We walk into the running store, and there they are.
A man and a woman are sitting at a long table with a stack of race bibs. My Pavlovian reflexes, long set in their ways, kick into overdrive.
They’re yakking with a runner who is signing up, so I’m able to peek without having to resort to conversation. It’s a 5k tomorrow. $30, no shirts left, too hot to race worth a damn and I am so tired I can barely walk around in the store. Naturally, my instinct is to sign up.
Mo rolls her eyes, having gone through this drill way too many times. I wonder how I can scrounge up enough cash. Then it hits me. WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING???
I realize what Scott Weiland must feel like walking through an alley, minding his own business, when he happens upon a kid with a homemade heroin stand. Just so hard to resist.
But resist I do. I buy some Body Glide and pretend to look around while taking one last whiff of goody bags and safety pins.
I walk out still wondering if I should have pulled the trigger.
Then we go to the track, where I proceed to totally melt down for three miles, barely trudging through three miles in the mandatory sub-15 miles required under the Rules of Rocky.
As I finish, I think, good lord I’m so glad I’m not signed up for a 5k race in 12 hours that I doubt I could even finish.
And then I think, damn. I wish I were doing it.
Running is funny.
3 miles, track (84)
13:00, 14:55, 14:54