Oh God, I'm such a sucker.
I wasn't going to race on Saturday at Charm City. I'm signed up for Sunday. One's enough, right?
Then Nystrom sends out this email to the MABRA listserve, saying there's one more spot open on Saturday in the M 35+ 2/3/4.
I'm here to report that the last spot is now taken.
How does such a stupid choice occur?
I was sitting there thinking, well, I'm registered for Sunday... that'll be enough. Right? Right?
Then I thought, "but all my friends will be there Saturday, and I'll be out doing... what... leg openers or some stupid crap?"
Then I remembered, "but I've been sick with the World's Worst Cold since last Friday. I did my commute this morning, easy, and it felt like somebody was shaving the inside of my lungs - with a rusty straight razor."
Then it hit me... "but it's somewhat better now... I'm barely coughing up chunks at my desk at work. So it's cool."
And then I thought, "the wife isn't going to be at all happy about this."
Then, "but she's never happy about this racing crap. So what difference does one more race make?"
And then I saw the hypertext link. I hit it. I stared at it for a minute.
"Ahhhhhh.... screw it. I'm going in."
Then I was joyful for a minute as I realized I grabbed the last spot. Denied! Suckaz!!!!
Then I realized that I'm very much in early season form, on a doubtful back, with so-so motivation, and I probably just signed up for the most epic beatdown since "I assure you, the American tanks are not in Baghdad."
I am *so* going to regret this by about 10:15 on Saturday.
Nevermind how I feel at 7:05 on Sunday when I roll out of the house for the second beatdown in two days.
Evidently, my subconscious mind has developed a training plan for me, and this is going to be the year of Racing & Commuting Myself Into Shape.
Not since "this is a slam dunk" has a major policy decision been made with such little regard for likely consequences.