Tomorrow, oddly enough, I am running in my first ever race. It’s a 5K. Just over 3 miles. A measly, minor, scant, short distance. However, it is still the furthest I have ever run without my brother chasing me, and I am, predictably, spectacularly flipping out about it.
Granted, my adorably quirky manner of flipping out mainly involves the grim, silent repetition of obsessive behavior — no tantrums or screaming matches for this proper little WASPgrrrl. So unbecoming.
I spent much of yesterday refreshing the weather.com local radar screen, waiting for them to announce that the soaking rain and driving winds wouldn’t let up until Saturday afternoon. And that all outdoor activities had been strictly forbidden by the governor. Which would make it the first time our Mormon-face governor had done anything remotely in alignment with my wishes.
No dice — the forecast for tomorrow is still sunny and clear, a little windy, maybe, but pretty pleasant, all in all.
Then, the slight stiffness in my wrist I’ve been experiencing over the last couple of weeks flared up into actual pain (after a couple of marathon knitting sessions to finish a pair of socks I was sick of looking at — moral: don’t buy yarn you don’t want to make out with for the next month. This was some seriously grody acrylic dreck that I am so happy to see the last inch of. Bleck. Now back to sensuous, silky Noro yarns. oooh, baby yeah).
So I spent the last couple of days trying to figure out a way that a sore wrist could possibly exempt me from running 3 very slow miles with hundreds of other, infinitely faster people. I couldn’t think of anything, and my best friend only offered up embarrassing speculative stories about how I really injured my right wrist, through very different types of repetitive movement.
So I have filthy-minded friends, but still no alibi for the race tomorrow.
Let’s not forget that I have told my boss, my co-worker, my father, my friends, AND THE INTERNET that I would be sprinting down this particular primrose path tomorrow. Some of them have even professed an intention to watch the race.
Listen: if you plan on seeing me cross the finish line, I suggest you bring a book.
I also spent an unseemly and uncharacteristic amount of money on running shoes three months ago, with the expressly stated purpose of starting my running career, in this race, tomorrow. I filled out my entry form that very day.
So. Back to sublimating my frantic avoidance strategies through obsessive-compulsive behavior.
After lunch today I drove out to where the race is being held and drove the 3.1 mile loop about five or six times, just to get the feel of the place. OK, maybe a few more times than that. Maybe the dog-walkers in that particular neighborhood considered calling the cops, I was so clearly and ineptly casing the joint.
I have laid out my clothes. They are the exact same t-shirt, warm-up pants, and sports bra I have trained in since I bought the running shoes three months ago. Yes, they have been washed. At some point. In the last three months.
I have dithered over my choice of socks. (no logo, medium thickness, ankle height, white. These things matter.)
I have made arrangements to meet a friend who lives near the course and who has actually run this race before. Who has actually run any race before. She will brook no backing out.
Anyway, my Race Day Socks have been chosen. I consider that alone to be binding, and final.
Maybe I should check that radar screen one more time.