My cell phone’s alarm jolted me awake Sunday morning at 5:30 am. For a second I forgot why I had set it to go off so early but quickly remembered I was meeting Linda to run 30K in Fairfield as part of our marathon training. It was a supported run with water and Gatorade stops along the 18.6 mile course; we’d add on at the end for a neat 20 miles. I met her in a hotel parking lot off of I-95 in Milford, climbed into her car, still tired from the 6 1/2 hour round trip drive to my dad’s party the day before. At 7:30 we were lined up at the start, ready to run.
A little over three hours later, about the time it took to drive 185 miles to PA, we crossed the finish line. I was almost out of gas so we only added 1/2 mile for a total of 19.1 miles. We grabbed our reward out of the boxes on the table, a bagel and banana, and were on our way. By the time I got back to Bill’s house my lower back was sore, my legs were tight. I hobbled up the stairs, sent Bill in search of ibuprofen. He came back with a bottle of Motrin, 200 mg; I swallowed three with a glass of water and laid down on the family room floor. I dozed for a few minutes, woke up and showered, got ready to go to Bill’s dad’s house.
“I’m sleepy,” I said to Bill when we were ready to leave. “Does the Motrin have a sleep aid in it?”
He wrinkled his brow, skeptical. I knew what he was thinking: you just ran 19 miles, of course you’re tired. He picked up the bottle and read it out loud, “Motrin, PM.”
“You drugged me!”
Still skeptical Bill read the label, looked at me sheepishly. “It says you shouldn’t drive.”
“That’s because you drugged me!”
I slept in the car on the trip to Bill’s dad’s house. I visited for a while, explained what happened and fell asleep on the couch. I slept in the car on the trip home from Bill’s dad’s house.
Later, we ate dinner, watched The Walking Dead, got ready for bed. After turning off the lights, saying our good nights, Bill rolled toward me and said in the dark, “I’m sorry I drugged you.”