I don't remember exactly when I learned what a Skinner Box was, probably in some auditorium-sized undergrad psych class. But whenever it was, I'm pretty sure the idea of a spazzed out lab rat pressing on a lever to get his next hit of mouse porn seemed sufficiently removed from my day-to-day existence.

Probably I also thought strawberry Twizzlers counted as fruit.

Early next year, I'm planning to run my first 50-mile race. The jump from 50K (31 miles) to 50 miles is a big one, but I've found exactly the race I want. In-state, historically moderate temperatures and - it's sad how much I care about this - killer swag.

Here's the thing. Believe it or not, ultra-running is getting more and more popular. Popular is a relative term here, but with races almost always run on trail through state or national parks, the number of runners that each race can safely accommodate is relatively low. Usually a couple hundred at most. (Compare to the L.A. Marathon, for example, which hosts 25,000 runners.)

So one must be on the ball. You can't wait too long to register or you'll lose out. All full. So sorry. Better luck next year. This after you've already started training - training to run 50-freaking-miles.

I am determined not to lose out. But the thing is, I don't know when registration officially opens. I know that last year, the race was full three months before. I know the upcoming race is nine months away. That's six months of play. Registration could open at any time during these six months. So every day, sometimes more than once a day, I go to the website. I click on the "entry" button. And -

Nothing.

No entry yet. Next day, button. No entry. Button. No entry. Button. No entry. Click. Click. Click. Click-click-click-click-click.

I've got both paws on the lever, giving it everything I've got.

Come on, man! Give it to me. I NEED it.

And then afterwards, I circle my cage and compulsively lick myself until it's time to try again.