The drive to Duluth is long. Really, really long.
It's particularly long when you're alone in the backseat of a Jeep Wrangler for all five-and-a-half hours, and the ride is bumpy and you can't quite stretch out your legs in a way that resembles comfort.
Obviously I did as any 32-year-old adult woman would do and staged photos with my best friends.
Don't ask questions. Just accept me as I am.
My parents and I chatted, we laughed about inane things, we stopped for lunch (where I proceeded to eat Taco John's on the day before a marathon, as is intestinally responsible), I searched the sky for bald eagles (sure, why not?).
It was truly like being a child again. Me in the backseat, mom and dad up front. My sister was missing, but I feel like I held down the fort pretty well.
Twitter kept me entertained for hours. Literally. All of them.
At some point along the drive (12:58 p.m., according to Twitter), my dad spoke up.
"Three twenty-nine oh-seven," he said from the driver's seat.
Neither my mom nor I heard him, exactly, and asked him to clarify.
"That's my prediction," he replied. "Three hours, 29 minutes and seven seconds."
Awww, father. That's precious. He was predicting I'd finish the marathon in 3:29:07. I laughed at him and his prediction, admitting that, while it'd be amazing, that's simply crazy talk. Thanks, though! If you can't believe in your own child, what can you believe in, really?
If every single moment of every single step of every single mile went perfectly, I would finish that marathon in three hours and 33 minutes. That's what I believed in.
I documented the brief moment of fatherly confidence, and moved on to other matters, such as photographing road signs and Taco John's receipts, while contemplating the powers of glitter nail polish.
I ran Grandma's Marathon the next morning, as you know, and it was okay. Obviously it ended more than okay, but it started just okay. There were some middle miles that left me uneasy as my knee began acting up, and I considered the very real possibility that this was going to tank quickly. It didn't, I executed my pace plan to a goddamned tee, and finished that marathon.
Afterward, as we were sitting in the grass, my dad perked up just as I began reading tweets.
"I was one second off," he said, proudly.
It took me a second, but then it dawned on me as I continued to sift through Twitter messages.
MY DAD IS A WIZARD.