A few days ago I wake in early morning from a vivid dream. Its story, lightly edited to protect the innocent:

An ultramarathon buddy is driving a huge van, not her usual car. With us are half a dozen people, including her kids plus other runner comrades and acquaintances. We are all planning to run somehow from Massanutten valley (aka the Fort Valley) to the top of Mount Whitney—that is, from Virginia to California, a geographical impossibility. We park illegally on Connecticut Avenue, a major local thoroughfare, and go into a convenience store. The scene jumps ahead to when we get back. A couple of passing cars have sideswiped our vehicle, but damage is minor and insurance will cover it. While my friend is talking to a policeman I phone home and my wife reminds me that it's our daughter's birthday and I need to be there for the event. We all get into the van. I'm driving and my friend is sitting in the far-back corner. After dithering and hesitating, finally I decide that I really must go home. I break the news that I won't be able to run with the group. My friend becomes incredibly sad and looks like she's about to cry. But she gets her emotions under control and tells me it's OK ...

... and then I wake up. Is this telling me that I need to pay attention to family duties and cut back on excessive training time? I don't think it's a psychic premonition that my friend is going to run Badwater, the legendary 135-mile ultramarathon that ends up on top of Mount Whitney!

^z - 2010-09-24