Soused, Soaked, Smashed and Scorched

The alternate title of this post was "Drunk, Drenched and Dumb," but it didn't quite convey the entirety of the weekend.

Ever since my hangover running injury in March, I've been fairly cautious about my post-binge mileage. After a successful Happy Hour of Oberon and Session on Friday, I made sure to sleep off the effects the next day instead of trying to bat away the cobwebs and get out the door for my LSD, a 16-miler.

Instead I let the sun climb to its apex before I headed out.

You no doubt think me stupid now, but let me tell you about the Doomsday Cloud that was moving in from the southwestern sky. Well, I guess I just did. I was sure that the Apocalypse was nigh, but I figured it might cool me off.

Five and a half miles into the run, it started to sprinkle. I thought, This isn't too bad. Although I am not a superstitious person, my next immediate thought was, Knock on wood. I suppose I could have rapped my knuckles on one of the trees along the park path, but I didn't. The black cloud had migrated directly overhead.

During the sixth mile, I passed a rather urgent walker who said, "It looks like we might get a little wet. ... I know I will." Seven seconds later the cloud burst. I never saw that man again.

Apparently, I may have violated some etiquette, but I was glad I chose not to wear a shirt on Saturday. A wet shirt would have wreaked carnage on my poor, innocent nipples. My feet are what I was afraid of damaging.

The last time I ran with severely wet shoes, I developed a monster blister. Thankfully, my feet survived for one more day, but I felt like I was running with water beds lashed to my ankles. Each step for the next 10 miles was a heavy slosh.

The rain scared off the wimps and made me feel like a super hero. As I made my second lap on this particular trail, I gave all the runners I had already passed a grotesque gratuitous smile, indicating my superior perseverance. Oh yes, you pansies, I think I'll knock out another eight miles.

Particularly satisfying was passing two gentlemen for the third time. (Technically, it was the fourth time if you count the time I re-passed them after a bathroom break I took shortly after passing them the first time.) They had taken shelter under a park directory. I must have shamed them into running again because they weren't too far behind me after I turned around and passed them the final time.

After mile 10, I didn't see another soul until the last two miles when the rain had stopped. It was serene.

To ease the lactic acid burning in my legs, I proceeded directly to my friends' summer party and proved the fortitude of my liver while fending off many pesky brain cells, which had grown strong in number but were viciously quashed. Not one non-alcoholic beverage entered my body for the next 24 hours.

In the final act of this triumphant tale, I managed to wake up on Sunday just in time to drive to my parents' and pick up my father for what we thought might be a dismal baseball game between Cleveland, which had recently broken an historically bad 10-game losing streak, and Tampa Bay, which had entered the four-game series as the best team in baseball.

Somehow Cleveland had already beaten Tampa Bay three times, and we were sure this game would send us to the exits by the third inning. No so! Cleveland sucker-punched the Rays with another win and knocked 'em out of first place. (You're welcome, Boston. I still don't like you.)

It was a gorgeous day to be at the ballpark with my dad and brother, drinking Great Lakes Dortmunder Gold and eating ice cream. However, like a moron, I wore flip-flops and seared the tops of my feet like a grillmaster. Beer-battered man's feet, anyone? Tomorrow's speedwork should be a ball!

Cheers!