Ah, Internet. I had planned to keep something from you out of mostly superstitious reasons, but it turns out that I’m not very good at keeping secrets. Just ask my mom…she hasn’t let me forget the Christmas years and years ago where I watched her wrap all of my brother’s gifts and then ran to tell him that he was getting the toy car that shot a smaller car into a brick wall. Does anyone else remember that? It was awesome! I just knew that Matt needed to know about it right then and there. Mom hasn’t let me into the what’s-in-the-box loop since. It’s probably a good thing.
I’ve managed to keep this secret a secret for almost a week. It’s getting complicated, however, because any time I see someone IRL they ask a question that requires either unsecreting the secret or lying to protect it. If there’s anything I’m worse at than keeping secrets, it’s lying. “Why yes, Sassafras, that KU shirt fits you perfectly. No, it wasn’t intended for a small dog and not an extra large cat.” (*insert shifty eyes here*) (Sidenote: Yes, the cat has a KU shirt. Scott and Sassy watch KU games together. I’m not sure that she’s really interested in basketball, but she’ll hang out anywhere there’s a chance at getting attention. I found the forgotten shirt in a drawer and discovered — much to my amusement and her dismay — that it didn’t fit. Oh, so funny. I gave her a treat to make up for the psychological torment.) Where was I? Oh, yeah. I tell the actual, I-can-see-you-and-talk-to-you peoples the secret. But then, in a worlds collide moment, I ran into a blog friend (I’m lookin’ at you…Mr. Gettys!) in the real world and he asked the question and I told him the secret and then…durn it…it seemed like if I was telling one blog friend I might as well just tell them all (and the rest of the Internet while I’m at it) and cast my superstitious thoughts to the wind. Because after all, if I cannot finish the stupid thing after three tries I really have no business having a running blog at all.
*takes breath* I have registered myself for a(nother) marathon. This marathon was chosen because (1) it’s on a flat course, (2) with 25 days to the start, it gives me enough time to build up to one last confidence-building 20-miler and still have some left over to taper, (3) it’s edging into spring but not summer, (4) it includes the word “shamrock,” and at this stage of the game I’ll accept any and every good omen I can, and (5) I already have a green racing outfit, which will be just perfect for a marathon near St. Patrick’s Day.
Figured it out? It’s the Shamrock Marathon in Virginia Beach. I had settled on it after much musing and a few conversations with the Marathon Expert. You didn’t really think I’d give up, did you? (Don’t answer that.) No, it was pretty clear that I was going to RUN 26.2 MILES SOMEHOW, whether by enlisting in another race or going it alone. Once I settled on Virginia Beach, I’d planned on waiting until the last possible moment to register but fear of missing the registration limit won out over my personal paranoia of wanting to know precisely what the weather will be doing on race day. After unseasonable heat for the first attempt and unimaginable snow for the other, I feel like I should let the race directors know of my plans and warn other participants:
CAUTION. MEGAN IS ATTEMPTING TO RUN THIS MARATHON. PLEASE BEGIN PREPARATION FOR IMPROBABLE WEATHER EVENTS.
(Best guesses include an out-of-season hurricane, a tornado, or a plague of locusts.)
The marathon is March 21. In the spirit of full disclosure, a few words about training: last week, we ran a little over 16 miles. It was supposed to be 17, but I was grumpy because of best-left-undiscussed stomach issues (ugh) and talked ME into shortening it. This week it’s 20, mostly because it’s been awhile since I did a long long run and I’d feel better about this whole undertaking with a 20-miler in the less distant past. The final two weeks will renew the taper, mostly because the whole two-weeks-to-taper thing seemed to work so well for my legs last time but also because it will be 23 weeks of marathon training and dang it, I’m tired.
Whew. It feels better to get that off my chest. And…here we go again. (Please…please…PLEASE let this one end with a finisher’s medal.)