Today I participated in the Revolutionary Run at Washington Crossing Park in Pennsylvania. I ran this race last year, too. There's a one-mile run, a 5k, and a 10k. I ran the 10k, just as I did last year. Last year, I was guaranteed a PR because it was the first 10k race I ever ran; this year, sadly, there was no such guarantee. But on the upside, it was guaranteed I'd do no worse than my second best time, because this would be the second 10k race I'd ever run.
And to be honest, a second best time was the best I thought I'd be capable of today because, frankly, I just wasn't feeling it this morning. Last night, our town had its Independence Day fireworks display, which we can see from our front yard, but since today's race started at 8:30 (meaning I'd have to be on the road by 7:00 a.m., which, for me, means up well before 6:00, because I likes to take my time in the morning so I'll look purdy for all the other racers), I thought I would hit the hay no later than 9:15. Which, it turns out, was when the fireworks were supposed to get started. But that's okay — with the AC on, I probably wouldn't hear too much, and even if I did... meh ... I could wait them out and be asleep well before 10.
Except Ian managed to see the parents of one of his friends and he invited them to watch the fireworks from our front yard which had me cursing under my breath at Teh 'Bride, saying, "He gets this being nice to people shit from you because he sure isn't getting it from me! What have I told you about interacting with people? We Heisenbergs DON'T DO THAT!" Because I knew now, now I'd have to come outside and play host and be somewhat sociable at like fucking 9 o'clock at night which I fucking hate to do unless I'm drunk and I wasn't because I'd stopped drinking beer at like 7 because I had a race the next day!
All that hard work not drinking ... right down the drain!
So long story short, I was up till past 10 and then I managed to wake up at like 3:30 a.m. and I didn't get back to sleep.
So by the time I got to the Washington Crossing Park for the race this morning, I was tired, cranky (even more so than usual), had a slight headache, and even felt a bit nauseous.
Luckily, the nausea went away almost as soon as the race began1.
But I knew a PR was not in the cards, just based on how I felt pre-race.
But I had forgotten one thing.
I had used up all my Arm & Hammer deodorant a couple days before, and the only deodorant I could find under the sink was Girl Deodorant. There was probably more Man Deodorant in the basement — Teh 'Bride tends to buy in bulk as part of what she calls her "Pantry Principle" which means she keeps our basement well-stocked with non-perishable items and, to give you an idea of how well-stocked, well, we have enough toilet paper in the house to keep our collective asses well-wiped for like three decades, even if we all happened to get dysentery at the same time — but, having just emerged from the shower, I didn't feel like going all the way to the basement for Manly-Smelling Deodorant, and so I just chose this one:
I have NO idea why Teh 'Bride bought Teen Spirit deodorant, seeing as neither she nor I nor Teh Boy is a teenaged girl, but I figured, of the three of us, I probably am closest, and so I used it.
And reader? Teen Spirit Pink Crush (with the kissy lips and hearts on the label) propelled me to a 13-second PR in my 10k race.
It did not feel, during the race, as if I were running faster than I had last year; and for some reason, I thought my time last year was 54:something, so as I approached the finish line and saw 54:57, 54:58, 54:59 ... I figured, O well, not bad. I knew I wasn't going to beat last year's time anyway ... And I saw the clock turn to
And I managed that goal rather easily.
Then I ran into my next-door neighbor, who'd run the 5k last year. This year she ran the 10k. She asked how I did3 and I told her and I added that I thought that was about a minute slower than last year.
But when I got home, I checked last year's time and it turns out I ran the 10k in 55:14 last year.
So I ran it faster this year.
Hey, no one is more surprised than I am.
And very soon, no one will be more surprised or more drunk-on-beer than I am because it's past Noon and I am going to go out and find me a likker store that's open on Teh Fourth of July and I am gonna buy me some good strong beer and then I'm going to browse to this here site and I'm gonna shake my Flat, Drunken Irish Arse at the computer screen and say, "Thomas Jefferson, you can't touch this! (But all John Hancock has to do is ask because he has a Big Han(d) and a big...4!)"
1 Which, by the way, it did almost exactly on time. Maybe one minute late. Which fucked me up a bit, because the 5k, scheduled to start at 8:15, didn't get started till 8:21. I know, because I watched the start. And the way they started it was there was a guy with a bullhorn who said, "Runners, get ready!" and then BLAM! Some dude in a Revolutionary War uniform shot a musket into the air.
Which is how I figured they'd start the 10k race, too. And I figured they'd start the 10k about six minutes late, too, since it followed the same route as the 5k for a couple of miles and they wouldn't want to risk having the fast 10k-ers running up the asses of the slow 5k-ers. Right?
Because at 8:31, without, as far as I could hear, any "Runners, get ready!", there was a BLAM! and the 10k race began.
Of course, I had positioned myself where I belonged — somewhere in the middle of the pack — so there was about 15 seconds of walking as the pack peristaltically accordioned itself forward far enough for us to begin "running", which "running" was, for another full minute or more, merely at a slightly accelerated walking pace.
So being surprised by the BLAM! basically didn't cost me any time, not that it would've mattered much if it had.
Making this whole discursive footnote kinda useless and unnecessary! Hahahahaha! Fuck you, reader! The Founding Fathers wanted me to have the right to waste your time! Because they loved me, especially T. Jefferson, who used to come on to me in the most blatant way imaginable. He'd say, Shake that flat Irish arse for me, you whoo-wer! And I'd be, "You can look, but you can't touch, TJ. My heart belongs to another, and my ass is part of the package deal. Love me, love my flat Irish ass, I always say."
TJ: But I do! I do!
3 I already knew how she'd done because I'd watched her cross the finish line.
4 ... signature, you pigs!