I am so behind on my blog posts, but like many other things it's easy to let blogging slip by. So, instead of having a single long-winded post, I'm going to break it down into a few choice retrospectives. You know, do things the way they should have been done to begin with. Who reads this anyway, right? Topics will include:
· Man Dates
· Gogol Bordello Live in concert
· The real distance to Mantua by bike (Hint: It's far)
· Root canals and festering, rotting nerves in my head
· Swimming, triathlon, tri bikes and if I am even going to do this silly shit anymore
· Whatever else I can think of
But this post is going to be all about the Ogden Half Marathon. Here ya go.
85th overall (1,978 finishers)
Pace: 7:32 min./mile
Far from world class speed but I am pretty pleased with myself, considering my sporadic training since Canyonlands.
The race was uneventful until the finish, and I really can't say anything dramatic happened. I really just felt awesome for the most part. About mile 8 I started to feel my lack of endurance with fatigue that I know was caused by the bod wondering how much longer we were going to do this. And my time should have been a little better, but in the course of avoiding too much liquid so I didn't get sloshy, I let myself get dehydrated which caused my calves to start tightening up and my gut to start going south, both about mile 10 (the dreaded Ogden River Parkway). Instead of full blown cramps and having to do the penguin to keep from pooping, I dropped back to an 8:30 pace for two miles before throttling back up for the Grant Avenue finish.
The finish turned out to be pretty funny.
Approaching the finish line some dudes started sprinting and, as so often happens in my life, the dumbass in me took over.
I went with them. I went past them. I was killing them. And then...
SLAP! My left hand got smacked. Which meant someone was very close to me.
This caused one of those fight or flight moments. In a millisecond I saw our legs getting tangled up and both of us slapping the pavement.
So I gave him a little shove to get him away from me. He didn't like that. After, it went a little like this:
Dipshit cromagnon-looking crewcut asshole: "That was uncalled for."
Moi: "You slapped my hand."
Dipshit cromagnon-looking crewcut asshole: "I did not."
Moi: "OH BULLSHIT, FUCKER. I DON'T JUST ARBITRARILY PUSH PEOPLE. YOU HIT MY FUCKING HAND WHICH MEANT THAT YOU WERE WAY TOO CLOSE TO ME SO I GOT YOU AWAY FROM ME!"
Dipshit cromagnon-looking crewcut asshole: " Did not...."
Moi: "Fuck off. You tell yourself what you have to sleep at night."
Race photos confirm he was right on my ass. Right or wrong for me to push? I don't care. I know that I wasn't bloody afterward.
I have never been so sick after a sporting event. I'll spare the sordid details, but it was a SHITTY time. Next time, it's right to the med tent for an IV. That's what Coach Katie told me to do. If there was a bright side to all this, other than my time, was the discovery of Sport Shield. Instead of the usual large blisters, I had only very small ones. I'll take what I can....
Oh, and I am due for some new shoes.