i’m sitting in the emergency room. it’s about 1 a.m., and i can only think about one thing: am i going to get out of here in time for the race?

i’d been deathly sick for a week, but talked mo into thinking i’d be ok for the race. i figured i could fake my way through it and spend the rest of the weekend recovering.

instead, here we are.

the room makes me think of racing. there’s a sign on the wall giving the stages of pain, moving slowly from a smiley face to weeping openly. i’m thinking this would make a great pace band for a 10k.

they even have a supply of wrist bands marked “fall risk,” my longtime trail-running nickname. it’s like the room has been personalized for me.

the doctor comes in and gives me the once-over. he says i have blah blah and he gives me blah blah and i should watch out for blah blah. this explains why i’ve been feeling blah. the nurse tells me i will be able to play piano again (seriously) and i regret having invested solely in guitars over the years.

a couple of hours and $14,000 later, we get home about 3 a.m. I realize the mustache run will have to wait another year. i take some drugs and pretend i will go to bed eventually. i miss running. i begin plotting what it will take to get the ok from mo to head out again.

because there’s no such thing as just another run …