Okay, so I’ve been slacking on my blogging duties of late. I promise I have several good excuses, though.
First and foremost, I’ve not had a weekend to myself for a bit, and I don’t have the interwebs at home. This is the first solid chunk of time I’ve had to myself since Valentine’s Day. I totally don’t say it like that to make you sad for me. I honestly don’t even remember what I did on Valentine’s Day, so it couldn’t have been all that bad.
So… since the V-Day, I ran Ragnar 2015, which is my new favorite Ragnar I’ve ever run. Mostly, I enjoyed running a respectable distance without suffering very much.
Also, I ate it pretty hard, which hasn’t happened to me in at least a decade.
Basically, I was on my second run of the race. It was nighttime, maybe like 8 or 9 p.m. and I had 7.8 miles to run. I started off pretty slow, and several jackasses blew past me. I knew I’d eventually run a few of them down, because they were mostly dudes, and their egos frequently get them into trouble on a race like Ragnar.
There was one dude in particular who blew by me, and slowed way down about a half-mile ahead of me.
So I did what you do in Ragnar. I hunted him. Slowly.
It took me something like three miles to catch him. He looked relatively fit, which always makes the triumph all the greater. The problem was that right around the time I intended to leave him behind for good, we starting hitting the stop lights. So I’d leave him behind, and then he’d catch me at the light. Then, he’d blow across the intersection like a bat out of hell, because men who aren’t runners, but who run are like that. In about 5 minutes, I’d pass him again, and then I’d run into the next red light.
We continued on in that annoying pattern for something like 3 more miles.
And I was pissed.
When we finally hit a spot where there were no lights in sight, I took off. I even passed another dude soon after that because I was so highly motivated. In Ragnar, you call it a kill when you pass anyone, so I was feeling pretty good about my 2 kills. I could hear the sounds of the exchange in the distance. I was enjoying the run, feeling like a barbarian in the night…
and I don’t even know what happened, but I ate it. Hard.
I hit my right knee first, then both hands, then my left knee.
Then my left calf cramped up like nobody’s business, so I shot both of my legs into the air and went into happy baby pose, trying to get my calf to calm the hell down.
That’s when my second kill came up to me.
“You alright?” he asked.
“Oh, yeah. I’m good,” I told him, still lying on my back with my feet in the air. He looked at me with severe pity.
“Yeah. I’m just going to sit here for a minute.”
He left, and I struggled with my calf some more.
Then, I saw him. The jackass I’d hunted for a solid 6 miles… that’s an hour of the race. He was at least a quarter-mile back, but there was no way I was letting him have the victory.
I jumped up off my ass, and starting sprinting as fast as I could. My left calf wasn’t protesting as much as I’d anticipated, the right knee of my pants was def. ripped, and there was some blood, but my left knee didn’t start to bruise for at least an hour after the fall. Also, kill #2 was up ahead and I had every intention of deleting his zombie kill on me from my record, by returning the favor.
“Sorry, man. That was embarrassing,” I said as I passed him once again.
He just shook his head as I ran past.
I sprinted across the final intersection and into the exchange, where I slapped our bracelet onto Shirley’s wrist, but I was dumbfounded when she didn’t move.
“I can’t go,” she said.
“There’s an accident up ahead. They aren’t letting any runners out.”
So as my two kills caught us yet again, I tried to keep my broken heart to myself. They trotted into the exchange, and their teammates got to leave at the same time mine did, in spite of my ridiculous efforts to improve us from 9,083 rd place in the race to 9,081 st (I made up those numbers).
Regardless, I got to feel like quite the badass, and I’m looking forward to my next race.