This is basically what it looks like:
The mud factor this year was am 8.5 out of 10, which made for childish delights (my toes are squishy), to slight anxiety over injury (um, I don't have any grip on my shoes anymore and I almost lost one in that calf-high mudpit back there), to all out ecstacy (I placed in the top 30% without getting a single leech on me).
And boy do I know how to leechproof dress. Did I mention under that 13-year-old super Chi Omega t-shirt lies a supermodel?
At the very end, about 100 yards from the finish line I had the choice between waist high pool of water or bridge. I chose water, and I chose well.
I wish that my motivations to do this run had something to do with training for a marathon. Despite my belief that nothing is more irritating than hearing about training for a marathon, I have decided that I may very well run one. However, in order not to be a hypocrite I plan on posting a single sentence one day saying "I ran a marathon." The barren strength of this statement should be enough. Besides, if I ever did really run a marathon I probably wouldn't have the energy to type much more than that. Or even breathe, for that matter.
Instead my motivations went something like this, in order of thought process:
1. Very toned men running
2. Very toned men covered with mud while running
3. Very toned men covered with mud washing themselves off under a fireman's hose.
4. Me drinking beer while watching this happen.
So, in short maybe running is giving me an outlet for my libido while providing it with more food.
Also, they use this as the starting gun.
While I've always liked running, this is one of the first times in my life where I have started infiltrating the dark terrain of the runners' racing world. It is a strange place, full of odd lingo regarding pacing, chaffing, and swallowing gel out of plastic packages. The upside is that in New Orleans there are very few serious runners, and usually they're too far ahead of the pack to intimidate the rest of us.
Like this guy. Definitely not intimidated.
The day's lesson was learned. To go undercover I really need to start wearing more sexy sporty clothing, or at least remember when you put your arm behind you while someone is taking your picture, it makes your arm look really really short.
Seriously, arms like an alligator's, but I finished that damn race smiling.
4 comments:
I love the starting gun.
Here I am all excited to see what you look like and your pics are smaller than my toe. And they don't get bigger when I click on them. C'mon Starkicker, help a brutha out!!
Yeah, I don't know what the dealio is with the fact the photos were sized like that, but asking me to fix it after finally learning how to post pics on a Mac is like asking me to imagine that your pinky toe is bigger than those photos.
Terrifying.
You know what big feet means, right? Yep. Big shoes. And big socks.
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