The other day I was awoken by a man on a PA system.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said through my window, "please note that the race will be delayed by one hour, one hour ladies and gentlemen."
It reminded me of living in downtown Ketchikan during cruise ship season. From my bedroom in the attic I could see the huge ships, docked and teeming, and hear the morning announcements:
"Please be back on board by one-thirty. If you'd like to take part in the gold-panning tour, please see Sourdough Sal over by the information center."
This was my summer wake up call.
But now I'm in Bath, and the nearest ocean is miles away. When I peeked out the window of my daylight-basement flat at the feet of the passers-by, I saw not the orthopedic walking shoes and matching track suits of aging tourists, but rather high-quality tennis shoes, spandex leggings and over-muscled calves.
The Bath Half - an annual half marathon that begins and ends on my street.
I should have signed up for it, being an experienced half-marathoner myself. But the conditions of the day were cold and wet and generally not very pleasant, so I'm happy that I decided to give it a miss.
The best part about the race (which I didn't actually watch) was the giant foam sandwich that was handing out flyers on my street corner.
I mean really, when is that going to happen again?