13.1 half thoughts

Mile one

Dad says that when he runs, he thinks about his pace, his faith or sometimes, nothing at all. I wish that I could think about nothing at all. But somehow, when I run, I tend to think about everything that’s ever happened to me — all the small moments, the distracting things, the weird tidbits I’ve picked up. 

Even if I try to think about thinking about nothing, I’ve lost. Because by that point, I’m technically thinking about something. 

It’s like that game where you try to see how long you can go without thinking about the pink elephant. But it’s looming there somewhere in your subconscious. The cerebral elephant in the room. 

Mile two

I recently learned that ROMEO stands for: Retired Old Men Eating Out. There’s apparently a whole club dedicated to ROMEOs, who gather and visit new restaurants in gaggles. There’s some debate in the ROMEO community whether the R should stand for Retired or Rich.

Mile three

Maybe I do like running after all. 

Mile four

Once, I threw away a penny, just to prove I could. I felt smug and clever … till the bill rang up $8.56.

Mile five

Dad says “nothing new on race day,” which is a good maxim to live by. The idea is that you will prepare yourself so well, that by the time the race arrives, you just need to repeat your training. Stick to the same routine, eat the same food, wear the same shoes. 

But in my half marathon training, I never got above 10 miles. Which means that the actual race I’m running right now is a completely new experience to me. This refutes the entire concept of “nothing new on race day.”

Mile six

My friend told me about a date her brother went on.

The brother and his date got coffee together. The conversation flowed, and they were having a good time. Then, the girl tucked her hair back and revealed that her ears were ginormous. For the rest of the date, my friend’s brother couldn’t stop staring at the girl’s big ears, couldn’t stop thinking about them. Her elephantine ears were the cerebral elephant in the room. 

I feel so sorry for the girl, who didn’t ask to have big ears. 

When’s the best time to reveal the fact that your ears are ginormous? At least the fourth date?

Mile seven

You’re telling me I have to run ANOTHER loop?

Mile eight

One evening, after ballet class, Dad and I were listening to the radio. Prince was singing about a girl in a raspberry beret, and how this girl had “walked in through the out door.”

Dad said: “That is an amazing lyric.” When I asked why it was so amazing, Dad told me that there was something very clever, very ironic, about doing exactly what you were not supposed to be doing. 

I wonder why doing the opposite of what you’re supposed to be doing is considered ironic and clever in the case of the girl with the raspberry beret, but most of the time, it’s just considered illegal. 

Mile nine

I hate running. 

Mile 10

I hate running SO much. 

Mile 11

I’M ALMOST THERE. I’M ALMOST THERE. I’M ALMOST THERE.

Mile 12

If I complete this thing successfully, it will be my greatest athletic accomplishment since the seventh grade, when I beat my parents in a bet. 

The story goes that my sister Erica was so obsessed with dogs that she even had a dedicated “dog bible,” which she memorized with such fervid zealousness, you might call her a canine fundamentalist. Every evening, she begged and begged my parents for a dog. Finally, they relented: if one of us could score a goal off of our heads, then — and only then — could we get a dog. This way, we still had hope, but my parents would never actually have to buy us a pet (my parents were banking on my older sister’s lack of athleticism).

On the day I won this bet, my parish’s soccer team played a terrible opponent. They were truly awful. The girl that the opposing team had stuck in goal might as well have been on the bench with how little she did to protect the net. 

I was standing in the box. Someone crossed the ball in — it bounced once, twice! All of us 12 and 13-year-old girls watched it rise and fall, standing still and unsure what to do with our awkward limbs. I leaned forward ever so slightly, dinked the ball off my hairline and watched it roll, inch, crawl toward the net. The keeper watched it roll, inch, crawl in too, seemingly disinterested. 

The next day, my dad and I went to PetCo together. A small dog with rusty fur and triangular ears caught our eye. “You look like a little fox,” my dad told him. 

We took him home. 

Mile 13

I’M ALMOST THERE. I’M ALMOST THERE. I’M ALMOST THERE.

Mile 13.1

How does 0.1 miles somehow feel like the entire length of the Great Wall of China? How can 0.1 miles feel longer than my entire existence?

…

I hope there are still some bagels left.