Running with Tinkerbell

For reasons that are not entirely clear even to me, I have decided to run a half-marathon in November. I have been more or less retired from racing since my high-school track days. Even then one could argue that I was semi-retired, 'cause it's not like I really tried. Despite possibly having some aptitude for running, I was just getting my jock card punched in sports-crazy southern Indiana, where if you didn't do SOMETHING you weren't worth knowing. Anyway, I digress, because other than running the San Francisco Marathon in 1998 just to prove that I could, and getting up to do the Run to the Far Side every Thanksgiving weekend (there's just something about running next to people dressed up like giant bananas and insects and dogs in suits riding a bus that makes life worthwhile) I mostly just run for my own enjoyment. And so I don't get fat.

But a few weeks ago my friend Atoosa, with whom I run on weekends, asked me if I wanted to do a half-marathon with her and a few of her friends, and I thought, why the hell not? It turns out that Atoosa can only do a race the week that I'm out of town, and she's out of town for the race I can do, so we are not actually running a race together, but now I have got the bug so far up my butt that I want to run a half-marathon that there's no turning back.

I started training a few weeks ago and realized something I'd forgotten in all of my years of leisurely running--training for a race makes you HUNGRY. Like, all the time. I feel like I have a tapeworm. I'm constantly starving and shoving snacks in my piehole all day long. It's just bizarre to polish off a big meal and still be like, mmmm, when's the second course? Excuse me, I need to go eat something now.

Okay, now that I'm back, I'll share my moment of the week, heck, the whole month, that happened while I was training for this blessed event. I was out running the Lyon Street Steps. If you don't live in San Francisco, these are some steep motherfucking steps that climb a big hill next to some gorgeous mansions and kick your ass all the way. When you get to the top, there's a gorgeous view of the waterfront. It's both heavenly and vomitous all at the same time. Anyway, I was coming down the steps, and this woman was running up. She was very California blonde, all tanned and fit and dressed in matching workout clothes and barely breaking a sweat. She was keeping a steady pace and in one hand she was carrying....

Wait for it...

A chihuahua. I shit you not. It was very Paris Hilton. I really thought I'd seen the chihuahua as accessory to just about every occasion, but I was wrong. At least she did carry the thing freehand and didn't have it in a little Adidas bag, or wearing a matching LuluLemon dog track suit or something. If you think about it, it was practically subdued.

All I'm saying is that if I'm on the last mile of the half marathon in November and a kinkajou named BabyLuv passes me, I'm gonna be really pissed.