I’m a runner in the same way a stripper is a dancer: I talk a good game about all the hard work, dedication, and training, but underneath it all, I know what I am.
It’s not that I don’t like running. It’s that I hate it.
Which is why it only made sense to register for this October’s Army Ten-Miler at the Pentagon. I’ve run this race three times before (and by “run” I mean “walk,” and by “walk” I mean “stagger”), but the last time was one kid ago—long enough that memories of the bad stuff (i.e., miles 3-10) have faded.
Still, I’m a little nervous about this one. I’m not worried I won’t finish (slow or not, I’ll eventually get there). It’s that I don’t know where to puke from exhaustion once it’s all over.
See, pre-9/11, the Washington, DC, Metro system had regular trashcans on each subway platform. And let’s say, hypothetically, a faux-runner had just finished her first Ten-Miler, was riding the train back to Maryland, and suddenly had to retch.
Let’s just say.
In the old days, a short crawl off the train at the Friendship Heights stop in the District (again, this is purely hypothetical) would lead said runner straight into the arms of a large, open trash bin, where she could heave with relative ease.
But no more.
Because of the threat of concealed explosives and other nefarious things, Metro’s old trashcans are long gone, replaced by high-tech, explosive-containing bins.
Throwing up in them wouldn’t feel right.
So these days, as I continue prepping for the race, a big part of my regimen will be mapping out a safe spot to get sick when it’s all over—kind of like Superman looking for a phone booth.
Too bad they don’t make those anymore. It would’ve been perfect.
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