Sometimes you run the race you trained for. Sometimes you run the race you wish you’d trained for. The latter will get you into trouble.
Last weekend, I ran the Marine Corps Marathon in Washington, D.C. All season long, I’d harbored hopes of another PR (that’s personal record for you non-sporty types; for the Brits, yes, it’s the same as Personal Best).
A PR would have meant completing the race in under 3:59:39.
On November 2, I’m running the New York City Marathon. On November 11, I’m getting married.
I’d tell you to save the date, but you’re not invited. Don’t feel bad, though, no one is. Cara and I decided to skip the stress and hype and expense of the modern American wedding celebration and opt for a small private ceremony and honeymoon all in one. So we’re going to Bora Bora. And Moorea. And Tikehau.
“If marathon’s were easy, they’d be called ‘Your Mom.'”
So read my favorite fan sign of the day as I ran 26 miles and change through Philadelphia on Nov. 18. I was half tempted to stop and take pictures of some of the funnier signs: “Smile if you’ve pooped your pants already”; “Run like you stole something”; “Chuck Norris never ran a marathon”; “There IS a finish line. I checked”; “Hurry up, we’re getting cold.” And others I can’t now remember.
But I did not stop for pictures. Or even the bathroom. And that’s a good thing. This was my third marathon. Or, as I like to say just to annoy people who really don’t care about the marathon details of yet another marathoner they’ve had the misfortune of starting up on the subject, this was my second and a half.