I'm in Portugal at the moment, staying in this tiny fishing village about two hours south of Lisbon. (Don't hate - it's unbecoming.)

I was excited for the trip not only to visit a bunch of extended family and help grandma celebrate her 80th birthday, but also to try a bit of training that's supposed to be soothing for tight IT band legs: beach running.

So this morning I woke up early, laced up, and hit the sand. It was magnificent! I ran at low tide near the shoreline (flatter sand), and the light, the forgiving surface and the salt air really made a big, positive difference.

After two kilometers I was convinced that all running, from now on, should be beach running...but then the wind kicked up.

Millions upon millions of sand grains were suddenly airborne, exfoliating my face, neck, arms and shins. I turned to scamper home and suffered the stabs of tiny knives in my calves for the next 15 minutes.

It was like a scene out of Spiderman 3. You know, when Thomas Haden Church's character turns into Sandman and tries to annihilate Spidey with sand power?

Spiderman fought back admirably, and triumphs in the end, sure. But see, I'm wayyyyy more of a Peter Parker than a Spiderman.

And Peter Parker's the kind of guy who, whether in New York City or a small Portuguese village, will do his future running in parks.