When Mo put the wedding ring on my finger way back when, she said something about till death do we part. Or Seth Bonaparte. I’m not sure. My hearing was never the same after an unfortunate seating choice at a Crazy Horse concert back in the ’80s.

Apparently, I died somewhere along the race course this weekend, because my ring and I parted.

I remember sitting in the car before the race. I contemplated whether I should wear it during the race. On the one hand, it’s kind of loose, particularly on icy days. And I had no feeling in my hands because of the frigid conditions.

On the other hand, it would be like bringing Mo along with me.

So, of course, I wore it. We have been through many adventures together. Several times it has taken a dive when I wasn’t looking, but it always made a little clang so that I could retrieve it. Until this time.

I purposely got the ring too big because I run so much in the heat. My fingers become little sausages, and if the ring fits normally otherwise, it’s impossible to wear while running when it’s crazy hot.

I found out this weekend that it’s impossible to wear while running when it’s crazy cold as well.

The jeweler who sold me the ring predicted I would lose it within a week. I proved him wrong by 11 years or so.

Oh, well. If one has to lose a ring, I suppose this was the perfect place. A gorgeous trail in a spiritual place in a beautiful part of Texas. I’m sure it will be happy in its new home.

Mo took the news pretty well, saying something about how her next hubby likely won’t be such a goofball. Mo’s OK.

But mostly, I’m typing while i look at my left hand where my ring used to be. I miss it. Maybe I’ll be running Nueces next year, reach down to tie my shoe, and there it will be. Just sitting there waiting for me. Maybe sock monkeys will fly out of my butt.

Oh, well. Bye, ring. I’m sorry.

Please say hi to Seth Bonaparte for me …