End of a Hair a

Birds nest in a Bradford pare tree.

Hair today, gone tomorrow. My Tom Petty roadie endorsed haircut is no longer viable. Trail running barely allows you license to a whimsical pony tail when your 40th birthday is less than an Asian elephant's gestation period away. Without trail running, a pony tail at my age implies you are either starring in an episode of COPS or are a confident jazz saxophonist. Since my medical running ban continues and as there are no upcoming auditions for Jesus Christ Superstar or Hair, my 2 year  impersonation of Swamp People's "renegade alligator man" Bruce Mitchell has officially ended. For the moment, I am keeping the 26.2 tattoo, although I would be interested in any sketches which help me convert it into a picture of president Fillmore high-fiving a fish.

Bruce Mitchell alligator hunter.

Ryan McCarty trail runner.

Running with long hair feels a little tribal. You can imagine yourself, in a past era, chasing down an antelope or nimbly cornering a can of beef-a-roni, before dragging it back to your cave. Now, I am restricted to biking, swimming and the occasional elliptical. Getting a pony tail through a bike helmet requires ambidextrous fingers and creative cursing. In a police line up, its hard to distinguish a bun in a swim cap from a row of suspicious prophylactics. And, swear to Dr. Frank-N-Furter, with your front to the TV you never want to be whistled at by Lou Ferrigno on an elliptical in a gym.

Last look before the Wahlpocalypse.

After sporting a Lex Luther for 9 years, I started growing both my beard and hair out for my first trail marathon, Umstead 2011. I ran that race with a zipped off pair of convertible khaki pants and a long sleeved, plaid, vented Columbia fishing shirt. My beard was a beauty that boasted a holding capacity of over 28 ounces of rice crispy treat crumbs. I looked like a lumber jack and ran just as fast. I finished late in the standings, but I did win most likely to appear on a roll of paper towels. As I am not a big fan of abstinence, the beard soon succumbed to my wife's pleas and was dispensed with after just 4 short months. Somehow, in spite of local health ordnance and good taste the Kenny G locks held on until Saturday.

All that hair was hiding this beautiful face.

MRI is finally scheduled for Monday. Consult with the medicine man does not take place until April 9. On the bright side, June has been reviewed as one of the best months to wear a boot. I am still holding out for an allergic to wool socks diagnosis, but my faith is starting to waver. The pessimistic money is on a peroneal tear. In the mean time, I am getting much better at biking and hope to take the training wheels off soon. In an effort to feed my racing shirt addiction, I am signed up to work a double at aid station 1 for the Umstead 100 Saturday from 7:30pm-2:30am. Looking forward to seeing my more able bodied friends out there. Good luck fools. Hope to join you soon.

Special thanks to my wife Penny for the new hairdo and unbelievable patience with my serious, but not terminal Peter Pan syndrome. Thanks to you for reading my running blog about everything but running. CROSS TRAIN!

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