I’ve got a whole process when I fly, one I’ve honed over the course of 15 months of regular and fairly frequent solo air travel. Before last year, it had been a decade plus since I’d flown anywhere alone, but this year, with Andrew in Alabama for flight school, I’ve embarked on solo flights to California, Colorado, Florida, Texas, Atlanta and, of course, Alabama. My process is nearly flawless. I know to put all my liquid or gel toiletries in a little plastic bag that must be in a bin, not in my bag, and I’ve learned to grab the three bins I’ll need right from the get-go and stack them, one on top of the other, as I add my toiletry bag, shoes, jacket, laptop and purse to them,which saves space for the people behind me. I know to stash my carry-on suitcase in the overhead with the wheels or handle facing out and I know, on smaller planes, that there’s a side that fits suitcases that way, the right way, and one that doesn’t. I always have something to read before electronic devices are allowed, and I almost always have my kindle to read once the plane reaches cruising altitude.

So, when I flew to Texas back in September, I was ready. I sat down, in my aisle seat, next to a JetBlue pilot who I’d later learn was flying to Albuquerque to visit friends. I pulled out the issue of Runner’s World I’d been flipping through by the gate before boarding, tucked my kindle under my leg, buckled my seatbelt and started reading my magazine. The pilot next to me saw my Runner’s World and asked if I was a runner and I said yes, without too much hesitation this time and, after learning that he’s also a runner, one who was training to qualify to run the Boston Marathon in April, we talked for the next three and a half hours, ceasing only when the plane landed in Dallas and we headed in separate directions at the gate.

And that, right there, is why I really like this running thing. Runners are, generally, just really fucking phenomenal people.

I’ve never actually wanted to talk to anyone on an airplane before. Ever. I don’t chat on airplanes, period, and yet, for an entire flight, one that took me halfway across the country, there I was happily talking to a stranger about all things running and then, when we had exhausted talk about our race experiences and our running bucket lists and which shoes we wear and how great good running socks are and after I asked him all about what Richmond races he runs or has run and after we shared how we got into running in the first place, he in 2003 and me much more recently, we talked about pets, because if there’s anything I love it’s talking about my animal hoard.

Turns out, my in-flight running buddy has an even bigger animal hoard than I’ve got, which immediately impressed me, and he and his wife don’t have kids and think of their cats and dogs and birds as their kids, which HELLO – THAT’S MY LIFE. And so then we shared photos of our critters, trading stories about bottle-feeding kitties, dog shenanigans and living a critter-filled life.

The more I get into this running thing the more I realize how incredible runners are – there’s this whole community and I could compare my in-flight conversations with this man to my experience attending Bloggers in Sin City because, once we established we had a commonality, we were set. Running, much like blogging or internet living at BiSC, was enough to generate conversation for multiple hours and establish a friendship.

The craziest thing about my conversation with this runner friend, was that talking with him made me want to a marathon. I said, not that long ago, that I would never run a marathon, that 26.2 miles is just REALLY FUCKING FAR and that half marathons are a lovely challenge and that going for 20 mile training runs sounded like actual torture, but, two things happened that made all of that seem like a lot of whiny bullshit:

First, I ran my third Spartan Race, and I was fresh from that experience as I flew to Texas, having only completed that race a few days before. That shit took me five hours and I realized, at the top of a ridiculous mountain, about 4.5 hours in, that running a marathon would take me about five hours and that if I could huff and puff up and down double black diamond ski slopes, sans snow, I could also spend five or so hours running because I tend to enjoy running a whole fuck of a lot more than I enjoy climbing up actual mountains.

Second, talking to that man for three and a half hours and hearing about his marathon experiences made me want one of my own and, when we talked about it, he encouraged me to do it. He’s a coach for the Richmond Marathon training team and told me he knew I could do it, had absolutely no doubts about it, and that he’d love to see me run the Richmond Marathon next year.

So there it is.  I want to run a marathon.