Tomorrow at noon, Sis and I are running another race. This time, a 10-mile. She rationalized it as preparation for the upcoming half-marathon on October 7th. I secretly think she's trying to kill me.
When we ran the 5-mile on Labor Day, Sis humored me and we ran side-by-side the entire race. And then, later, she was semi-pissed when I admitted that I probably could have run a little faster.
You see, our running philosophies are completely opposite. Sis is constantly striving to improve her distance, time and pace. Every time she runs.
Me? I'm just psyched when I'm done running. And happy that I didn't completely collapse in a puddle of my own diarrhea and vomit. Seriously.
[Ummm...tomorrow may be ugly. While Sis went out tonight for a nice pasta dinner to carbo-load before our run, I went here and ate this. I feel bad for whomever's unlucky enough to be running behind me.]
As I was saying, I don't like to shoot my wad.
Meaning, I'm terrified of trying to keep a pace that's just too quick and uncomfortable for me. Therefore, I run steadily, albeit a bit slow, and like I said, am ecstatic when I'm FINISHED.
Sis has already forewarned me that she's not afraid of leaving me in the dust tomorrow. That I have to keep pace with HER this time. But I know if I try to keep up with her, I will fizzle out (my wad will be shot) and will render myself not only unable to breathe, but crippled as well. Uh, no thanks.
Eagerly anticipating the finish line so I can be DONE, I will simply plod along at my own comfy pace.
Besides, we all know the story of the tortoise and the hare, right?