The Official Pre-Grandma's-Marathon Rituals

Things we do pre-Grandma’s Marathon:

• Stop on the drive up at Pump-N-Munch.  Because it’s called “Pump-N-Munch.”

• Argue with C. about exactly how much sh*t I should give to triathletes (answer: as much as I feel like).

• Paint the nails.  Because it helps. The less red-or-pink, the better.

• Go to Pizza Luce and fill one’s stomach with delicious noodles and veggie-balls.  Because eating meat pre-race = yuck-fest 2011.

• Go to the race expo and discover that no one gives out free gels/Clif bars/BodyGlide/sunblock/Gatorade anymore.  <shakes fist at sky>  DAMN YOU, PROLONGED ECONOMIC DOWNTURN!

• Arrive at University of Minnesota-Duluth dorms to check in, to discover food-fest 2011 in the basement, complete with bagels, bananas, chips, pretzels, and M&M cookies.  M&M cookies, people.  Free M&M cookies.

• Listen to this local northern Minnesotan fellow behind me as he gives his card to another woman.  Because two reasons: (1) no matter how many times you have seen Fargo, you are incapable of capturing the awesomeness of the way a Minnesotan says the word “carrrrrrd.”* And (2) because this is Minnesota and NOT D.C., the woman answered not, “Oh, thanks,” but rather, “Ohhhhh look who has a carrrrrrrrrd!”…with a tone of voice that District residents usually use to say, “Ohhhh, look who got a fourth mani-pedi this week!”

• Listen to C. go on about how he is nervous about tomorrow’s race.  “Maybe I should just focus on running!” he says.  “Maybe I should just quit triathlons!  It has robbed me of the pure, beautiful love I once had for running!  O God, I see the error of my ways!”  “Shhhhh, I know,” I say, rubbing his head as he curls into a ball on his bed.  “You can still change.”  He sniffles.  “It’s not your fault,” I say.  He stubbornly holds back his tears.  “It’s not your fault,” I say.  He backs away slightly and sniffles again.  “It’s not your fault,” I repeat, more emphatically.  This continues, until we have an emotional breakthrough.  Life is beautiful.

OK, that’s all I got.  Wrap-up to come tomorrow.

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*OK, and let me add that, honestly, no matter how many times you have seen Fargo, your accent is honestly — honestly — the most grating thing I have ever heard.  No, honestly.  So the next time I tell you I used to live in Minnesota and you answer with, “Oh, yah, sure, you betcha,” or, “It’s OK, I just think I’m gonna barrrrrrf,” or whatever, I cannot be judged for jamming a cheese curd up your nose.  I mean, do I come to Maryland and prance around, talking about this weekend’s regatta and getting the help to cook up some crabs and refusing to learn how to drive correctly?  No.  No I do not.

Wait, what?  You don’t know what a cheese curd is?  Blaaaaahahahaha STAYOUTOFMYSTATE.