When I ran the Walt Disney World half marathon a year and a half ago, my dad kept pestering me over and over for what I thought my time would be.  It really does make sense that if you’re going to run in a race, your official time is important, but he just wouldn’t shut up about it.  In trying to organize the relay for the grog and dog job, team: The New Hotness needed to figure out how fast we could all run/eat a hot dog and chug a beer (well, we didn’t need to, but when you get a bunch of overachieving academics together, it’s just inevitable).  Yesterday was our dress rehearsal.

In preparation, I ate two hard-boiled eggs and did some deep knee bends.  We mapped out a course beginning and ending at Canadian Male Friend’s house where Wise Lawyer Friend would remain with the stop watch, and where the food and drink would be ready for each runner as he or she came back.  Having run a lot and quickly the previous weekend, I was feeling pretty confident in my ability to get around the loop in a timely way– less confident about my ability to eat and drink while winded.

Chinese Religious Scholar Friend went, and did very respectably; Early Christianity Religious Scholar Friend went and surprised us all with her speed despite having little legs, and Canadian Male Friend (Judaic Studies) ran the 1.25 miles before we even had a chance to get his hotdog and beer out onto the porch.

I got lost.

One of the streets on the route was not marked, and I added on an extra block plus minor backtracking and the extra time of standing there and looking for a familiar landmark, making my time the most pitiful of the bunch. My eating speed was adequate, but not enough to erase the shame of coming in dead last.

Later that evening, my parents called, and I let it go to voicemail.  I listened to my dad’s rambling and somewhat nonsensical account of his weekend running the Twin Cities Marathon, “Best time I’ve had in two years, Annie, so I’m real proud of that.  I feel good about it.”

Seriously, what are the odds?

Next weekend, I assume, the course will be clearly marked, so unless some local punks re-route things, it should work out fine.  I’m confident that if I get to the gym a couple times this week, I can work on my sprinting, and when the times comes, The New Hotness will win the day.

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