That I know of!
And so RBR is wrong and she can — wait for it!1! — kiss my n*ts@ck!1!
ZOMG!1! That felt so good! When was the last time I said "n*ts@ck"? I was afraid I would misspell it, it's been so long.
But saying it was enough so on second thought, TrannyB, you don't have to kiss it.
Anyroad, the 15k race report, yeah.
I get there and I get my shirt and my chip and all that and I'm lining up at the starting line and I hear, "Glaven! Glaven Q. Heisenberg!" And I look and see a smiling face that I don't immediately recognize; and then the smile sez, "Marty Lastname!" And I'm all, "Martin!"
Martin used to be my and Teh 'Bride's boss at Baker & Taylor, where Teh 'Bride & I met. That was in 1990, 20 years ago, by my calculation; and Martin, who was a runner even back then (I was not and wouldn't be for over a decade more), looked great: a little grayer of hair, but like zero body fat; and after we shook hands and exchanged pleasantries — I asked if he'd run this course before and he had so he gave me and the lucky foax around me a quick run down as to what to expect — he made his way up a little closer to the front; because I suspect he finished the race a good 10-15 minutes ahead of me since he's been running forever, a fact that is evident in how well-preserved he is: He must be eight or more years older than I, but he looks to be about my age or younger.
[Interpolation, added a little later: I looked up Martin's results from last year: turns out he's only three years older than I am (I guess you always think your boss is way older than you) and his time last year WAS almost exactly 10 minutes faster than mine this year.]
I mention Baker & Taylor — a book jobber here in NJ — by name only because they paid for my MLS. They deserve the shout out because I would never have gone to library school if I had had to pay for it; but I would have been an idiot not to take advantage of B&T's full tuition reimbursement program for job-related education. And since my job title at B&T was "Collection Development Librarian", obviously Library School could be justified as relevant. I got the job at B&T not because I already had an MLS (obviously I didn't; if I did, why would I enroll in library school? PAY ATTENTION, BITCHES!1!), but because I had relevant experience at a different NJ library book jobber where the job I did was exactly the same as the one I did at B&T only the other book jobber called that job ... "Book Buyer".
Yeah, I could explain why, but it's a long story. Plus, I think I covered a lot of this story in my previous blog. So read it there.
AND GOOD LUCK finding it because some n*ts@ck-fondling FUCKTARD deleted it! Hahahahaha!
That reminds me — some woman ran this 15k race with her three-legged dog! They finished only about 8 or so minutes after I did: I know this because I did my usual post-race thing, which is to stand by the finish line and encourage the rest of the racers. Three-legged dogs always bring out an "Awwwww!" from me that I just can't supress. I can't help it. Poor doggy! But he was fast!
But so okay, the race. There were a lot of fast-ass people running this race because less than a half mile in, I could see there were just scores and scores of them in front of me and I knew I would have no chance of catching up with them. I mean, it was possible some had started out too fast and might end up walking a bit, but even if they did, by that time they'd be so far ahead, I wouldn't have a prayer of catching them.
And the thing is I think I started this race way too far up front because except at the very beginning, I did not pass a single runner the whole time. And most of those I passed ended up re-passing me at various points. I merely note this so that you know I am not kidding when I say I'm a slow-ass runner, because I didn't care that I was being passed; because as I said, my ONE GOAL for this race was to finish it. Of course, about two minutes in, that changed because the right calf felt absolutely great, as though it had never been injured, so I added this goal: Never to stop and walk. And since it's about time in this interminable report that I said something substantive, I will tell you this:
I achieved both goals. I finished ... running the entire time.
I wore my water belt for the race, but if I run it again next year — a near certainty — I won't because they had plenty of water stations (at every mile, I think), and the water stops offered Gatorade, too, so the belt was unnecessary. I don't think it slowed me down much. It just made me feel like a chick shopping at a mall, is all — Oooo, did you see that shoe sale down there at Prada, Myrtle? — or like Carolina Cletus but without his rampant auto-homo-eroticism.
Anyway, the course was an extremely pretty one, especially when we got to the trails; only about three miles of it, I'd estimate, was on trails, but it was very scenic: We crossed and re-crossed the Raritan River numerous times, and whenever I felt tired (which was often, because I think I paced myself in relation to a couple other runners who were more skilled (i.e., faster) than I), I'd try to forget the pain by looking at the river or the wooded park, trees in mid-Spring full-deciduation mode, and remind myself that, essentially, I was on a sped-up nature walk. Enjoy that, at least, I told myself.
That kinda worked. But it was a little harder (that's what she said!) when running through busy town streets and nice-but-boring McMansion-filled neighborhoods.
Finally, I got back to the park and immediately wanted to KILL the n*ts@ck-fonding FUCKTARD who decided that the race should end with your having to do this like .33-mile circuit of the park before you got to the finish line. I don't watch running, because it is, in my opinion, an excruciatingly boring spectator sport, but like everyone else in the US, I pretend to care about marathon running when the Summer Olympic Games roll around. And as I was watching the end of the marathon in Beijing a couple years ago, all I could think is Those runners must want to fucking KILL the guy who made it traditional to run around the track inside a stadium at the end of the marathon. Maybe they don't, but I can only project how I would feel and I would feel that anyone who made me do a half-mile (or whatever) fucking sprint inside a fucking stadium after I had just run 26 FUCKING MILES deserves not only to be kicked in his own personal n*ts@ck, but also deserves to have every male member of his family kicked in their n*ts@cks, too. Because you fucking asshole! I'm fucking TIRED, you DICK, and here I am, I made it to the stadium, and you won't just FUCKING LET ME JUST STOP!1!
That's how I felt as I entered the park after running a mere 9 miles. Point-three-three more to go in the park?
But I did it.
Finish time: 1:22:31 (PR! Hahahaha! That part was guaranteed!) 8:51 pace.
This is way better than I thought I would do.
Unless I sign up for something else, this was my last race as a 49-year-old. My next race — a 5k — will be on my 50th birthday in May.
Ian and me, last August, on Lake Champlain