This morning’s workout involved me trying desperately to touch my toes. As I reached, I realized just how close the tips of my fingers are to them, and yet, as my hamstrings screamed in protest, just how far. Surrounding me was a sea of women not only touching their toes, but calmly pressing their palms flat into their yoga mats, the backs ramrod straight, their shoulders bulging with muscles.

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It’s 8:50 in the morning and I’m sitting here eating a Clif protein bar. Do I want to be eating chocolate chips and oats and soy at 8:50 in the morning? Answer, colon, no, period. But the protein bar is absolutely non-negotiable since in about an hour I’ll head out for a six-mile run, the first I’ll do this week.

I’m 11 weeks into intensive training for two half-marathons I’m going to run in November. The decision to do these runs was made way back in the summer when Nov. 16 and 23 were still way far away. I’m pretty sure I was sitting in the porch at the time and I’m pretty sure a cocktail or two might have been involved.

Then, doing two half-marathons seemed entirely reasonable. I’d get all trained up for one and then, a week later, just run another one. Because, honestly, how far is 13.1 miles? On the Interstate, you can drive it in under 13 minutes. Easy peezy.

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