Tomorrow, Tomorrow
And so, the Week of the Marathon begins with the final calm before the storm.
I’m having flashbacks to high school when I ran long distance in track. The two events I consistently did were the 1600 meters (one-mile) and 3200 meters (two-mile) runs. Anything less than 800 meters is called a dash; and what I did was definitely not a dash.
There was always a set order of races (except for Rolla, but I’m trying to limit the number of flashbacks and inside jokes here). The two-mile would be run in the middle, and an hour later the mile-run would be the second to last event (before the 4 X 4 relay – fortunately I knew people who always ran this event, so I knew there’d still be a small crowd watching me run).
I have long admitted that I did track to hang out with friends. I had little natural talent in racing, other than the tenacity to finish the hellishly long race. Joking around with friends was the high point of all practices; even the ones where I felt reduced to a quivering blob of barely conscious jelly.
When faced with competition, where the main goal wasn’t cracking the best joke or cutting through the highest number of sprinklers, I had less fun. I did my best to cheer for my friends and teammates (even if you didn’t along with a person, one could always yell, “Go Sullivan!” and sincerely mean it [you could probably yell, “I hope you die a gruesome, horrifying death involving poisonous snakes, crocodiles, and razor edged bumper cars!” and it’d probably be drowned out in the crowd too, but that wouldn’t build team spirit {and you’d be very winded by the time you get to the end of it too}]).
However, when my race time(s) approached I’d get more nervous and/or hope for rain (which only occasionally came to my aid). I knew by the end of a race, I’d be pumped up again thanks to the feel-good endorphins produced by attempting to half-run your self to death. I also had the confidence my friends would support me and tell me “Good race” regardless of how I performed. Also, my standards were so low my coach never expected killer finishes from me, so I was never chewed out for my (lack of) results.
As I review the time left for me between now and my starting time tomorrow, I feel the old anxiousness as well as a new feeling of eagerness.
Maybe it’s the fact I won’t have to worry about a churning stomach or a pre-race diet consisting of nothing but Ramen noodles, but part of me is looking forward to this.
After “training” all season for this final “race,” I want to get out there and showcase my best form.
I’ve done 4 other “practice” loops finding the best route, order, and approach to the pickup. I’ve had “test runs” where I worked to get 500 traps picked up in 5 days (with a three day rest in between the first 300 and final 200), but I know what happens in practice is meaningless compared to what appears on the final stopwatch.
Part of me wants to start early, but I’m bending the rules enough as it is starting Monday. Technically I’m not supposed to start picking up traps until after August 4, but my boss is letting it slide.
The alternative of working 13 hours a day, or over Saturday, or condemning somebody else to try to decipher my handwriting isn’t appealing to him.
No, this is my run.
I know this will drive me crazy, I realize my sleeping habits are going to go nuts, and when I’m going to find time to pack for this Saturday it currently beyond me.
Still it ought to be one interesting attempt with a record-setting pace. Last year I averaged 70 traps a 9-hour day.
Currently I can get that much done in roughly 6 hours.
I think I’m both bragging on myself and trying to psych myself up for tomorrow.
Funny thing, once you leave school behind, it’s a much rarer thing to be cheered on by a large, supportive crowd (and for the few who still get to enjoy that, the venue sometimes changes to a court room and that puts a damper on things [insert_your_own_joke_about_a_fallen_from_grace_sports_star_here_]).
Regardless of the presence of teeming fans or not…
Screw it. I’ll stick with the truth here.
Though there will be no teeming fans, I am looking forward to the task I’ve set before myself. I may not be in the contest for a trophy, medal, or, heck, even a lousy plaque, but I still have heart and a love of the game.
My time may be running out, and the odds still may be bleak, but let me end with a final word to my opponents: the gypsy moths of Franklin and Washington counties.
The Week of the Marathon may have started with only a cool breeze, but I promise you the hurricane like winds of our Day of Reckoning start bellowing TOMORROW!
I’ll see you THEN!!!!!!!
Yes, I worked that metaphor to death. So sue me.
It’s not easy striking fear into the tiny hearts of little bugs.
But it’s all in a day’s work; tomorrow, tomorrow.
'Sing_it_Annie'
