At what point does absence become abstinence?

Let's cut to the chase... you'd think I'd have a better plan for populating this blog. I mean, who in their right mind has a training schedule but can't fit in writing about the training?

Oh, wait... I have a training schedule? Damn, there's another thing I've been forgetting.

To bring us all up to speed, I ran the Rock 'n' Roll half in Denver and finished respectably, although not under two hours as I had hoped. Admittedly, I took it easy and didn't want to hurt myself in the altitude, as did many I assume, because I was reeling people in like crazy... like 10s and 20s at a time. Guess starting with the 11th corral when I was placed in the 7th originally may have had something to do with that, but after my meltdown in August and the cramping at the AF Marathon, I was thankful for a healthy finish that left me feeling refreshed, and fulfilled, at the end of the weekend.

Fastforward to February and I'm running the 2nd annual Mardi Gras half in N'awlins. Didn't train as hard as I wanted, and walked to the starting line shaking my head... not a good sign.

Gun goes off, music's pumping, and I stride out... and holy hell, this is easy!

Gotta be a joke... hurricane's coming in or something right? Twisted ankle around the next corner? This is going way too well.

I push through the pain around mile 10 and find myself looking at the trusty Garmin thinking, "This is gonna be close" (I was shooting for breaking the 2-hour mark... like I trained to do so or something equally amusing). So I step it out a bit.

And the race steps back at me.

WTFO? Where did that push back come from? I didn't hit a wall, I got dragged through the rubble of a wall the race built then wrecked in front of me.

Mentally I'm questioning my existance, even going so far as to curse my mother for birthing me (sorry mom). This just got rough.

I look up, and there's the mausoleum-looking structure that served as a landmark for last year's finish line. Only about 500 or 600 yards to go.

I look down at the Garmin... I've got about a minute. I am NOT an Olympic-caliber sprinter. This is gonna hurt.

I look up at the heavens... God, I know we have an understanding, and I rarely ask you to kibitz, but please, if you have any sympathy for this many-time sinner, help me find some energy to finish this within my goal.

Ok, I prayed... and it was in desperation... shoot me. We'll deal with that issue later.

And into high gear I went.

The flashy show off kid who had been running 20 yards in front of me the entire race was a little closer in my crosshairs, and I had some energy left to burn.

Full stride, hands chopping the air like Bruce Lee kickin' some overweight goon ass, look of determination on my face (I know this because the best running pic of me EVER shows it!), and I'm closing in on the finish line.

People lining the finish would say I was sweating... those were tears folks... this push really hurt. But I passed Mr. Flashy Pants and tore off toward the pomp and circumstance that is the Rock 'n' Roll finish line.

And then I finished... a quick glance at the Garmin almost made me fall over... 1:59:58. I broke two hours by two SECONDS. Thank you God... now back to your Corona and beachfront view, because I have some recovery to do.

I guess recovery takes two months, because here I am, mid-April, faced with another half in two weeks, and then a 2nd one the weekend after, and I'm sitting in front of the computer rather than dealing with the beautiful Michigan 40 degree spring day and running my ass off.

Ah, the things we do to ourselves.

Peace, love and procrastination... I'm putting that last one off for a while.