I have really, truly tried to do it. Be all bad. Be hard-nosed and tough. Set a goal and be serious about reaching it. Rock out and reach for the stars. Grab for the epic. Man up.
Three Days at the Fair is May 10-13. I've been saying 200 miles for awhile now. I've been writing it down. Tweeting it. Blogging it. Dreaming about it. Using it as a number during visualization.
Truth: When it comes right down to it, I got nothin'. Not really. Not like so many of my awesome, bad-ass ultrarunning friends.
I have been saying since this time last year that I really, really, REALLY want 200 miles. That I'm gonna work and toil and bust my gut and suffer like a dawg and do whatever it takes to push through the pain and misery and smack that 200-mile barrier square in the face and make it bleed red all OVER the place.
Reality check: I really don't care about 200 miles. Or even getting as far as the 183.5 miles that I did last year.
Absolute truth: I just want to have a good time. Laugh a bunch. Hear some good stories. Maybe tell a few. Push the pace every now and again. Walk sometimes when it's a bit too hot or when somebody needs a friend for awhile. Eat some yummy food. Take some great sleep breaks and then get up and walk a lap or two and then start running again. Surprise myself a time or two. Make a couple new friends.
Here's the thing: I want to totally embrace as many moments as I can stand from 9 a.m. next Thursday through 9 a.m. next Sunday. Run when I feel like it. Walk when I feel like it. Go until I'm ready to fall over with sleep, and then wake up when I wake up and do it all over again.
I'm about as fit as I can be. I'm stronger than I've been in forever. I'm running with more joy than I can remember. All systems seem to be poised on "Go."
OK, so maybe I have a goal after all — to soak in as much fun as possible.