D Minus 1

I don’t know what my problem is. I tossed and turned all night thinking about the River Run. If I hadn’t run eight miles last weekend, I’d be completely losing my mind. I ran that almost effortlessly, but I’m nervous about tomorrow’s race. My goal is to survive, as in be alive crossing the finish line, as in the ambulance was superfluous. I keep telling myself that there’s no pressure, that as long as I don’t get picked up by the straggler truck I win. When I picked up my race packet yesterday I nearly had a panic attack at the sight of the Hart Bridge. I’ve studied the race course, which I never do, and I’m happy that this year the race ends at the western base of the bridge, even though it means I won’t get to run through the stadium. There is a little bit of added pressure from my wife. She’s going to cheer me on at various points of the race, and when I told her that I was going to try to run faster than an eleven minute pace she started plotting points and times on a map. She was going over it with my mother-in-law, and it felt like the scene in Saving Private Ryan when Tom Hanks and Ted Danson are talking about the path to Berlin. I don’t want to hold her up and make her late for her next rally point, which is silly because I’m the train or the fast moving ground forces or whatever. I’m setting the pace, and even if I’m creeping along at fifteen minutes per mile I’m still an American hero. I’m like Audie Murphy. I deserve a Medal of Honor and a Purple Heart. My calves are a little sore, but you know I'm going to solider on. War is hell, boys. Yes, I think finishing a 15k is roughly the same as storming the beach at Normandy. I’m going to be running over a bridge. They spent a spring day at the beach. Am I wrong?