I just finished a glass of wine. The glass was preceded by: crackers, cheese, chocolates, garlic bread, spaghetti, stuffed olives, water and a 3-mile loop through the neighborhood. What?
I was hungry.
My marathon partners in crime are AJ and Lena. We're a killer trio. So far we've spent our Friday night at the grocery store and snagging a sweet deal on an ottoman at Furniture Row for Lena's sweet loft. We've spent the last 16 minutes contemplating the possible definitions of the phrase "sleep snake." Don't ask. We're sure to quite sure it's sexual.
We've also been discussing the race. The three of us ran a 20-mile training run together this spring, which resulted in very deep, detailed conversations about menstruation and a quick stop at the Dollar Store for a tub of vaseline for my chafing thighs. Running is neat.
On Sunday we all have one mission: break 4 hours. And we're all in varying states of trepidation. Lena's got a lingering cold. AJ's not sure she's feeling it. I'm just a wimp. But, goddammit, we're doing it, I say as I gulp another swig of red wine.
Putting the pressure on has made me nervous. A time goal is stressful. I've come to the conclusion that I need to break 4 hours or bomb it. I'd rather run a 4:30 than a 4:02. Two minutes. That's so close. At least I'd see a 4:30 coming. But those two minutes could come from anywhere. A trip to the port-o-potty. The walk through the water station. A stop to tie a shoe. I'd completely beat myself up over it.
So this is the goal: 3:59 or bomb, literally. And the plan for Sunday night? D-r-i-n-k. Whether it's celebratory drinking is to be determined. But the three of us will be busy doing it.