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.
*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.