The Half-Marathon was on Sunday.

We had to be in Seaside on Saturday to pick up our packets- you know, the packets that say “now that you have this number in your hands, you actually have to show up for the race.”

I didn’t really want that number exactly. But I sorta did. I’m glad I got it now, but I seriously considered leaving my number orphaned at the Seaside Elementary School for some other sorry sap to pick up and run with.

[Literally.]

Someone [it was Marisa but don’t say I blamed her] got the hair-brained idea that we should rent bikes and ride over to Seaside to get said packets. I remember being concerned. I remember thinking a bike ride 20 hours before my first half-marathon was not the best for my muscles.

Then this happened and we were off before my calves could protest.

And I was all, “oh well it’ll be fine.”

Do you know how long it was from our house to Seaside?

SEVEN POINT TWO MILES.

7.2 miles. One way.

14.4 miles there and back.

That means my friends forced me to BIKE A HALF-MARATHON THE DAY BEFORE I RAN/WALKED A HALF-MARATHON.

I was slow on the bike, too. I mean, this was my view for most of the ride.

See that speed bump coming up ahead?

I didn’t.

And it caused a major jarring of my basket of goods and a major jarring of my, um, organs. About 7 minutes after that jarring, I hit a bush with the bike.

[I should have taken the hint and stopped riding right there. But I didn’t.]

And as much as I tried to enjoy it, it was miserable. I mentally complained the entire time, thinking, “You barely trained for the foot race, you certainly didn’t train for a bike race!”

Especially when we were headed back and the wind was blowing about 30 mph in our faces and we were biking uphill and my entire self was sore to the tenth degree, oh boy was I complaining then.

I was complaining in every language I know. Southern redneck and Scottish.

Bless my heart.

So accidentally, I completed a marathon last weekend.

And that is one thing you will never hear me say again.

. . . . .

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