July of last year, I ran as a course sweeper with Kate at the PCT 50 miler. After spending 25 miles and 7 hours (the final 6 miles was a slog, spent following a runner who should have been DQed for not making a cutoff), we climbed in her car to shuttle me back to mine. I can't recall exactly how the conversation started - probably something about fall races - when Kate mentioned her September birthday. An odd feeling crept across me, so I asked, "Which day?", to which she responded, "The 18th."
"Me too!" I yelped.
Happy dual-birthday, Kate! Hey, whaddya say next weekend, to celebrate, we run 100 miles or somethin'?
Nah. What kind of idiots would do that?