The race shirt hangs on the chair, a bib printed with my first name above number 12428 in red on black is waiting nearby for clothespins. The Saucony's are waiting for the chip to be tightly tied between two criss-crosses. The course map is unrolled across my desk-- each hill, each city block, and the gentle rise and fall of the bridge will receive its due examination-- the skyline masked in darkness, bay blanketed in fog, creeping dawn over everything, duly imagined. It will be cold, it will be exciting, it will be wet, it will be crowded, it will be hard, it will burn, it will be over before I know it... and it will be glorious.