1st overall registered as Kilgore Blowfish. It's a nearly indecipherable Kurt Vonnegut reference mixed with the fish I look most like in race photos. Having "Blowfish" in big letters on the race number is a good reminder that if I don't stick out the chest and suck in those cheeks, the very best I can hope for is being named Miss Congeniality. And everyone knows that it is one small step from being named Miss Congeniality to being named "Most Determined" in Foot Fetish Prostitution Quarterly's Spring Rankings Issue.
Megan and I ran hill repeats for 1:30 yesterday evening, because there is no such thing as a healthy relationship that can't be reconstructed by a forensic scientist using sweat and snot splatter analysis. Upon getting home from the year's first warm run (83 degrees!), my pee looked like Canada's number 1 export. Justin Bieber! No.....wait. My pee looked like maple syrup. So Canada's number 2 export.
Checking the race schedule before dinner, we saw the Kindey Kare 5k, which gave 100 dollars to the winner and benefits a charity which teaches young children to spell. The race organizers did not have such a program when their phonics were impressionable.
|Kare Bear Koitus.|
(Picture omitted for those who do not wish to turn to stone)
So I woke up at 7 for the 8:30 race, had some sugary coffee to whisk the lethargy out of my bowels, and drove to the race site. After a warm-up which consisted primarily of praying that no one who knew me showed up for what would certainly be a performance best timed by sundial, they called the racers to the line. "Sub-16 pace up front," the woman with the loudspeaker bellowed. 2 guys moved up. "Shit!" I both thought in my head and dropped behind a tree in the woods. I proceeded to approach the front when they said 21 minutes plus, because I wanted the element of surprise. KUMQUAT! Bet that surprised you. And you aren't currently running a fast 5k. See, the logic is inescapable.
Strip to underwear, toe the line, AND THEY'RE OFF!
|The pace car leads me toward the Quad.|
Just before the gun, I dumped water all over myself to deal with the warmth. It also qualified me for the Wet Compression Shorts Contest, where I finished first in spectator vomit and small-child mental scarring. A Bull City Running guy that looked awesome took off at sub-5 pace, so I sat back a bit, hoping to loosen up. Pulling alongside him a half-mile in, my body felt like it was being propelled forward by a 1972 Ford Pinto engine with two moist, floppy chicken tenders instead of wheels. Thinking speed might make things better, I showed the other racer the rusty exhaust pipe (here, rusty exhaust pipe is a metaphor for pulling away, and not the sexual act legal only in Tijuana), and passed the mile with a firm lead.
From here on out, I just wanted to get to the finish and the complimentary post-race TCBY. This was the first race I have entered unrested, and where I felt the fatigue the most wasn't in my legs, or my breathing, but in my feeling of horrible uncoordination. Today was the opposite of smooth. So....rough, I guess. Like the role of the Tijuanan armadillo in the rusty exhaust pipe. There were some hills, and the course measured 3.2 miles on the Garmin's I saw, so I was utterly shocked to see 15:50 on the clock at the finish. I ended up with a 40 second margin of victory, a good tempo run, and some amazing frozen yogurt. 1 of those 3 will go straight to my midsection. Which I guess is good, because a well-developed muffin-top would protect the children from horrible sights in any future wet compressions shorts contest.
It felt like great training to run at the end of a weekly cycle, so these super-informal tempo races might become routine. (UPDATE: 3rd place has a 1:10 HM on his resume, so it might have been a slightly better day than I thought) Thanks so much for reading, and for everything else. You guys are amazing, and I hope the start to your Spring is perfect!