If I had written this a few hours ago, I would have left out
the parenthesized part.
But then I got SUPER drunk on wine.
And now I feel amazing.
Wine makes life super good.
I was actually really excited for this half-marathon. I was
sure I would set a PR (a personal record, for those of you who don’t actually
run but read my blog and quietly seethe in anger). I saw that it was going to
be hot and humid this morning and thought, “whatever, I’m going to kick this
race in the balls.”
Balls were kicked, but they were mine.
Pixie and I got up at 6am. I’m not sure why but she wanted
to come with me to the race, which was an hour away. I think I made a vague
suggestion that it would take me “only” an hour and a half to run it. I may
have overlooked the fact that I get to my races an hour early so that I can get
my bib, take a bunch of shits, warm up, and then loiter so that all the fat
runners can gawk at my abs.
I’m a douchehole.
When we got there, Pixie suddenly discovered that she would
have to wander around aimlessly for two a half hours. Running isn’t exactly a
spectator sport. She can watch me be a douche pre-run, and then she can watch
me cross the finish line, near the point of death (with my unflexed gut swinging
around like a half full sack of shit).
But Pixie has infinite patience when it comes to my bizarre
self-hating hobby. She went into the trees and shared magical recipes with the
other woodland creatures. Or something to that effect.
I was running the race with my regular companion in insanity
and running, Geoffrey, as well as his daughter. She must have inherited some of
the craziness. I hear it’s genetic.
Geoffrey had told me that a celebrity runner would be at the
race, Shawn Mastrantonio. He and Geoffrey are a part of the L.U.N.A.R running
group, which I had only recently joined. I could say that he is fast and
badass, but you’d say, “whatever, all of you jerks are faster than me.” BUT,
let me clinch the deal with this. Shawn had a heart attack just four months
ago. And ran the half marathon with us. In fact, he had his first run only 13
days after his heart attack. So if I complain about my toes being sore, fee
free to call me a whiny bitch. I didn’t see him before the race, but that’s
likely because he had yet to arrive on his mystical chariot.
The beginning of the race was great. I started out way too
fast as usual, stupidly assuming I could maintain the pace forever. It was
shady and cool, despite the humidity. After the first mile, folks started
passing me, but I figured I would heroically overcome them later. I was a whole
lot of wrong.
Just past three miles, we hit an uphill stretch that lasted
all the way through the turn-around (the race was an out and back). I actually
blasted up the hill at a decent clip. And I figured once we turned around, I
would FLY down the hill, like a cheetah with nitro in its ass. And then the
many many folks who had casually run past me would rue the day that they
crossed paths with me.
I hit the top. I was like, “all right! Time to nuke the shit
out of this damn race!” But a funny thing happened. I didn’t go any faster. I
thought, “um, legs? What’s going on? Why aren’t you doing that thing you do?”
And my legs said, “f*#k you guy. We’ve carried you this long and you just keep
punishing us. We’re going on vacation.”
I maintained my
pace, but definitely wasn’t “nuking the shit out of the race.” I passed
Geoffrey after a little while as I was heading down and he was heading up. He
said, “look who’s right ahead of you!” It was Shawn. I thought, perfect!
Someone to motivate me to run faster.
Apparently I was that motivation for everyone else, because
I was being passed a lot. I started
to get a sinking feeling in my stomach that this race was going to suck. I
hadn’t rested at all pre-race. I ran 5 miles yesterday, 8 on Friday, 9 on
Thursday. I mean, technically that’s a taper. But my body would have much
preferred several days on the couch with ice cream and beer. I can’t blame it.
Around 9 miles I realized that I definitely would not hit a second wind. I figured I would
just hold steady at my 172 heart rate. Then the sun came out. The sun said,
“oh, did you forget that today is hot and humid? Enjoy running in a sauna, you
slimy bastard.” At mile 11 it suddenly got really hard to run. My scalp started
to tingle. Random jets of flame erupted from by body, scorching nearby
squirrels.
I really wanted to stop and walk. Only my deep and thorough experience in
self-induced suffering kept me going. I
was lying to myself and saying the finish was just around the next bend. Visions
of watermelon and beer danced in my blurry vision. I was pretty sure I was
going to finish dead last. But even that would have been an achievement. A man
who had had a freaking heart attack
less than a month prior had already crossed the finish and was cheering
everyone else on.
I stumbled across the finish. There’s no glorious tale to
tell here. They said my name, making it sound like I wasn’t a worthless piece
of trash. Which is what I felt like. I was in full-on self-hate mode. I wanted
someone to come up and say, “could you have run that any slower? Holy hell my
grandma walks to the mailbox faster, and she has 3 false hips.” But everyone is
super nice at races, which is great if you’re having a good day and mildly
infuriating if you are in the mood to have people punch you in the face
repeatedly.
Pixie was waiting for me. Just seeing her reminded me that
grease and alcohol was in my very near future. My mood immediately elevated.
Then I remembered I was done running. Definitely for the day, but maybe forever (I wish). I started to feel
kinda OK. My brain was working overtime to destroy the memory of the run. My
legs were making sure I’d remember what I’d just done, but my brain was like,
“beer! Food! Wine! All of the wine! More food! More wine! You’re going to drown
in gluttony!”
 |
| Gluttony. And this view. |
Geoffrey introduced me to Shawn. He is a super cool guy,
made of lightning and muscle. He made it sound like having a heart attack was
like tweaking your knee. If I ever had one, I would probably handle it with
less aplomb. In fact, considering how much of a sore whiner I was with my race
performance, I’d say it’s a given that a heart attack would kill me. Just put
me in the woods so the bears can eat me. But meeting Shawn was super cool and
made the day much more worth it.
Then Pixie I ate went to an awesome food place. And then an
awesome wine place. And then another awesome wine place, and then an awesome
beer place. And then another awesome wine place. And then one last awesome beer
place. And then we got ice cream.
Life is now AMAZING.
Maybe Pixie doesn’t quite get why I do what I do. But the
post-run celebration was the most amazing adventure we’d had together in quite
a while, and that made it wholly worth it. We were like a brand new couple,
bathing one another in kisses and wine. People around us threw us death glares,
but I just said, “f*&k you, my life right now is wine and making out.”
Also I was wearing a kilt. And my balls were flapping free,
enjoying the breeze. Perhaps the death glares were a result of errant flappings. But if I can survive 13 miles
of brutality, you can survive half a second of my salt-rimed sack.
Life is a mystery.
 |
| A beautiful mystery. Photo Cr. Pixie |
Shawn is a VHL Warrior. Check out the site and share your support: http://www.vhl.org
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