What the Bloody Hell Was I Thinking?
I picked up my race packet today, filled with needlessly wasted paper, some "energy food" gimmes, my very own Livestrong bracelet (proudly made in China) and my t-shirt/race number. Ooh, I also got a timing chip that I must return either after the race or mail back or else get smacked with a $30 lost chip fee. Didn't know we were all to get chips, but, hey, guess that means this race is some kind of real deal, huh?

After all, what the hell was I thinking even entering this race in the first place? (Ooh, maybe I'll get a nifty t-shirt, is what I was thinking, Gentle Reader.) I must be certifiable if I think I can run all that. Because doing a 7.25 to 7.5 miles on a treadmill is one thing; doing less than that out of doors on pavement of varying quality, breathing in air of varying quality--that's totally different.
Yep, I'm f'in nuts. Totally gone.
I keep telling myself I'll be able to do it just fine if I remember to pace myself. Yeah, right! I've never paced myself in anything. I'm notoriously impatient. I was notoriously impatient during my first 5K: The only reason I finished in the top 50 was that I wanted to get the race over and done with so I could go home. And that's honestly how I'll be approaching Sunday's race: All right, let's just get this over with already! That's not exactly a strategy endorsed by Runner's World.
Ugh.
Well, if I can get the boy or one of the feline kids to cooperate, I'll get pictures of my spiffy (and ultra-disposable) t-shirt uploaded. But don't hold your breath on that, Gentle Reader.
UPDATE
After initially turning me down--even after I pleaded with sugar and sprinkles on top--the boy finally acquiesced and donned my jersey for Sunday.



(He makes a spiffy model, don't he? He's got that "I'm so above this" look models wear down pat.)
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