That's why they call it the Peeyew-get Sound!

This morning I woke up at 8, drank a latte, ate a muffin, charged my iPod and threw on my running clothes. I was geared up and ready for a decent-sized run. At least five miles. I had the whole day ahead of me and I was actually looking forward to it.

Half a mile in, I was feeling great. Not tired. Not bored. Not too hot. There was a nice breeze. The water was sparkling. This was going to be a good run.

As I ran along the back side of Alki, around the other end of the point, I admired all the waterfront homes. Checking out fancy houses is one of my favorite parts of running. Helps take your mind off the ghastly physical exertion. Like a podcast, but for the eyes.

But the good vibes didn't last. About two miles into the run, there's a small park that breaks up the otherwise long stretch of waterfront homes. As I approached it, houses no longer sheltering me from the Puget Sound, I was hit with a hot wave of fishy, sulfuric swamp stench. It nearly knocked me over.

Image by John Murphy via Wikimedia Commons

Now, I grew up around the Puget Sound. I decorated my sandcastles with slimey green seaweed. I petted sea anemones at Camp Casey. I accidentally stepped on a dead seagull with bare feet on TWO SEPARATE OCCASIONS. The point being, I am completely familiar with the brackish saltwater smell. What I experienced today was on a whole different level.

Whatever the cause—perhaps a bunch of dead shrimp baking in the low-tide sunshine—my body had an instantaneous reaction. It went into complete survival mode. Before I had time to think, I was dry heaving like a bloated labrador. With each step forward, I dry heaved harder. Running made it worse. I needed to regain control. I stopped and pulled over to the side of the path.

I couldn't believe that I couldn't get it together. I have a strong stomach. I almost never throw up. Maybe twice in the past decade. I'm one of those people who will feel sick but can't throw up. But today, I came close.

Unable to continue, I turned around (still dry heaving) and hobbled back down the street until I was safely sheltered by the fine West Seattle real estate. Alas, my run would have to be cut short. At least my abs got a workout.

Toodledoo,
Margaret

P.S. I learned today that in Scotland they refer to dry heaving has 'having the dry boke'.