It occurs to me that the best use for this blog might be to aid the NYC Coroner's notes at my 11/5 autopsy.
After 15 miles today, the unexplained cuts, burns and bruises have multiplied. Seemingly unaffiliated body parts are all wrong, backwards and sting-y.
I do 15 miles the hard way--no headphones, eyes on the pavement, simmering 3-hour rage.
I waited for the highs but this was just the ol' 15 mile sober reckoning. That's fine.
One delightful highlight for others was when I started eating my quarter of a Clif Bar at the Oak St. curve, and discovered that I cannot chew and run simultaneously. Therefore, I kept a half chewed clump of oats in my cheek, like tobacco, for at least a mile, as it gradually drooled into oblivion.
And I cosmically apologize to the little Puerto Rican girl who was playing at my Mile 13 water fountain when I screeched to a halt, waited patiently for .5 seconds, then gave her the "what the??!!" hands and eyes. That water is for the suffering. Not those at play.
I wanted to stop this run, for real, several times, but just put myself in the race day mindset--you can't stop, jerk.
Probably should have thought about this period of life when each week would be a more-than-half-marathon.
As long as no one has any expectations of me in any other capacity of life for the next 7 weeks--we oughta make it. I may generously label my pre-existing conditions on my person with a Sharpie, pre-race, for Dr. Kay Scarpetta, whose expertise and attention I will posthumously savor.
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