|Post-time at the 2012 Pittsburgh Marathon|
(back of the pack view.)
You may have heard that there's a big race in Kentucky this week. No, not that one. I prefer a race with a couple thousand runners where nobody ever gets whipped and they don't shoot you if you break your leg. This Sunday, after the horses of Churchill Downs are safely in the barn, Pigs will fly in Cincinnati, and Pennsy will fly with them.
I am counting the 2013 Flying Pig as a Kentucky marathon because there is actually about a mile and a half of the course that crosses the Ohio River into Covington. The rest is in the friendly confines of Cincinnati, a city that would be Pittsburgh's closest sibling if it weren't for Johnny Bench, Kenny Anderson, and other assorted heroes from the Buckeye state. But for an accident of geography and the whims of an ancient glacier, Cincinnati might also be Kentucky's largest city. So I'm calling this a home away from home race.
I've spent the last two weeks working in the grief mines, and frankly, I've breathed enough misery dust to last me a lifetime. This week, I'm coming up for air. I'll be doing some light jogging, a little cross training, drinking lots of good liquids, and wearing the slippers Mrs P bought me to keep my tender feet safe from table legs and dog toys. I love talking about myself, but writing about depression depresses me. This week, I'll be writing about the opposite of depression. I'll be writing about love. About hope. About will. About strength.
The forecast for Sunday is partly cloudy with race-time temps in the 50s.
Gonna be a great day for a run!
It's time. Please make your donation to Living Strong at the Y today. It's the reason I get up in the morning, and the reason I'm running on Sunday.