Race Report: Virtually the Race

I was going to lie to you today. I've been mulling over the story all weekend. You see, I signed up for this virtual race, 8 on the 8th, and things sort of went awry.

Dec. 8 was quickly eliminated as race day. Martini's lady friend was moving and I was recruited to make it all happen in one trip, with a caravan of two pickup trucks, an SUV and a Toyota Echo. I couldn't refuse. My friends have helped me move more than a few times. And, well, they offered free booze. Which was necessary to numb my right index finger after I mashed it against the corner of a wall while carrying a particularly unwieldy box.

Plan B: Because I'm dumb, I decided I want to run this stupid trail race at the end of January, so I figured I ought to actually train on some real trails. I went out Sunday with the thought that maybe I'd do 8 on the 9th: trail-style. Have you run on trails recently? What's up with all the really steep hills? Why is the footing so bad? Can't they plow the snow on this mud? I wore myself out far too fast for an eight-mile run. And that's fine because I forgot my watch anyway.

Plan C: That left my only other run this weekend. I figured if I ran with Martini, I might actually come close to race pace. We finished at 1:14:09. Not too bad, eh? It was hardgoing. We had a fresh snow fall the night before, and our route was a crushed limestone towpath. However, our route was also not eight miles. It was seven (ish).

I was thinking, well OK, that's about a 10:30 mile pace so I'll just add another 10 minutes and call it a race. But that made me feel icky. I don't why. It's not like I really know any of you people who read this.

Then I was thinking, well, how about 7 on the 7th? That's a clever little misdirect. Was this race really about the distance? And it's not like I'm going to say I DNF'd a virtual (i.e., fake, fake, fake) race. It's fine if it was the 7 on the 7th. Oh wait. That wasn't the seventh. It was the sixth.

So, I bring you 7-ish on the 6th. I know it doesn't have the same ring or cachet or whatever as 8 on the 8th, but you're just going to have to live with it. Hey, at least I bothered.

I did celebrate on the seventh. I enjoyed more fingers of Laphroaig than I have to measure with.

[Drunkard Note: Image is result of Google search for "fake race." The "be your alibi" part seemed apropos. It's probably some political message that will offend all of you.]