Feb. 15, 4:45 a.m:  Wake up.

5:00 a.m:  Banana, cake, powder gatorade.

5:15 a.m:  Spandex, bandanna, bib.

5:30 a.m:  Prelude, open 183, downtown Austin.

6:00 a.m:  Meander through city streets towards Congress Ave.  After waiting in bathroom queue, and then doing my best, I liberally apply Vaseline to my legs.

6:50 a.m:  Dispense with clothes, jog to start line.

7:10 a.m:  I'm a few meters from the start line, dawn is rising, and the same Santa Clausian guy who's called all the local races since I can remember (the Salamandar mile, age 15) is blaring himself through the megaphone.

7:15 a.m:  Gun, I'm running, slowly.

7:36 a.m:  I'm through the 5k below 7s.  Good, easy, especially with hills.  I fall into stride with a guy my height and age.  "Hey."  "What are you aiming for?" he queries.  "Two fifty something."  "Same," he responds, "I'm John."  "John, I'm John."  "Did you run for the Naval Academy?" I ask in reference to his jersey.  "Yea."  "I ran for Davidson."  "Ah, yes, I've been there." 

Good - game time, fuck face.

7:56 a.m:  10k, easy.  We're doin 6:30s.  My people (Cass, James, Mom) are there; I flex.  An erratically paced half-marathon racer comments on how good our pacing is.

8:11 a.m:  I press the pedal down slightly as I slip away from Navy guy and some others.

8:34 a.m:  I've been increasing pressure as the course has begun to turn.  I'm steadily pulling in rolling hills and scattered runners. Through 12 miles.

8:40 a.m:  I hit the half and pass the eventual women's champion.  Her form is good.  I'm starting to put the hammer down.

8:52 a.m:  A couple race coordinators on bicycles fall in with me, tell me I'm running strong, as I continue to pick people off.

9:04 a.m:  I'm somewhere around 17.  I'm moving fast but the going is tough.  A multi-mile straightaway into the wind.  Strong desire to turn.

9:15 a.m:  Cutting through suburbia at well below 6.  Nobody in sight.  I am divine.

9:18 a.m:  I am most unequivocally mortal.  Nature is rearing its ugly head.  Despair.

9:19 a.m:  Between those plants? No.

9:20 a.m:  Fuck!

9:21 a.m:  How about just right here in the open?  I have little shame, but more than that.

9:22 a.m:  Providence shines its face on me in the form of a Port-a-Jon at the 20th mile stand. No, not water, the bathroom, I indicate as I half stop half slam into the thing.  Wrong side, over, open.

9:22:45 a.m:  The door flies open; I lurch out.  Laughter, applause.  I search the course.  No racers in sight.  Nobody has caught me.  Elation.  I'm flying again.

9:35 a.m:  There are 4 miles left.  I'm slowing down.  Despair.  If there is anyone my age or younger ahead, I won't catch them (there wasn't).  But nobody is going to catch me either, resolved as I look back.

9:48 a.m:  Somebody mismeasured the distances between these last couple miles.

9:52 a.m:  Somebody mistakenly put a monstrosity of incline on a marathon course.

9:58 a.m:  Capitol!

10:01 a.m:  I'm finishing.  I'm divine again.  Cheers.  I hear my name shouted.

10:02 a.m:  I feel great.  That wasn't so hard.  I ran fast (2:46:25, 6:20/mile).  Elation. Somebody hangs a medal around my neck.  A woman hands me a card for free Strands technical training shirt on far table, for "top finishers to sport our brand."  Ego reeling.

10:05 a.m:  I feel terrible.  Oh Fuck my body hurts!  I walk around in a daze.

Eventually I met up with my people.  Tony ran the half and Johnce also ran the marathon.  We all went to Doc's and indulged on greasy burgers and cheap pitchers of beer.  I felt good.  6:09 avg. for the last half marathon.