I was 37 years old when my grandmother died. We were very close. I came in from a blue-grass concert about 12:30 a.m. when my father called and gave me the news. I was devastated. I put on my running shorts and shoes and told my wife I was going for a long run. She stayed up and waited for me. Four hours later I returned absolutely exhausted, dehydrated, and darn near frozen solid. Two weeks later we measured the route and found it to be over 28 miles! Fortunately, I had been training for the Atlantic City Marathon and was in pretty good shape.
So, with 48 hours left, I'd be sure to get in at least one last very long run. Probably at least 20 miles, if I wasn't too sick. Other than that, I'd just keep on keepin' on.
Edit: I'm leaving now for a 10 miler. Want to come?
