So it was New Year's Eve. Our mail that we had held while we were out of town arrived in one large lump sum. As we sifted through the bills, Christmas cards, and junk mail, I noticed a bright yellow flier for a 10k in Richmond. Apparently the race goes along some of Richmond's most beautiful streets, bands play along the route, the race raises money for cancer research, and runners often wear hilarious costumes (Chewbacca and Elvis in running shorts?? that's funny!).
As I read it I thought, "Man, this looks kind of fun. This would be really tough for me, but heck, it's almost a new year--I can do this! Freak, I bet I could even get Doug to do this. And come on, it's NEW YEAR'S EVE!!!"
And in our non-alcohol-induced-New-Year's-Eve intoxication, we agreed to do it together and to push each other the whole way.
So when I woke up New Year's Day and--I kid you not--immediately thought to myself, "Oh crap, I do NOT want to run a 10k," it was already too late. Doug was committed, and he was not going to let me talk myself out of it. GREAT.
For those of you that think a 10k (that's 6.2 miles, folks) is baby stuff, I applaud you. And I would love to know how I could trick you into running for me.
But for those of you out there that think running is an awful, twisted form of torture, please know that I am open to your ridicule, your scoffs, and your eye rollings. Because I think we're crazy too.
FYI... We started running a few weeks ago, and we're not dead yet. In fact, it feels kind of good. But we haven't gone even close to 6.2 miles yet, so there's still room to panic. 11 more weeks, to be exact (the race is March 28).