One morning in May, I woke up all excited ready to tackle my next 5k. I had a plan of attack and was ready to kick this 5K in the ass!!
Somewhere along the path, I unknowingly took a wrong turn---of course I say I
"took a wrong turn" but really I yelled at some dude, "hey! is this the 5K turn around?" he screamed back, "Yes"--so yea, I took a
"wrong turn." 3miles down the
"5k turn around" the thought passed through my mind, "Crap, Kristin, you are far-far away from the finish line. right? I mean-this isn't getting any closer to the finish line. Shit, Kristin, you have to go back the way you came. Holy crap, where's the damn finish line?"
I saw another runner, I waited for her to catch up to me, and asked, "where's the freaking finish? She goes, "sweetie this is the 10k path we are only at the half way point!"
I was so mad. I wanted to find that dude and kick him in the face with my blistered feet.
I ended up running a stupid 10k. I was mad-I was REALLY mad. I said every bad word, I could think of....I wasn't mentally prepared for an additional 3miles. I thought about pushing men off their bikes, stealing the cops go-cart, and hiking up the hill, crossing 7th street and hiking myself back to the truck.
But dang-it. I didn't (stupid-stupid-stupid personal code of ethics.) I had blisters the size of half dollars on the back of my feet. OH! my feet felt like I had nails shoved through them. My lungs felt like I was trying to swim through quick sand. My body felt like I got the crap kicked out of me by bricks. And I was still so pissed off, I wanted to kill someone.
After the presentation of awards, I limped and waddled up to the announcer and sweetly explained, "I signed up for a 5k and ended up doing a 10k. Can I have a metal?"
I finished close to last, but still managed to beat my 5k pace. *sigh*
I still hate running. I mean I really-really hate running. I hate the physical act of running. But ya know what, I still tear up when I cross the stupid finish line!
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