Marathon Training

I've been half-heartedly training for the St. George Marathon for the past three months. It's not how I always imagined training for a marathon would be. For one, I have only run about three times a week with no speed workouts. I'm slow, weigh the same I did when I started training, and when I finished my twenty-mile run last Tuesday, the thought of running another 10K made me want to cry. My original goal in signing up for the marathon was to qualify for Boston--not all that out of the question if I would have started five months ago and run five days a week. Now my goal is to finish, but even thinking about how painful this is going to be makes me wonder if just finishing is even worth it. After a relatively leisurely fourteen-mile run with my sister this morning, I have a blister the size of my pinkie toe on my big toe, a vague pain in my arch, and a triangle of chaffing under one of my arms. The marathon is two weeks from today. I feel queasy just thinking about it.

Bar Results

On Friday I went to judicial conference in Park City. A few of my classmates were there, and one woman took it upon herself to inform all of us that, if it were last year, bar results would come out that day. I could have killed her. I've spent the last six or so weeks purposely forgetting that I even took the bar, much less speculating when bar results would come out. By the afternoon, the entire Supreme Court corridor was in a frenzy. Bar results posted at 5:00, my co-clerk told me after a phone call from another classmate who had no better idea than any of us when they'd come out, as far as I could tell. I went home early, checked the website, left to get my car safety inspection, checked the website, watched Definitely, Maybe, and refreshed the website every few minutes just in case. You can understand why I didn't want to figure out when results would come out. After 7 or 8 I decided that results probably weren't coming out, and put the computer away. The next morning I woke up late, took Huck on a five mile run, and when I came home, Zach handed me a thick envelope from the bar. "You better sit down," he told me. I tore open the letter and scanned quickly seeing the words "pleased to inform you . . ." I shrieked. I think I scared the dog. We celebrated by going to dinner at Takashi with some friends. And for the last few days, whenever I think about it, I'm thrilled that I won't have to spend February holed up studying for the bar. Also, I get a raise, about the equivalent to one Takashi dinner per paycheck. Not much, but I'll take it.