...so I did a sprint triathlon.
The journey of a thousand leagues begins from beneath your feet.
That didn't go that well. I've been at it for seven weeks, and I cannot yet swim crawl. I mean I can, but only for a short while. Then I run our of energy, and - even before that - out of oxygen. I got to the point where I can coordinate the breathing with all the rest of it (somewhat), but the breathing is shallow and doesn't take me very far. It is my understanding other people get this much faster. Someone at the YMCA told me I am trying too hard. Really? I am confused; I thought I wasn't trying hard enough.
I was thinking I could never run Boston, since the qualifying time is way below my personal best. But I could run... more. So I set my eyes vaguely on a 50-miler sometime in fall.
The morning was bright and bubbly as champagne. We had tickets to the Red Sox game, one last treat before we would fly out of Logan International Airport in the afternoon. Fenway Park is within one mile of the marathon finish line - between the game and the race, thousands of people filled the streets. Not wanting to scramble for a parking space in an unfamiliar city with closed roads on the busiest day of the year, we left the car a few miles north in the parking lot of a subway station and arrived downtown by train, early and hungry and elated.
The course went through Amish country, but it started (and ended) in a retirement community in New Holland, PA, with people happy to volunteer and cars parked all over the place. The April morning was chilly, a band was playing, and that particular frisson of excitement at the start of every marathon race seemed, at least for a moment, stronger than usual.
The April race took place in Amish country and was an afterthought. That is, I didn't intend to fly across the continent to run a marathon. It just worked out that way.