For the race people have decided that you need to go up over a steep little bridge and then pound your poor little whimpering quads as you go down the bridge, and then go around the convention center, then around this big boat in the harbor, then under a bridge, then answer a riddle, then through Shelob’s Lair, and only then finally - FINALLY - do you encounter a mile marker. Roughly one hour later, or so it feels, you approach mile 24. So your rational brain is, maybe, not bringing its A-game.īut still. But then again, you are at mile 23, fueled only by inhaled mosquitos and the evil that is Powerade (more on this later). ![]() There, to your left, just a block or two away, is the finish line. This guy near me was saying that, if you just run down the center line of the road and don’t cut the corners as close as possible, you can end up running like 42 miles or something.Īnd (2) speaking of winding-ness, the course is a mindf**k of David-Lynch proportions once you get to mile 23 or so. But two caveats: (1) it’s a super-winding course. Allow me to give you the scorecard:įlat, pretty, lots of lakefront views, lots of quaint little villages/communities through which one passes. ![]() But objectively, how exactly did Saturday stack up? Oh, honey. got a PR, I ran my fastest Grandma’s ever, and much pizza/burrito/beer was consumed afterward. How did it go? Phenomenally, that’s how! C. ![]() WHERE TO: My bedroom and downstairs and up again, lugging boxes for the big move-out.
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