On the eve of the race: Ode to the Beacon

After all the talk and all the running and all the stupid photos - it's come down to this. The race. The actual race. As in, dang, I'd nearly forgotten there was a purpose to the yammering.

The Beach to Beacon is tomorrow morning. The gun goes off at 8:00 a.m., though runners will be lined up like cattle long before then.

But around 9:00 a.m. I'll likely be just nearing the finish line.

By 9:15 a.m. I'll be commenting to some random stranger, "I can't believe it's over." And I'll laugh, like I'm glad, but I'll probably feel a little sad, too.

By 9:30 a.m. the race will be a memory for most.

By 10:00 a.m. tomorrow I hope to be on a bus headed back to my car.

By 10:30 a.m. tomorrow I hope to be enjoying a celebratory (read: alcoholic) breakfast with friends (read: people I know who don't frown upon drinking alcohol at 10:30 a.m.).

But let's not get ahead of ourselves. It's still the eve of the race and I should be reveling in the anticipation. I should be taking stock of all the effort (and those few weeks when there was no effort at all) I've put in since April.

I should be saying that I'm confident, even if I'm not, because saying it sounds better.

But I am confident. No, really. I don't expect to break land speed records tomorrow, I just plan to finish. Maybe that sounds stupid, but I sure as heck haven't forgotten how impossible finishing became last year.

So yea, I plan to finish. That's all. If I can finish in under an hour - well heck, I'll take you all out for a steak dinner.

So, you all fight over which day works best for you and enjoy a bit of pre-race poetry:

T'was the night before Beacon,
and all through my insides,
it felt like I'd spent too much time
on amusement park rides.

The nausea in effect,
some anxiety on the side.
And an unrelenting desire
to escape to Canada to hide.

But what's all the fuss?
It's a 10k for Carl's sake!
Besides, my own death
would be too hard to fake.

And let's face it, I'm ready.
I've been training for weeks.
My running gear proves it -
that tech tee sorely reeks.

I've mentally prepared,
and I've read all the tips.
I even refuse to let
any beer cross my lips. (Today anyway.)

So why should I worry?
I'm a fit and capable woman!
But if needed I can always
latch onto a Kenyan.

I'll cross that finish
with grace and with class.
To the race course I say,
"I will kick your behind." (What? Kids could be reading!)

Thanks for all the good words over the last few months and thanks for following along.

I'll catch up with you tomorrow - after I've collected my winnings and posed for the press photos and whatnot.

And yes, the comments are still broken. That stinks