What a spring we've been having. What a day for a game. Headed out to Shea on the seven train from Grand Central, and 18+ stops later, there it was, the massive blue stadium filled with orange seats looming large out one side of the train windows. The big Shea. It's got to be one of the ugliest stadiums out there (next to Oakland), nothing classical or designed about it, no red brick, no white columns, not small, aged and quaint, not grand, not contemporary. It's just big and blue and orange. And the neon baseball player tacked on to the front of the stadium hasn't helped it any. Still, it's like a pair of jeans from the '80s, slightly embarrassing, but somehow they make you nostalgic. You wore those two-tone acid washed jeans and yes, you liked them. As soon as we're off the train, my father's looking for scalpers.

What I did most today was walk. I walked across Central Park, from the West side to the East side, along the bridle path which runs along the reservoir. The park is full again, bursting with foliage, a continuous chain of green leaves from treetop to treetop. I walked through Bloomingdale's, up to the third floor to return a dress, then down to the second floor to return a bathing suit and I walked out almost $500 richer, or $500 less in debt.

When the alarm goes off, the view out the window is the same as when I went to bed, dark silhouettes of trees and barely enough contrast to make out the sky or the building across the street, except there aren’t lights on in any of the windows anymore, and instead of the hush of passing cars and muffled snap of closing car doors, it’s just quiet. I’m not sure I slept. It was a conscious sleep, at best, and though I’m not nearly as nervous as the last race, I still have to rent a car and make it to Brooklyn in time to register. And there’s always the chance I’ll forget to pack something essential and irreplaceable, like my bike shoes or helmet, though they’ve both been in the bag on the kitchen counter since last night, packed and ready to go. For all these reasons--the darkness at waking, the nervous sleep, all the things I can forget to pack--I say I don’t like racing. I don’t.