Sunday morning. 8am. My alarm blares on and I’m convinced I’ve only been sleeping for a minute and just got home from a night of dancing. I know why it’s going off, and I reluctantly, slowly, roll out of bed and try to figure out my next move. The only thing I can manage is to put on my running stuff. I can’t even think if I need to eat or drink or bring anything for the race. I realize my car was left downtown last night, so I grab my bike keys and think it’ll be a snap to ride to the race start. It seems to go so slow. I knew my tires were low, but I’m now wondering if it makes this morning ride in the rain seem to take forever. I arrive, bleary eyed and sweating, find my running buddy and manage half a bottle of vitamin water before we start. I’m too numb and brainless to wonder or think that this might be difficult or that I should have stayed at home. After the first 5 km, I start to feel good, my head is clearer, the fresh air feels good. The last 2 km, I’m convincing myself and my running buddy that we’re almost done. We finish, I hug my mom at the finish line, her face wrinkling in disgust.
“You smell…like booze.”
I ask my running partner if she noticed. “O, well at first I kept getting wafts, but I thought it might go away after a while, but no, you pretty much smelled boozy the whole run.”
If I’d have jumped in the river after the run, I’d have done a triathlon.
Life list: 10k while still drunk. Check.
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