Asphalt Is My Bitch
Well, the good news is my ankle doesn't hurt, thanks to a combo of increased naproxin dosage, extremely reduced mileage in the last two weeks of training, and careful attention to how I run.
The bad news is now my hip hurts, I believe due in large part to inadequate stretching after the race. Later I plan to break that hip, and then begin a life full of bermuda shorts and velcro shoes.
But the great news is that I finished my first half-marathon, and I finished IN FIRST PLACE.
Ha ha, fooled you. No way I would have won, don't be stupid. I find your naïveté to be as tedious and unsophisticated as a popcorn fart. Have yourself bathed and brought to my chambers.
My experience, mile by mile:
The clock time was 2:15:30, roughly, and I crossed the start line about two and a half minutes after the gun was fired, so I figure my chip time's about 2:13:00 or thereabouts. I'm immensely proud of this time. With my lower body acting up the way it has, I figured it'd be two and a half hours at least, maybe closer to three. So hot damn for that.
After greeting my wife and wiping off what salt and sweat I could, I headed off for free stuff and some salty food. I passed a very unfortunate man who hadn't protected his nipples and now looked like he'd been shot twice in the chest by a Red Rider BB gun. Me, I wore the ever-flattering compression-style shirt, so I didn't even need nipple tape. I like to keep my headlights on high beam in the morning.
You think you're in awe of a real marathoner when you're not even thinking about training for that distance, but you're wrong. Contrary to my expectation, the goal of running 26.2 miles has if anything gotten bigger and more impressive now that I've gone halfway. I finished the half absolutely spent, unable to understand how one could then go on and do another 13.1. So if you've ever done a full marathon, you are, in my humble estimation, the love child of Obi-Wan Kenobi and Johnny Cash.
I was also grateful to not have been lapped by a Kenyan, though as it turned out, this year's winner, who came in about fifteen or twenty minutes behind me (the sissy), was a Polish gentleman. Congratulations to him and all the winners.
Right now I'm not quite as jellified as I was before, just tired (but unable to nap, and believe me, I tried my best). Turns out I ate and hydrated well enough, too, so there weren't any unpleasant after-effects, just one hell of a big endorphin high. And I say, with a former record of not-insignificant drug use to back me up on this, it's one hell of a high to have. I just had to run thirteen damn miles to get it, where before I only needed an old honey bear, a broken pipe, and the screen out of an old faucet.
I hope to have some video up of my finish later this week. For now, you'll have only still photos of me before, during, and after:
The bad news is now my hip hurts, I believe due in large part to inadequate stretching after the race. Later I plan to break that hip, and then begin a life full of bermuda shorts and velcro shoes.
But the great news is that I finished my first half-marathon, and I finished IN FIRST PLACE.
Ha ha, fooled you. No way I would have won, don't be stupid. I find your naïveté to be as tedious and unsophisticated as a popcorn fart. Have yourself bathed and brought to my chambers.
My experience, mile by mile:
- Mile 0: I recall through experience that you know it's cold when your pee actually steams.
- Mile 1: The adjustable zipper on my water belt breaks, so now the bottle won't stay in. I'm going to have to carry this sumbitch IN MY HAND FOR THE NEXT TWELVE MI... Hey, the Arkansas River, sweet! I wonder if Terri's headboard is still down there?
- Mile 2: Against all reason, I peel off my long-sleeve shirt and strip down to my compression shirt. Five female runners start licking the sweat from my biceps.
- Mile 3: I realize I'm about to pass the CEO of the bank I used to work for. I am gonna smoke this old fool.
- Mile 4: A gospel band on a flatbed trailer. With electric instruments. And backup singers. COOLEST THING EVER.
- Mile 5: The CEO of my bank passes me. This old man is going DOWN. Just as soon as I walk for a couple of minutes and have some Gatorade Rain. You know, it really is refreshing.
- Mile 6: Clinton Library. You know what would be cool? If it was the George Clinton library. Funkiest books in all the land. I would take that tour, and Bootsy would be there. Goddamn, I love Bootsy.
- Mile 7: HAHAHA LOOK AT THOSE MORONS STUCK ON THE FREEWAY OFF-RAMP DON'T THEY KNOW THAT IT'S — hey, is that my car? Yes, that appears to be my wife. Baby? Baby! OVER HERE IF YOU WANT TO TAKE THE GODDAMN PICTURE — Yes, hi, I love you too. Thank you for your support.
- Mile 8: I can see the Capitol, and the finish line from here. I am heartened by this, if a bit confused, as it looks closer than five miles away. Then we turn left. I begin weeping.
- Mile 9: You're not tired. You're not tired. You're not...fuck, I'm tired.
- Mile 10:
Republican Runner #1: There's the governor's mansion. Wish I'd realized we were going by there, I'd have some suggestions to put in his mailbox.
Republican Runner #2: Did you know Bill Clinton never actually had a residence in this state?
RR1: Really?
RR2: Yeah, no, seriously. Never lived or paid taxes in Arkansas.
Me: Legs...not...strong...enough...to carry...me...away...from...morons... - Mile 11: Holy shit, TWO MILES! WOO! WOOOOOOOOOO! LET'S GET IT ON, BITCHES! CAN I GET A WOOP-WOOP?!?!?!?
- Mile 12: I'm going to just lie down here and sleep for awhile. Yes, forever sleep... Hey, is little dot up ahead my old boss?
- Mile 13: Oops, I may have just stepped on the 5K finisher's mat. That...that may fuck up my official time.
- Mile 13.1: I turn into a big pile of poo and lie, steaming and clumpy, upon the pavement.
The clock time was 2:15:30, roughly, and I crossed the start line about two and a half minutes after the gun was fired, so I figure my chip time's about 2:13:00 or thereabouts. I'm immensely proud of this time. With my lower body acting up the way it has, I figured it'd be two and a half hours at least, maybe closer to three. So hot damn for that.
After greeting my wife and wiping off what salt and sweat I could, I headed off for free stuff and some salty food. I passed a very unfortunate man who hadn't protected his nipples and now looked like he'd been shot twice in the chest by a Red Rider BB gun. Me, I wore the ever-flattering compression-style shirt, so I didn't even need nipple tape. I like to keep my headlights on high beam in the morning.
You think you're in awe of a real marathoner when you're not even thinking about training for that distance, but you're wrong. Contrary to my expectation, the goal of running 26.2 miles has if anything gotten bigger and more impressive now that I've gone halfway. I finished the half absolutely spent, unable to understand how one could then go on and do another 13.1. So if you've ever done a full marathon, you are, in my humble estimation, the love child of Obi-Wan Kenobi and Johnny Cash.
I was also grateful to not have been lapped by a Kenyan, though as it turned out, this year's winner, who came in about fifteen or twenty minutes behind me (the sissy), was a Polish gentleman. Congratulations to him and all the winners.
Right now I'm not quite as jellified as I was before, just tired (but unable to nap, and believe me, I tried my best). Turns out I ate and hydrated well enough, too, so there weren't any unpleasant after-effects, just one hell of a big endorphin high. And I say, with a former record of not-insignificant drug use to back me up on this, it's one hell of a high to have. I just had to run thirteen damn miles to get it, where before I only needed an old honey bear, a broken pipe, and the screen out of an old faucet.
I hope to have some video up of my finish later this week. For now, you'll have only still photos of me before, during, and after:
posted by middleclasstool at 5:38 PM
18 Comments:
congratulaciones senor tool.
Way to go.
Of course, as you start training for the whole enchilada, you'll learn an unfortunate fact about math.
A half-marathon is a nice race, but half of a marathon is subject to debate. Sure some people say 13.1 miles is half of 26.2 and mathematically they're right.
Then there are the people who say the real half-way point in a marathon is closer to mile 20.
Then in my last marathon, I tell you, I hit half-way somewhere around mile 26. The longest .2 miles of my life.
In fact, if ever in a marathon you hear someone not running, someone not sweaty, someone not with a medal around their neck, saying just one more hill. Or just around the corner. Or looking good, almost there. Well, don't believe them.
It's all bullshit. And what do they know when they haven't run all day anyway.
And as far as coming in first place, well what about your division: how many other runners married to Arkansas Times reporters finished ahead of you??
well done me old mate, cor blimey. another medal for the cabinet!
Tool lookin' sweet and fleet of feet in those photos, yo. And your description of the Great Nipple Sand-Off had me guffawing, because I've made that mistake before--albeit on a much much much much much much much much much much much much shorter distance.
So by "no unpleasant side-effects" above, do you mean "no duodenum-jolting poo-compaction necessitating immediate potty asplosion"?
Because I've heard that that happens. You know, sometimes.
Of course, now I've got a line to insert into a slam poem at some point:
I am the bastard son of Obi Wan Kenobi and Johnny Cash.
But how will I follow that?
Scott, regular training and steady increase of the mileage has me up to a minimum of two poops a day lately, and they are occasionally urgent, yes. No assplosions to this day, and I intend to keep it that way, if I have anything to say about it, which I probably don't. I am the Circle of Life(tm).
Only negative effect has been that I started fighting a cold Saturday, and it went medieval on my ass after I so thoroughly exhausted myself on Sunday. As of midday Monday I was one big ball of self-pitying snot. Today I am somewhat improved, thanks to the fine 'Quil family of drugs and rest.
Ocho, if you're looking for inspiration for how to use such bragging in your poetry, I refer you to the work of one Mr. Tom Waits. I feel that such a poem would be worth your while to explore
I love this post. Awesome.
I've been running for, oh a year or two, and I still haven't run more than say 5 miles at once. I'd really like to do a 10K even. . .or a half marathon. . .or anything besides a 5K.
How would Obi-Wan and Johnny make this child exactly? I mean I know the force is powerful and all but. . .
E-Z Bake Oven.
Welcome, Dawn, always good to get new blood around here.
From where you are now, it really doesn't take all that much to train up to a 10K. My admittedly limited experience has been that there's a wall that you break through (probably at about the five mile mark) beyond which it's more about muscular stamina and body maintenance than it is about cardio. All that takes is gradually increasing your mileage one run per week and staying on top of hydration and nutrition. Hell, if you can run 5 miles, you're practically at a 10K already. What's another 1.2 miles?
I also don't run straight through. For the half, I probably walked about 10% of the course, maybe 15%, and still beat everyone else's time at the office, including a woman who's been doing marathons for about three years now and did the rim-to-rim at the Grand Canyon. I guess taking those breaks allows me to push a little harder when I run. My hip, however, is still not thanking me for that. :D
As to your question, well, you don't know the POWER OF THE MAN-IN-BLACK SIDE OF THE FORCE.
Dawn - -- if you want to run a 10K - 6.2 miles, I believe you can do it tomorrow.
Just get out the door and do it. You could find a race or you could just allow the force to work through your legs.
Don't listen to him.
He's more machine now than man, twisted and evil.
Happy belated Anniversary!!!
Thanks!
Where are you????
Hello?
I yearn for a post.
He's even run ANOTHER half-marathon since his last post here, and still nuffin.
No posting makes baby Jetus cry. And kick Mommy in the bladder.
what? he's run another half-marathon?
that's like running a whole marathon, almost, you know. in like over two months. or something.
wow. congrats.
Blog Title: Asphalt is my bitch, part two or I've got hoes in different area codes
Results
Bib Number: 22898
Name: Tool, M.
Age: 32
Hometown: Parts Unknown
State: Ark.
Time: 2:17:43
Commentary
It was a glorious day in Nashville, Tennessee. A day fit for pain. And so I went looking for some. I joined thousands of my closest friends, fans and admirers to run the Country Music Half-marathon. Why?
Because lots of women in Nashville wanted to look at my butt. Some men too, but we're not going to talk about that. Not that there's anything wrong with that.
I know. I look good. I can't control that but so much.
But my objective on this day was to run hard. How hard you ask? To run so hard that my face became a mask of death, a scary sight to those who've never drunk scotch with me and heard me laugh and tell the tales of my younger days, when I only ran if I were about to kill something.
Now I run for the pure please of continuing to do something that gives hope and encouragement to all the young people who turn to me to for guidance.
I could not disappoint them.
A word on the course of Nashville's marathon. Some marathons like to market themselves as being flat and fast. Nashville is hilly and hellish.
But the weather was grand. And lots of women came out to look at my butt. Can you blame them? No, you cannot blame them.
I would tell you that they all went home disappointed. I am a happily married man. More in love with my beautiful wife everyday than I was the day before. But if a woman comes to a marathon with the hopes of seeing my butt, just glimpsing the contours, and she does, can she really consider herself disappointed that I am taken and unavailable. No, my friends she cannot.
So as I said in the beginning, it was a beautiful day. No, I dare say it was a glorious day and I captured glory in Nashville.
You die now.
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