to have no basis in terrestrial chemistry, yet yields bizarre recuperative powers for those that consume it. It’s also completely impossible to clean off of clothing. Was it perhaps a part of the first kit of a downed spacecraft found by one of the runners, or even the silicon-based lifeblood of one of the deceased alien pilots, scientists, or flight attendants?

“Something happened out here, Scully.”

Scully gave an exasperated groan even as she warily eyed a man applying Vaseline to his nipples. “Mulder, you’re relying on stories told by runners, when everyone knows that runners are…” Some of the other runners looked at her curiously. She pulled Mulder aside and lowered her voice. “There are studies showing that runners, particularly marathoners, are notorious for their excessive alcohol consumption. Their extreme competitiveness often extends to drinking and storytelling. Marathon training groups have been known to build bonds that approach the cultish as they pursue the mythical ‘runner’s high,’ which are probably completely attributable to disproportionate endorphin and serotonin levels.

“Runners in one South Dakota group hydrate only with grain alcohol, and they ritually slaughter goats and marmots, all of which leaves them little time for any actual running.”

Mulder pulled away. “So just because these people are drunken fanatics exhibiting quasi-cultish behavior, you’re going to dismiss their testimony, testimony that may finally prove the existence of extraterrestrial life, sentient beings composed entirely of methane gas, or soul-sucking vampire dwarves from Sri Lanka? If so, Scully, then get the keys back out of the key box, and you can go back to Washington, where you can continue to be just another pawn of the shadow government’s policy to deceive, inveigle and obfuscate.”

“Oh, again with the deceiving, inveigling and obfuscating, Mulder.” She sighed and looked around as the runners began to move out. She would never be able to get back to sleep. And it was, if a bit chilly, going to be a nice morning. And nothing justifies pancakes like a long run. Mmm… pancakes and beer, she thought. She threw up her arms, and Mulder smiled.

They ran along tree-lined neighborhood streets, in a misty darkness that slowly and imperceptibly began to lift, indigo-tinted blackness losing itself to subdued shades of gray.

Around them, the melody of quiet, friendly conversation lilted lightly over the soft rhythm of running shoes that padded on pavement like brushes played lightly on a snare drum.

Within the first two to three minutes, there was a truly peaceful and transcendent moment where the approaching dawn seemed to gather its breath, and as the light began to assert itself, the shirts and skin of the people around them glowed briefly, beautifully, as if in moonlight, and she wondered if, perhaps, something supernatural was indeed at work here.

Mulder nudged Scully and pointed excitedly at the barest glint of metal through the trees in the creek bed below.

“Look, Scully! Probably an alien space helmet, or a part of their landing craft!”

Scully shook her head and rolled her eyes as he leapt over the curb into the grass and disappeared into the underbrush. She noticed a nearby runner watching quizzically at her.

“Um. He had to pee.”