“You’re the laziest athlete I know,” my friend Ryan often quips, and in certain respects, he’s right (e.g., I’d rather drive to Cowtown Beef Shack at lunchtime than walk the 700 yards). And whereas I should have been writing race reports after every race, just like my coach tells me to, it’s now mid-October and I’ve managed only one report all season.
So for the benefit of the one or two people who might read this, allow me to indulge in a little stream-of-consciousness reporting, to try to make sense of this year. It’s been a curious year, this—though, come to think of it, not as curious as 2010, but high up on the scale nonetheless—and I’ve been acquiring mental post-it notes along the way, but I haven’t yet tried to assemble them so as to come up with a coherent narrative.
For what it’s worth, I know where it starts. It starts where every good narrative starts: the breakup.