So I've all but given up on the grandiose notion that I'd be able to head into Brooklyn this weekend, rock out a 1:23, and coast into the NYC Marathon. Frankly I have no idea what the hell I was thinking. Maybe I figured I could use magic? Or drink unicorn blood until I was Keyan? Who knows. In retrospect it seems one part bad math, one part underestimating how difficult a half marathon is, and one part being completely and totally full of myself - maybe even two and a half parts of that.
Even if a glimmer of hope still existed, I'm so sore from my first softball game of the year - ON MONDAY! Which reminds me...when did I become old? Four days later and I'm still so sore that sleeping hurts.
I'm still going to run it - not because there's part of me that thinks there's still a chance, there really isn't. But there's something distinctly refreshing about making a ridiculous claim, realizing there's no backing it up, and then running until I vomit. We can only hope that while I'm laying semi-concious on the side of Ocean Parkway, the aubulence drivers will let me hit the siren. WoooooooWooooooooWoooooo!!!