Flashback Friday: For I Am a Rain Dog, Too

Stupid Rain
+
Stupid Slippery Watch Buttons
=
Operator Error

Quick, what's another word for donkey?

As promised, I return from the Circle of Doom with not one, but two -- count 'em 1-2 -- failures. However, one of those should have been a win.

It started raining last night during my drive home from work. I fret not the rain. I suited up and strode out the door. A warm up lap exposed a strong headwind at the fourth turn. Two satisfactory intervals in light rain got me prepared. On the third, I kicked through the blustery, final curve and beat my legs toward the line. I reached across my chest to press the lap button on my watch. I looked down and saw 1:40. Dang. Then I saw 1:41. Ohfuck.

And now the statistical rundown:

• Intervals: 6 x 400 meters
  
• Goal pace: 6:26-6:42 per mile
• Lap 1: 1:38.31 (6:34 per mile)
• Lap 2: 1:39.55 (6:38 per mile)
• Lap 3: 1:41.55 (6:46 per mile) FAIL
• Lap 4: 1:41.74 (6:46 per mile) FAIL
• Lap 5: 1:38.27 (6:34 per mile)
• Lap 6: 1:37.88 (6:30 per mile)
• Average pace: 6:38 per mile
  
• Total distance: 4.7 miles

[Drunkard's note: Total distance includes one mile warm up, 400-meter recovery laps and one mile cool down.]

The rain picked up in the middle of my track visit. The puddles swelled. I was soaked, and my shoes squashed with each step. Good times.

Just a Number
This Sunday is Flag Day. And if you haven't figured it out, Flag Day is my birthday. I'll be 30. Some people worry about this number, and getting older in general. I just figure I'm growing into my personality. I was born to sit on front porches and shout at young vagrants from my rocking chair.

Here are some things that will change on Sunday.

I will be in a new age group for racing, and I hope you bastards are slow. All my younger friends and loved ones will say I'm old, but I will remind them that they're next. I will be in the same decade as my siblings, which only happens once a decade. I can fondly reminisce about my 20s. And I will be that much closer to routine colonoscopies and prostate exams.

That's it.

I enjoy my life. It's not as if I'm going to stop enjoying it because of my birthday. Besides, I plan on living until I'm 120. I'm only a quarter of the way there. I've got many more miles to run and kegs to tap before I ride this donkey into the sunset.



My birthday present to myself will be a five-mile hangover run at race pace tomorrow morning and a 10-mile long run on Sunday. And of course, I will be imbibing of the spirits for the majority of the weekend. Cheers to me, bitches.

Back Talk
Wherein I keep the entries to a minimum because I've already given you as much entertainment as you can take.

Pregnant Jess gets all motherly on my getting sunburned: "How come men seem to believe that sunscreen is voodoo? If it weren't for me, I'm certain my husband would have melanoma by now."

Answer: I did put on sunscreen. After I'd been out in the sun for hours.

Happy Hour is nearly upon us, teammates. Have a finely brewed weekend. Good luck to those of you who are racing. And to all, run well and drink well. The boat to Blackout Isle leaves shortly. All aboard!