Henry’s new favorite topics are Botox and professional bull riding. That’ll teach me to more closely monitor both my mouth and my Sunday afternoon TV habits. The boy has made it to kindergarten without picking up any of my foul language, but I mention Botox once and he’s hooked on it. He wants me to scrub off the tattoo, yet inject botchilism into my forehead to get rid of Mama’s angry face? Yup, he’s a fan.

I have no idea what the bullriding obsession is about. Kid likes cattle.

While Henry thinks about ways to erase my furrowed brow, I’m back to thinking about racingracingracing. I’m riding a good wave after the New Year’s 5k age group win and I’m ready to roll out the magic 13.1-mile carpet and fly over Cape Cod. It’s February, which means one thing. And it’s not media-whoring Pennsylvania rodents with the forecasting skills of my elbow.

February means Hyannis, baby!

Narathon, anyone?

Hyannis: site of a 7-minute half-mary PR in 2008, medals with typos, and perhaps the enjoyment of a certain regional cocktail if I see a onethreenine on the clock at the finish. Jack has directed me to start at 7:35s and then speed up somewhere between miles 8 and 10. That would fetch me better than a onethreenine, in which case I’ll a) pass out from joy and b) pass out from pain. Giddyup.

I’m in the right shape to make it happen, I think. After being told by my nutritionist to gain a bit of weight some weeks ago, I proceeded to avoid her for a month, in the process inadvertently losing 3 pounds. So, consider the dietitian disappointed but my race weight achieved. Coach and doctor both say I can stay at race weight, so they trump my vitamin pusher.

I can’t wait to race and punt those 46 seconds that stand between my PR and a onethreenine. It’s still three weeks away, but I’m revving. The Boston Prep was a little sip of distance racing, and now I want to guzzle it. Or maybe funnel it. Not that I’ve ever funneled anything, but that’s the kind of speed and bodily harm I’m looking to achieve. I want to look like this at the finish:

Proof of suffering/success is what it is.

The only potential hiccup is a pesky adductor pull I seem to have sustained by running 30k at marathon pace with the boys last Sunday. This is what my adductor looks like:

Girls, this is what can happen when you run around with boys.

It’s the kind of muscle strain a professional bullrider might sustain, to make that tie-in. It feels red, and I had to abort my speed work on Wednesday because of it. A most unladylike locale for self-massage and stretching, might I point out. I’m icing it (OUCH) and taking unlawful quantities of Motrin and will test it with an easy run on Saturday and hope for a slow long run on Sunday that is not accelerated by the proximity of testosterone.

This afternoon, I’m headed to Drunken Playgroup after a sweatastic morning of speed work on the Arc trainer. It felt cathartic to let the sweat drip all over the gym’s new carpet, but you really can’t top vodka-infused bitching on Friday afternoon.

Have a good weekend. Run strong and mind the inner thighs.

Winner of the Murakami book is…. drumroll….Emile of The Manharts! I love her quote, too: “Define yourself.”

Congrats! Email me your address (marathonmama [at] kristinapinto [dot] net) and I’ll mail the book to you.