Oh crap. I forgot to train for the marathon.

I know I meant to. I distinctly remember being really inspired last year around this time.

The runners wear their names on their shirts so they can find themselves in pictures, and my friends and I took full advantage, cheering for them by name. Inspirational sayings like "Pump those crazy legs, Susan!" and "C'mon Dave! Do it for your country!"

We also sipped coffee as we watched people in extreme exercise-induced pain, so all in all it was a nice morning. The highlight was a trio–parents who wore shirts saying, "I'm running for Bryan" flanking their son with Down syndrome and the son with an "I’m Bryan" shirt.

Tears. Actual tears.

Then, in a fit of sniffily, vaguely patronizing hubris, I thought, "Surely if they can get their acts together to train, I can too." And walking away that crisp autumn morning, I fully intended to.

Then the holidays rolled around, so you know how that goes. And, well, January and February are cold in the Northeast corridor, so that was out. By spring, I'd gone running a few times and felt back on track. (Pun alert!)

Someone pointed out that I wasn't wearing great shoes and that I might damage my feet. I'll show them, I thought. Do Kenyan runners have Nikes? No. They train barefoot in the mountains. (Editor's note: Turns out I’m very wrong, and also probably racist. Kenyans have top-of-the-line equipment.)

Then it was summer. And summer is hot. Also, long about June I found out you have to enter a lottery to get in. well what's the point of being able to run 26.2 miles if there's a chance nobody will see you do it? The glory? The pride? The sense of personal accomplishment? Screw that.

Still, in September the weather cooled down again and I laced up ("shoes that will damage (my) feet." Whatevs! I’ll be damned if I'm shelling out money for this endeavor) for some halfhearted jogs, convincing myself, “Well I walk a ton, so I’m pretty sure the marathon is as much mental as physical.” To that end, I bought flipped through a sports psychology book at Barnes & Noble.

The cool fall breezes called to me, but I didn't listen. I noticed a lot of people in the park huffing and puffing in Lycra and other fabrics not found in nature, and I tried to figure out why they were all zipping along.

Oh. Right.

So in the second of many, many years I'll say this: Next year I'm doing the marathon. It’s the only way I'll get to use my "Part Irish, part Kenyan" T-shirt in any sort of context that makes sense.