So I signed up for a 10K race in November. Which got cancelled about two weeks after I signed up for it. Busing issues, the organizer says. We cannot move hot and sweaty busloads of runners to and from the parking areas to the starting point safely given the need to adhere to COVID-19 protocols. OK, so no one thought of this in the planning stages of the race, I guess.
The organizers were fair. They gave runners an option. Refund of the entry fee, donate the entry fee to the race’s nonprofit beneficiary, or use the money for one of a half-dozen other future races. One of the future races is none other than the half-marathon I was thinking about doing next February.
Why another half, when I swore, exhausted and miserable on a dubiously stacked set of definitely unholy tomes, that I would never do another half after my last one four years ago. I finished that one, but it was not a pretty event. The race itself was slightly marred by a poorly marked course (some runners covered more mileage than necessary because of that) but was otherwise not bad. I just did not do well. So I called a halt to half-marathons.
Until a few months ago, when I started to wonder about the “what-ifs” of life; a pandemic will play with your brain this way. Did I really want that half to be my distance legacy?
Apparently not. I started distance training about six weeks ago with no real goal in mind. Until the race cancellation and the chance to move money to a new race venue. Oh, I looked at the other events, including the cancelled race’s November, 2021 date. That’s a long way into the future for an aging person to consider. A lot of other things can go wrong in a year.
I should probably be sent to a home for wacky, wayward seniors to protect me from myself at this point; a place where they could take away my plastic money, my Internet access and my running shoes. But I am intent on outrunning my pursuers at this point. Because what I’ve heard is true: the chase is half the fun.