I, Pista-face, am not going to run it.
Unless! Unless sometime in the next three weeks I manage to pull a 5-miler out of my ass, and run it at an acceptable pace. "Acceptable," of course being a very gray area that accommodates a full-fledged limp set to a banshee yelp soundtrack.
I have a whole fleet of not-very athletic reasons why I think I might not run, a list that includes a lung curdling cold on Week 3 that spilled into Week 4 and then that wretched Homegrown Music Fest, which always mucks up anything not directly related to PBR and hippies going apeshit on ukes. Then there was Los Angeles, where I ran once on a treadmill built for walking and felt like the precious chunky preteen blundering through gym class (who will someday, however, blossom into a lovely woman) in a made-for-TV movie about diet pills and the horrors of sorority life.
I went inline skating yesterday on the Munger Trail, which was meh. A father on a Sunday bike cruise, yanking a toddler around on a little trailer made so much wind when he passed me, that I almost biffed on his hearty wake. Slow going. And not very far. If I can't even comfortably skate 10 miles, I should definitely consider donating my ankle bones to science, like, right now.
I don't want to not run it. I have just a shade too much pride for that. I just remember that feeling last year at Mile 4 of being totally over asphalt, Asics, Dixie Cups and smell of chafing cream at its boiling point. How I knew deep down that if I took four more strides, I might give birth to my own uterus on Scenic Hwy 61. How my guts felt like I'd swabbed them with Brawny.
That's. Not. Fun.
Of course, there is that Jenny O turkey sandwich at the finish line. And Dipping Dots really only taste good through a heavy mouth paste. And the insufferable "wearing of a finishers medal" for the next three days. And the excuse to make as much smell in one single pair of tube socks.