I’m sure I’ve mentioned her before. The marathon runner who recently completed the Boston.
I get a text message that goes something like this:
Sister- want to do a trail run with me today.
Me- (rather hesitantly) you know I’m training slow?
Sister- that’s fine. We can go slow.
Me- you know I’m only completing about 6-7 miles for my mid runs?
Sister- no problem
Me- (dear, sweet, gullible me) sure, that sounds fun.
Fast forward to car ride that I assumed would be the 6 mile trail we did together a few weeks ago.
Sister- were going to go to Yankee Springs instead.
Me - ah… okay.
Sister - (after we were 20 miles out of town and almost to the exit) so this trail has two options.
Option 1 is 13 miles. (Pauses for dramatic effect)
Me- (raises eyebrow and maintains silence to indicate I do not find this option entertaining in the least)
Sister- option 2 is 11 miles.
Me- well, we can just go 3 to 3.5 miles in and turn around.
Sister- well… it’s also a bike path so it’s one directional. If the rangers see you going the wrong way, they will make you turn around.
Me- so you’re saying the only option is to complete at least an 11 mile trail?
Sister- there aren’t any splits or shortcuts, but we can go slow and we don’t have to run it all.
15 minutes into the run I no longer had visual on her. 3 miles in the “no splits or shortcuts” trail hit a fork. I yell as loud as I can, “Julie, right or left” then pray I heard the disembodied voice correctly from deep into the woods.
It’s stuff like this that I tried to tell my parents growing up just how sadistic she could be.
I ended up running 7 miles, half walking half running the next 2, and straight up hiking the last 2. And omg, running trails is sooo much harder than running roads. Even my very hilly course. I’m soaking my aching muscles in a hot tub right now.
I swear she hates me sometimes.