Survival of Seattlest

One thing you may not know about Seattlest is that we're hardcore. Hard-fuckin'-core.

So normally, we don't venture onto Mercer Island much. Mercer Island is for pussies. We'll be there at 9 a.m Sunday, though, when the bland mound of glacial till will be transformed into a Theatre of Pain. It's the Mercer Island Half Marathon Marathon with about 3,000 runners each playing their part. (There's also an 8k Classic, which have never done, cause it's for pussies.)

This ain't no St. Paddy's Day Dash, where a bunch of overfed, under-trained individuals jog 3.2 for the T-shirt and beer.

At Mercer Island, the T-shirts suck, there's no beer garden, and the road is slanted, which can be hard on the knees. These factors actually add to the race's appeal for Seattlest, though, because they tend to weed out the pussies.

We've got a proven race strategy: Start off easy, the better to check out the high school cheerleaders positioned along the course. Round about mile 9 we'll scowl at the loser whose heart-rate monitor is beeping wildly, and smirk at anyone overdressed or wearing an iPod.

They're pussies.

Whether or not we need it, we like to take a cup of water at each aid station, fake a sip and then throw the rest to the ground, all-devil-may-care.

At mile 12 it's time to put on our "finish-line" face, a intimidating grimace that says "we mean business." It may only be "half" a marathon, but Seattlest always gives 110 percent.

We're hardcore, baby. Hard-fuckin'-core.