My excuses were lined up even before I stumbled onto the R train that would take me to the D that would take me to the Bronx.
- This is not a goal race.
- I have a cold.
- Eric also has a cold, and his symptoms include violent, sleep-disrupting sneezes. All. Night. Long.
- My right Achilles continues to piss and moan – and, on occasion, shriek like an angry banshee – when I run fast or far.
- I’m at the end of a 65-mile week, I have 70 miles ahead of me next week, and I’m tired, dammit.
- I drank, if not excessively, then certainly more-than-optimally the previous night. (Too tired and cold-addled to cook, Eric and I went to the Peruvian place across the street in search of restorative seafood soup. I ordered a pisco sour, because why not? We waited. I finished my drink. We waited some more. Thirty minutes passed without a single plate emerging from the kitchen. But the manager was on the case, appeasing the packed room of fidgeting customers with mini pisco sours, on the house. Yes, I know I didn’t have to take one – much less a second one – but they went down so easy, and they were free . . . )