The Impostor

It's a few moments before nine o'clock on a Saturday morning, and not only am I not in bed, I'm an hour's drive from it. And I'm stretching. It's a cloudy morning, cold for this time of year. A light drizzle is falling, and I've just pinned a number onto the front of my t-shirt. And I'm stretching. What am I doing? This is not the sort of thing I do. A few members of the crowd I've joined at the starting line are exchanging friendly taunts. Some are telling each other the time they'd like to finish in, or swapping a few workout tips. Everyone's smiling, chatty, and fidgeting a bit. A few of the guys standing near me allow me to join in their conversation. They're talking about running, which I suppose is a natural starting point for a conversation at a starting line. But they think I'm one of them. The drizzle has let up. I'm cold. I'm tired. I awoke too late to make coffee. Lindsey's still at home, in bed. Probably still asleep, even. Maybe she's sat up by now, and is reading a book, but she's almost certainly still under the covers. I yawn, and rub my eyes one last time. "ON YOUR MARKS! GET SET..." A bullhorn goes off. I'm running. In a race. This is not the sort of thing I do.