So it’s 45 degrees and they’re running a race.

Crazies.

While I sleep in the car, warm, under many layers of blankets.

I arise at 9a.m. to meet them at the stadium, at the runner’s reunion section. I’m standing. I’m waiting.

I’m standing some more. No Brother. No Uncle.

Where the hell are they?

And then, finally, I spot them. But, oh, no. They’re walking off. I’m desperately trying to make it down all the bleachers and maneuver my way between families, strollers and small children that keep getting in my way.

Calling out to them, literally screaming their names. Like they can hear me amongst 8,000 other people.

And they’re gone. I can’t catch them. But I think, surely, surely they will come back.

I wait 25 minutes when I realize, they’re not coming back. I bet they’re at the car.

I make it to the car, getting lost on the way there twice, and this is the sight I found. Brother dropped a few f-bombs and Uncle wasn’t too pleased either.

I was there! I kept pleading my case, but they weren’t having it.

Guess I can’t blame them, when you’ve run 13.1 miles and are freezing, tired and hungry.

First thing on the agenda: feasting. Followed by: a nice, long nap.