Sarah E. Moffett

There’s nothing like introspective awareness and existential angst at 8 a.m. on a Sunday morning. Particularly when it comes in the form of ten grueling miles and one’s knees screaming a question for the last, oh yes, ten miles~WHY ARE WE DOING THIS? I know, Thomas Jefferson had famous conversations between the head and heart. My conversations are between my head and knees. Sums up our differences quite well. Anyway, the internal conversation as I stumbled amongst the sold-out 5,500 racers for the annual George Washington Parkway Classic Ten Miler in went like this:

Head: We are doing this, because we signed up for it.

Knees: You’ve signed up for many things and not done them.

Head: This is not one of them. See, we’re running.

Knees: Yes, but this hurts. Here, let me show you how much this hurts.

Head: Ouch, hey, you’re on my side.

Knees: Correction, were on your side. Now it’s every joint for themselves.

Head: Noticed. Look, we have not been running much this spring…

Knees: Hurrah.

Head: The jeans don’t fit…

Knees: Buy new ones.

Head: I need a stress reliever from my job…

Knees: You have a job? I just thought you sat motionless at a desk twelve hours a day.

Head: That’s called being a lawyer.

Knees: You need a new job.

Head: F.o.c.u.s.

Knees: Masochist, is that you speaking?  Remember Philly?

[The remainder of conversation has been deleted due to excessively inappropriate language, and as such, exceeds this blog’s standards for decency and class and vulgarity. In light of the fact Tucker Max has visited this page, you can deduce for yourself the nature of conversation that must have ensued.]

Somewhere in there, I crossed the finish line on the north end of Union Street in Old Town Alexandria. There was a hot shower, slow brunch, and long nap afterwards. Or so I’ve been told by the fairy race goddess that chauffeured me around. I was too tired to remember.

Now I’m sitting here, consoling my knees with beers (they demanded one a piece) and rewarding my mind with Raymond Chandler. I suspect tomorrow that the Knees will remind me of their displeasure, but for now, I have happy tired legs. The inaugural spring punishment run is over.

See ya’ll at next year’s race.

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