Wanna know the secret to a sweet new PR? It’s simple: Stop running so damned much. I’ve PR’d the past two weekends in a row, and I did it all by being a lazy ass, two-days-in-a-row-taking-off, nearly comatose slob. In the days leading up to a race, I’ve now decided to conduct myself in a sloth-like fashion, moving only when it is absolutely imperative. I no longer cover my mouth when I sneeze nor do I wipe my own ass. And I certainly don’t run. All I do is hoard glycogen - I REEEEALLY like glycogen.
My days of sloth-like indolence have allowed me to store up quite a bit of my good friend, Glycogen. Yesterday Glycogen and I lined up at the start line of the Firefighter’s 5K, and I felt SO excited to have not already blown my precious, limited wad on any trivial, energy-sucking activities like showering, grooming or attaching my own race chip. (Thanks, Mr. Moose and Weenie, both for attaching my chip and for quelling your gag reflex when assaulted by my obnoxious, unwashed stank. Generally, we runners stink AFTER the race, but I like to get a jump on things.)
This race raises money for the burn unit of a local hospital, and large numbers of local fire fighters are among the participants. Said firefighters were mostly male, young and fit looking, but I knew I’d chick the majority of them, because – Guess what? – those dumbass firefighters NEVER hoard their glycogen. Instead, they’re always squandering it as they rescue terrified toddlers from burning buildings. Those fools.
There was no start mat, so I jockeyed for position as near to the front as I dared. One runner, all decked out in racing duds from a snobby local track club, looked me up and down and asked, “What time are you gonna do?” I responded, fingers crossed optimistically, “Twenty-two: thirty?” He replied, “Okay. Looks like you and I will be together.” I smiled politely, but made plans to chick his snooty ass as quickly as possible.
As the gun went off, Mr. Moose and my awesome sister Weenie screamed, “Go, Moose!” Generally, I would flash them some antlers at this point, but my upper body was still in glycogen-hoarding mode, so I ignored them completely. Besides, they’d already attached my race chip and been immersed in my stench, so I’d no need for them any longer.
I ran HARD the whole entire race, reaching the first mile marker at 6:53. I swear I didn’t even know I had that in me. The first water stop came between Mile 1 and Mile 2, and I managed to take in a few drops of water, but mostly I just spilled it all over myself. There were five women ahead of me, and I recognized four of them as well known speed demons in the local running community. The other woman was unfamiliar to me, but she was handily kicking my ass. I’m certain she has a peen. I decided to concentrate on Snooty Track Club Man, who was never more than twenty feet in front of me.
The course was completely and totally flat, and given my split at the first mile marker I began to consider the possibility that I could PR. I picked up the pace, and caught up to Snooty Man. Vic beeped to mark the third mile, and I passed Snooty Man. Ha! Should’ve been hoarding glycogen instead of stocks and T-bills, Mister!
As we turned the last corner I ran for all I was worth, searching the crowd for Weenie and Mr. Moose. I looked at the clock and saw 21:something. I ran even harder, determined to get in before it hit 22:00.
I crossed the finish line in 21:52, chanting to myself “Yes!” Yes! Yes!!” and promptly collapsed on the ground. A new PR by 23 seconds!! Weenie and Mr. Moose came over and congratulated me, and then Weenie started spouting some nonsense about blowing out birthday candles. But there wasn’t a cake to be seen. And my birthday is MONTHS away. Apparently she wanted me breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth.
Yeah…as if. I continued to huff and puff and wheeze and strain, but Weenie soon let me be, concentrating, instead, on the vomiting man. Sir Pukes-a-Lot was dry heaving all over the place. Mostly, people left him alone as this is a common enough occurrence at many races. Eventually a paramedic came to his aid. By now, I was breathing somewhat normally, but Weenie was completely distraught and agitated. “What is WRONG with you people?” she demanded. “Look what you’re DOING to yourselves!!
“Oh, but it’s fun”, I told her, “especially when you stop.” Weenie seemed skeptical, making me think that our October 5-miler neighborhood run is not a certainty. In the time it took me to limp over to the banana/bagel table Mr. Moose and Weenie came to the conclusion that we runners are all fucktarded. They might just be right.
We cheered on some runners, and Weenie mostly followed my example of “Looking good!” “Way to hustle!” and “You got it!” She did add one of her own, though, in response to seeing a young, shirtless firefighter with chiseled abs: “Nice body!!!!!!!!!!” Freakin’ sexual predators – they’re everywhere. And sometimes they’re your sister.
After the race we visited my brother and sister-in-law and their scary ass pit bull/lab mix. This dog TERRIFIES me. When she bolted out of the house to greet us, I used my last bit of glycogen to dart back in the car and slam the door. Eventually I warmed up to the dog, though, and we became great, good friends. She even french kissed me before we left. I think it was her way of saying, “Congratulations, Loose Moose!! Sweet PR.”
21:52
7:03 pace
28/180 overall
6/66 females
1/10 age group
Yeah…That would be the grin in question. And it’s still there, even though I BQ’d nearly a year ago. I’m also still wearing that medal. It’s turned my chest green and rancid but I frankly don’t care.
