My eyes were watering. I had trouble concentrating. I was tired, had been all day partly due to the next door quinceanera Saturday night that went until 4 am Sunday morning. You can see it on my face, the bags under my eyes exceeding all carry-on allotments. Tonight, I couldn’t stay up so I went to sleep at 8 pm.
It’s now almost mightnight. I’ve been wide awake for an hour or two, my ridiculous early to bedtime leaving me power catnap refreshed. My alarm is set for 4 am. I listen to the howling wind and pelting freezing rain outside my Airbnb’s window. I preferred Pitbull’s Give me Everything that made a few replays in last night’s playlist.
I’m worried about the race. The cold, the rain, the wind, the cold, the waits, the logistics, the cold and the cold. I’m also worried about finishing in time to get back to my AirBNB and then get to the airport in time for my moved forward flight time of 5:35 pm. I’ve planned this poorly… and if I miss that flight I don’t know how I’ll get back to LA in time to catch my flight to Nepal.
But if I’m being honest I’m even more concern about how I’ll feel before, during, and after the race. I’m contemplating skipping Boston because I’m so worried about everything. I’m a worrier by nature but I have this weird knot in my stomach, an ill omen feeling, like this is all a horrible mistake. As a running trip, Boston’s been a bust so far. I didn’t do much sightseeing and today I really did almost nothing, one of those wasting the day away things that would make that watchdog in THE PHANTOM TOLLBOOTH bark incessantly and lecturingly at me for killing time. Tick? Tock? Whatever his name was the clock inside him made the opposite sound. I feel like I’ve let everyone and everything down.
As travel goes though I did get to catch up with some amazing people, some I hadn’t seen in ages. But even there I felt like I had let folks down with less than dazzling conversation, less than sparkling repartee, less than bon mots. I’m feeling scared and anxious and this raging storm which feels oh so King Lear has me wondering if I am not that mad king refusing a hovel, a hat, or a helping hand. I fear I’m reaping what I sow and the harvest is regret and wrong headedness.
But outside of all that, how‘s the night going, Kevin?