Because I'm not running the race. The Scotland Run is off, as is my planned Sunday treadmill/Mt. Washington test (cranking the incline on the 'mill and seeing how fast and how far I could go).
No, I'm not injured. I got hit with this absolutely insane deluge of deadlines - like, truly insane, as in I thought it must be an April Fools' Day joke - and I must work almost non-stop until at least Wednesday. I don't see myself being able to run until then, and I certainly can't race. (The first deadline must be met tonight before I go to sleep. I have to edit 135 poorly* written pages, which is why it's 1:30 and I'm still awake and will be for a while.)
*Trust me on this. I wrote them myself and they're bad.
On I went, out of the wood, passing the man leading without knowing I was going to do so. Flip-flap, flip-flap, jog-trot, jog-trot, curnchslap-crunchslap, across the middle of a broad field again, rhythmically running in my greyhound effortless fashion, knowing I had won the race though it wasn't half over, won it if I wanted it, could go on for ten or fifteen or twenty miles if I had to and drop dead at the finish of it, which would be the same, in the end, as living an honest life like the governor wanted me to. -Alan Sillitoe, "Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner"