Dang it. Dang it all to heck. Dang it all straight to heck in a fecking jacquard hand-basket with gross-grain ribbon.
It’s that time of year again. That time of year when Runner’s World magazine starts advertising for The Marine Corps Marathon.
Fecking feck feckers.
Now comes my mental game of Badminton (I’m not sporty enough for tennis…not even in my head) trying to decide: “should I enter?” “should I pretend That Race doesn’t even exist?”
I do this every. damn. year.
Having entered twice, DNF’d twice, experienced the soul-crushing wait for the metro without a medal twice, you’d think I’d just quit worrying about it. You’d think I’d just decide: sign up or don’t.
Can I afford to fail a third time? The Metro ride to Pentagon Station at 5am…the back-of-the-pack wait (so far back, I don’t hear the National Anthem and the Howitzer sounds like a poodle fart)…
…and the guy who points at me, he at mile 8, me at mile 3 (bloody knees from having tripped on a discarded sweatshirt and already crying) before the turnaround in Georgetown, “See that? That lard-ass just made my day.”
I don’t know if I can do that again.
Yes, I can.
No, I can’t.
Yes. No. Y-
I’ve finished a full 26.2 before, so to do this one, I just need to get faster. I need to commit to my training. I need to focus and train and believe.
“I do believe in fairies. I do believe in fairies. I do b-.”
Registration is at least $85. Plus gas, food, time…so what’s more costly? Not even trying and being pissed for another year? trying and failing again?
Son of a biscuit eater. I fecking hate this time of year.