On the verge
For the past week, instead of becoming violently ill every time I think of next week’s race, I’m actually kind of excited.
It’s baffling.
For the past week, instead of becoming violently ill every time I think of this weekend’s race, I’m actually kind of excited. I’ve run a couple decent taper runs, I’m feeling pretty well-rested and my running group is just so darn encouraging it’s hard to get down on myself with the hundreds of “what ifs”: What if I get a cramp? What if I poo my pants? What if I can’t do it? What if I have to run by a grassy knoll?
I’m at the point where I think there’s a good chance I’ll make my goal and finish within 37min of my younger brother – b/w 1:55-1:59. But, if I don’t, I can honestly say I’ve never worked harder in training so I guess I won’t be upset -– of course, I wrote that last statement so I can come back and refer to it when I’m super pissed-off.
That said, my efforts to sabotage my brother’s race are in full effect, despite a close call at a recent family function where he walked in as I encouraged my snotty three-year old to drop a loogie in his Coke.
“Really sweetie, Uncle Mark will love it.”
Speaking of snot, I’ve spent the rest of my time lately trying to avoid my cold-infested family: Banishing myself to the guest room at night and prowling the house with a fire extinguisher filled with Purrell. Just to be extra safe I’ve engaged a high-level sanitation consultant. He’s advised me to avoid: my face, subway poles, telephones, chairs of any kind and all people. If I wasn’t a runner this would be termed agoraphobia. So, if you want to get in touch with me before Sunday I’m afraid you’ll have to send your message via carrier pigeon (but please be sure the pigeon has been exposed to a high-level ultra violet light). Tell me, is it wrong to air-hug your toddler?
Regardless of my best efforts, this time next week the whole thing will be over. If you’re running the course or out as a spectator, look for me and my running buddies in our CouchtoKenyan.com shirts. We’re lining up in the blue corrall.
Cross your fingers, this is going to be bigger than Marky Mark’s fake penis.
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