Like clockwork, it happens: the race is run, the celebratory beers are consumed, the medal is hung in a far off corner, and life gets back to normal. Until three days later, when your body is like "oh, we're done with this shit for the moment? THANK GOD!" and begins a slow and steady decline.
I woke up this morning with a scratchy, meaty throat and a stuffy nose - clearer signs than the pile of used Kinvaras in my closet that my marathon season is over (no, Claire, don't drive to Newport on Sunday to make it a marathon hat trick...). I now owe you 2 race reports, though one I'll leave to my boon companion and instead write a report on being a pacer (spoiler alert: I learned that if I'm going to spend a few hours with a friend, I'd strongly prefer to spend them not yelling at each other). Also I said I'd write a love letter to Equinox in LA, where I went a month ago. Yeah, yeah, IOU and what have you.
And since I can't cross a finish line without someone (Cate) asking me "what's next?," my (soft) racing plans are as follows:
April 2014 - Boston Marathon
May 2014 - Sugarloaf Marathon (this race is on the "Nightlife" page of the mountain's website. It's basically made for me)
Fall 2014 - As yet undetermined 50 miler, and if you have recommendations, please send them my way
If you need me, I'll be in the Airborne aisle at Duane Reade.