Two weeks ago (in the height of my academic craziness) I went down to DC to participate in our conference race. I had a pretty crappy race, but not crappy enough to knock me out of the top 7 on my team. Which means that I’m going to regionals at Lehigh (yay!) this upcoming Saturday.

It also means that I have a chinstrap. As in a strip of hair that runs from one ear, along the ridge of my jaw, to the other ear.

How are those two ideas connected? Well, as the team sat on the bus, dubiously eyeing the course meant to hold our conference meet, we entered a pact. Each man that made it to Regionals (that is, the top 7 on the team) wouldn’t be able to shave until then. It was one of those dumb things teams do for good luck, like growing matching Mohawks or not washing their uniforms or somesuch.

I was a little leery of the idea, since my own beard is so sparse when I let it grow out (which is never). More importantly, I also have to look relatively clean for teaching. My observers don’t tolerate scruffiness.

A decent compromise was found in the aforementioned chin strap. It’s a bit scraggly, and it’ll have to go after Regionals is done. For the first time since I began growing it, though, I think I’m going to miss it.

P.S. Not for the first time, I wish I had a digital camera so that you guys could truly appreciate what I’m describing. Ah, well.

This morning marks the end of my very last preseason.

I’m a little sad, but also grateful for all the fun I had. We got to spend a week as a team, running and exploring and then partying and then waking up to do it all over again. It’s easy to forget about things like school and the future.

Such a lifestyle does take its toll, though. My body aches everywhere; running and lifting during the day and partying hard all night will really wear you out. But then, what does a runner do but make unreasonable demands of his body?

As promised, here are the pics taken during year 1 of The Annual Roomate Piggyback Relay. These are the work of our lovely ladyrunners, who, as if they weren’t busy enough questioning their relationships with us, managed to immortalize the event.

Here we can see Highsocks (whose socks happened to be curiously low that evening) carrying me across the field- just to make sure that it’s possible.

And here are the men, united in brotherhood for one last moment before we go to war.

Highsocks and I, steeling ourselves for the race, warmed only by our unnaturally bright sportswear.

And finally, the race proper. The neck-in-neck, ruthless battle for glory. Note the blurring effect of their speed.

Highsocks and I, 100 meters behind the actual competition. No blur whatsoever.

So what did we learn, everyone? When it comes to piggyback racing, never pair the weakest kid with the heaviest. It usually ends in things going awry.