Monday, September 19, 2005

We are the Champions, My Friend


I rocked the 16 this weekend. I killed the 16. I destroyed the 16. I triumphed over the 16 with no more than a little grit, some cheap running shoes, and sufficient hydration.

I came back strong, kids. On race day, I will be ready. Thanks to my dad, who gave me some much-needed advice (that I didn't want to listen to) and Fergus, who gave me the kind of long-distance high five I needed to keep trying and not give up. Which sounds corny, but kiss my ass, you cynical bastards -- 16 miles is a long way to run. It's the furthest I've ever run in me life. But I did it. I did it in the heat of the day, wearing crap gear and a weave that was three days past needing to be taken out. I did it even though I had been beaten the last two times I attempted it. I did it even though some thought I couldn't shift my bulk. I did it! I did it!

Sorry if I'm getting on your nerves here, but I was really anxious, readers. I didn't know if I had it in me, and my parents spent a lot of money on tickets to come see me run this race. I don't want to crap out halfway through. Nor do I want my overachieving brother to have any more ammunition against me.

Shit. Can you imagine how insufferable I am going to be when I finish the actual marathon? You should probably skip that post.

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