The end of the taper...

It's 10:53pm, two nights before race day. My flight to Panama City, via Memphis, is tomorrow and my ride picks me up at 9:20am. Bruno Kirby offers Meg Ryan a kiss two minutes before New Year's while Princess Leia pleads with her to stay, but settles for a peck on the cheek instead. Simultaneously, Billy Crystal can't find a cab and therefore decides to run through the sparsely populated streets of shockingly temperate NYC to Park Plaza (it is supposed to be the middle of winter). I bet in the end Sally still hates Harry, but not really. I need to stop getting sucked into the Oxygen Network (what?).

I probably should quit procrastinating and start packing, as I don't want to forget to bring my wetsuit, bike helmet, or decidedly un-modest TNT race uniform. I also should eat the three bananas on my kitchen counter that I bought earlier this week to counteract the cramp that was in my left calf. Don't want fruit flies when I get back on Sunday.

I feel confident and calm, but I imagine my impending insomnia belies this to a certain extent. Hopefully my hotel room faces the beach.


Postscript:

In response to the comment from MoC in the post below:

• roughly 10 hours a week since November
• Yes, I could have earned more money with the same time commitment by taking a second job or pickpocketing yuppies at nightclubs. I would have needed to still be living in Michigan to take advantage of its 10 cent bottle and can deposit to realistically achieve the goal through recycling. It would have taken me roughly 4 months alone to learn to play an instrument or master a similar talent to a degree that I would deem acceptable for busking outside of a Metro stop.