Mid-toasty 3 and a half miles this afternoon it dawned on me that I will be running a trail 10k in 10 days, and I am horrified to say that other than a tenth of a conversation I had with Mark about going to the Whitewater Center this weekend to give it a test run, I have made zero effort to make any real plans for getting there.
Now, yes, in terms of big deals, it really isn't. Except that it is. When it comes to trying new things, I have to mull the idea over for a year or so, consider it, talk myself out of it multiple times, then maybe, eventually, try it with great trepidation. In terms of readiness, I suppose I am. I've walked trails. And I've done a whole heck of a lot of running. But the two together, in a venue I've never been to before, well, while I was running my old familiar neighborhood streets, I felt a very strong wave of nervous heat run through my body.
I've already had two conversations and multiple peeks at the parking information for the spot. I'm pretty sure I still don't understand the pass and where I'm supposed to go, and it's a panicked morning of a situation ready to happen. If I can make my trial drive-to/run-through, I think I'll feel better.
I have no idea what I'm in for. What I imagined, while I was safely coasting down the sidewalk of Sharon Road, was a booming crowd comparable to the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona (I've never been, but I've read enough Hemingway and watched enough television to have an image in my head), only it's set in some forest and everyone is wearing Garmins and compression socks and all the right gear. And I somehow wind up in the front of all these people who come and do this all the time, and I am totally wearing all the wrong gear, and the gun fires (because, surely, in the woods they fire a gun) and I get completely trampled by hundreds of lean, muscular, avid trail runner-types, leaving me in a giant puddle of mud, thousands of Vibram, Mizuno, Salomon, Vasque shoe-prints stomped upon me, like trail racing road kill.
Rather than bog myself down in negative thoughts, I decided to have a prep plan, and there was no time like the present. I picked up my speed, pushed the ole double jogger off the hard concrete, onto the grass. Not a trail, not even a hill, but it gave us a bumpier ride. And I figured I could do a little speed work, so at least I can be fast enough to get the heck out of every one's way.
Heath perked up and said, Mama, what are we doing on the grass?
I'm practicing, I explained.
Slow down, he advised, then resumed eating his Goldfish cracker/raisin combo snack.
I slowed down a little, popped a wheelie back onto the sidewalk, and resumed my jog, my off-roading experiment derailed due to a poop-scoopin' lady and her white Maltese (and the sinking feeling that I wasn't practicing for anything, unless the trail is magically covered in astro-turf).
When Mark gets home I plan to make a date this weekend to give the real deal a whirl, so I can at least have some general idea of what is going to happen. Until then, I plan to run as fast as I can through everyone's yard in the neighborhood, especially those with hillier terrain.
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