Seven and Six

Seven:

"Good Morning Mommy!"

The yell came from upstairs - it was the smaller one's voice. The first thought - Why do they have to get up so early, and why do they insist on making so much noise when they do?

Then, a glance at the clock. 8:00 AM. Oh! Not so early after all. And wow... exactly one week until the gun goes off. Or will it be an airhorn? Followed by some kind of Minnesota anthem? "Let's go Crazy," perhaps?

One week. It still seems so distant. Not completely real just yet. But you've got that undercurrent of nervous tension going. For the last couple days, it's just meant being obsessed with making sure nothing is forgotten. The packing list keeps growing - Don't forget your SportShield! And your extra SportShield! Finding that last stick of Bodyglide in the convention center before Philly was lucky. The panic of realizing that this essential item was still in Austin, though...  it's not an experience worth repeating. One of the voices in the back of your head (the one that sounds like your running buddy, Ashish) tells you to shut up about your chafing problems already.

And then, there's where to eat. Some general baselines have been established, but nothing is firm just yet. The plan includes something "tasty", together with a small amount of something "beerish" on Friday night. Yes - that's as specific as it is right now. Then a big breakfast on Saturday. Probably some noodle soup for lunch - that's Brentley's thing, but you are willing to give it a shot. And dinner on Saturday night... well, who knows. You know what dinner isn't. It isn't Ruby Tuesday. It certainly isn't Chipotle. But there's probably worse things to be worried about right now.

Six:

Really? It's 4:30 already? Why is it so easy to roll out of bed when it's going to be a group run, but so difficult when you have to go solo? All summer long it's been a struggle. Sliding out of bed onto the floor, stumbling out into the dark living room, just waiting to step on a wayward Lego or stub yet another toe on a couch leg, or ram a shin into the coffee table. Drink something, eat something, then go do that zombie-jog thing for the first thirty minutes. It only takes a second or so for all that to run through your brain, and then you've quickly changed the alarm to the (slightly) more reasonable weekday wakeup time. Come on.. it's the shortest Monday run all summer, and it's the last one. Get up... Go run...

...at lunch. This feels awesome. Stronger and lighter than anything in recent memory. That's a good thing (probably). It's not particularly fast, but it isn't supposed to be. Everything seems to be clicking. The fleeting obsession of the morning was the weather. Some unsubstantiated reports of a 75-degree high rolled in, but your sources say no way (José). 40's and 50's during the race, a high in the low 60's. Rain - not likely, but not out of the question, either. Don't think about the weather again until Friday. Pack a parka and a loincloth. It's all about options.

Your mind wanders to that odd sci-fi novel you read earlier in the summer - the one that was written all in second person. It was a little awkward at first, but it grew on you pretty quickly. And then your thoughts jump the tracks to that blog post you wrote last night. Like so many others, you never actually pushed the publish button. Too self-critical. Hmm.. change the voice, add some color, and dump today's round of random and useless thoughts in there? Sure. See how long before this second-person thing gets really super-duper annoying? Definitely.