In this case, the race day mentioned here dawned with a Roberts lacing up the old pavement treaders....and it wasn't me.
Someone in this house had trained faithfully for a half marathon that never sells out. But this year it did. So he was all prepped and ready to go for an event so full that no race number was left over for his fit and eager self to claim.
I did what any chronically exhausted, slightly depressed, somewhat fearful, creaky and significantly out-of-shape mom-of-five would do: handed my Disney race number to him. For better for worse, for richer for poorer, in fitness and in flab, till death do us part....
So in flamboyant Disney happy-ending style, my dear husband ran this weekend in a field of 20,000+ merry and highly costumed gals and 1,500 bold men, ending with a personal best for his time, an enormous smile, great memories of an incredibly entertaining course, and some big honkin' Princess bling to boot.
|My (sweaty) prince.|
Which he promptly gave to me.
And they all lived happily ever after...
|Disney require racers to report to the race corral around 4 am and spectators aren't too far behind them. They should give everyone a medal just for getting up that early.|
|With running behind him, we could all get to the serious business of fun.|
|Remember we are a competitive bunch. Shucks! Mama loses yet again.|
|Stripey stripe stripe.|
|The little guy bawled 'cause he had to get off Dumbo when it was over. Son, those are the unspoken rules of the ride.|
|Ahhhh, the mood swings of a toddler.|
|Goodbye, Disney. Maybe one of us will shape up in more ways than one before next year's race rolls around again.|