It’s 4:30 a.m. I’m watching a Hallmark Christmas movie (did I miss Thanksgiving again?) featuring a Santa who has lost his memory, an annoying elf and an overachieving family that has lost the true meaning of Christmas. How ever will it end? The suspense mounts.

I’m watching this because I am sporting Cracked Rib No. 3, a souvenir of Saturday’s race. Or maybe just bruised; it doesn’t hurt as much as the last couple of rounds. In any case, it’s hard to sleep lying down. So I’m propped up in a chair, waiting to see if finding Santa’s toy bag will spur his memory. Maybe this will be the Hallmark movie in which it doesn’t end in a sea of sugar plums. I am skeptical, given that Billy Bob Thornton is not portraying the jolly old elf.

My legs are revolting. I hurt all over. I ache from a weekend of no sleep. I hate running.

As I sit wondering why I ever thought this was a good idea, I reach the only possible conclusion:

I sign up for the next race.

Plenty of ribs where that one came from …