So, in my infinite stupidity, a few moths of “training” later, I get the heat assignment. This time, there are no slow pokes in the race, unless you count me.
But, being an optimist and dreamer – with adrenaline coursing through my veins, the starter fires his pistol and we’re off.
Maybe 150 meters into it, early on the backstretch, POP!
The season is over. And right then and there, I promise to never ripe another hamstring.