It struck me last night at about 3 AM, as I for the 9 billionth time re-wedged my 5’8″ frame into the 3’8″ of makeshift sleeping space of the two seats allotted to me on my 10-hour overnight train voyage from DC to Boston while the mucous-factory-Asian-woman across the aisle spread her pathogens generously throughout the car with her window-rattling coughs and snorts and the wiry men throughout the car prepped for THEIR Boston-Marathon experience by alternately snoring as loudly as possible and calling their sweethearts to blather about how fast THEY would run the race and how prepared THEY were, what with their 4 weekly 20-milers they’ve all been doing since the 4th grade and the powerglide they’ve been applying and also eating, just to prevent chafing inside AND out, because they are hardcore and …
<cue freakout in 3…2…>
…anyway, it really did strike me that this might be a terrible idea. I’ve been injured and I’m not even really sure that that run the other weekend was quite 19 miles. It might have been more like 17 or 18. And I feel fat. And I feel like I’ve forgotten how to marathon. And I feel slow and lazy. And honestly kind of pimply.
So there is the very real chance that I might blow this. Which leads me to my new philosophy:
You can’t blow it if you’re not really trying.
Yeah. That’s right. I’m going to drag my (awesome) corral-10 ass back to the rear of Wave 1 and dilly-dally for 26 miles and have a FREAKING AMAZING TIME DOING IT. I will make running friends. I will wave at the Citgo sign. I will kiss a Wellesley girl. I will proposition a BU frat boy. I will lick the face of a Gatorade-distribution volunteer. I will pee on Fenway. I will dance on Sam Adams’ grave, because that sumbitch punched my grandma once. And it will not take me one second shorter than four hours, I promise you that.
Yeah, still nervous.