Drink, Recovery, Run, Drink, Recovery Run

Success! Last you heard, I was preparing my liver and legs for a series of powerful performances for the Flag Day weekend. I wanted to make sure I got my birthday drinks in, but I didn't want to miss any training runs.

Friday evening was a gathering of my cronies at the local, cheap Mexican eatery, Mariachi Coco's. I ordered myself a giant Dos Equis as everyone arrived. I ate a bean burrito and rice to lay down as good of a base as possible before the sponsored drinks started to arrive.

First was another giant Dos Equis. Then the restaurant staff filed behind me with a sombrero. One of them placed a shot of tequila before me as the group sang "Feliz Cumpleaños." Within minutes of downing the complimentary shot, the erratic epicurean bought me another. And then the Martini bought me a third.

Flashforward to more good times. The erratic epicurean invited the 12 or so of us to her place for an aftermath party. Martini got me again with a flask full of Bushmills, while I revisited the goodness of Great Lakes Glockenspiel. From there, it was only a hop, skip and a jump to Blackout Isle.

Saturday morning disappeared mostly before I awoke, killing my hopes of running that morning. Plans took me to Cleveland for an artsy parade and an afternoon baseball game. I took the hair of a dog that didn't bite me with a late lunch at the Winking Lizard downtown. After Albert Pujols single-handedly beat the Clevelanders, I was ready to run.

I got home at about half past eight, quickly changed into my running gear and headed out to Sand Run for five miles at eight to nine-minute miles. Darkness consumed the park and I felt like a drunkard as I misstepped my way along the crushed limestone path. I finished the run with an average pace of 8:36 per mile.

Sunday was the big day. Lots of plans -- both known and unknown -- filled my afternoon and evening. I had to get my long run done that morning with less than 12 hours of rest. I ran 10 miles in the Cleveland Metro Parks and absolutely killed it. I finished with a 9:02-per-mile pace, a two-minute negative split and a final mile of 7:50.

The rest of Sunday was filled with relaxing, barbecuing and surprise birthday partying, which was orchestrated by the polka-dotted queen of secrets herself. We partied into the late hours, and I was happy I had at the last minute decided to take a vacation day Monday.

I slept in yesterday and got some errands done before heading out for a three-mile recovery run.

After a weekend of serious drinking and strong running, today, my liver and my legs are taking a break. Cheers!

Faulty Forecasting

I was wrong Friday. Shocker, I know.

I did run three miles on Thursday night, but I did not run at all on Friday. It rained, and I'm not into running enough at the moment to go out in such weather.

The rain didn't let up until well after I left the ballgame after sitting through halfway through the top of the fifth inning (three-hour rain delay). Those pansies wussed out just five outs shy of a regulation game.

It was disappointing that I didn't get to see the finish, but there is no better way to spend an afternoon than at the ballpark with good company. I don't care if it's raining or my team loses. It's worth it to smuggle Cracker Jacks into my mouth underneath a giant blue poncho.

I ran a little under five miles on Saturday, veering off my usual beaten path to run some rough trails. I need to do more of that. The usual routine bores me shitless anymore.

Flashback Friday: Too Good to Be True

I'm not here. This message is coming to you from yesterday.

I planned to run three miles last night and six to eight miles this morning. I have no idea if I succeeded.

Today is Cleveland's home opener for Major League Baseball. I will be there on the first base side. I hope the rain clears ... that is, if it is indeed raining right now as it was forecast last night when I wrote this.

Don't worry. I won't kill any pitchers.

Back Talk
Because you left me comments, I will be snarky about it and pass it off as wit.

Ted has been tracking my track sessions: "Your pacing improved. You are getting faster. Have you been cutting down on beer lately?"

Answer: Yes, I've been drinking wine instead. It's like Gatorade, only more alcoholic.

An anonymous commenter doesn't get me: "OK explain to me how to do intervals - don't like pain - so why?????"

Answer: It's easy. You just run in circles as fast as you can until you can't take it anymore. Why? It's better than a good flogging.

It is Happy Hour somewhere. Enjoy your weekend. Run well and drink well.

And happy holidays to those who celebrate. Cheers.


[Drunkard's note: If you couldn't tell from the conspicuous logo at the bottom left corner of the above images, they were nabbed from someecards.com.]

Flashback Friday: Horse Face Futility

Last night, the NFL Network was kind enough to remind me why I hate Colorado, the city of Denver, the sports teams that reside there, and especially the Broncos and that horse-faced former quarterback, John Elway. (Not to mention the fact that the people who live in that state are slow.)

During its coverage of the Denver-Cleveland game last night, the NFL Network showed highlights of how, 21 years ago, that dick Elway helped instill in me the proper, dysfunctional attitude and apoplectic flinching that accompanies watching your teams climb to within reach of the absolute height of success.

And then fail, dismally.

I, as a Viper pup, sat at my papa's knee and watched the Cleveland Browns play Denver in the AFC playoffs, one game away from the Super Bowl, a game in which Cleveland has never played because the first Super Bowl was in 1967 and the team's last championship was in 1964.

On that day in January, Cleveland was ahead 20-13 in the fourth quarter and had Denver pinned deep in its own territory with five minutes remaining when Elway rattled off a series of plays that became known as The Drive.

Cleveland lost. It was stunning. A season that was so exciting to watch had suddenly and quite finally ended. And then, I uttered those fateful words, "Maybe next year."

Next year has never come.

I have since watched the Browns leave Cleveland for Baltimore in 1995, return in 1999 in absolute dismal fashion, with only two winning seasons in that time, one of them last year, when it looked like just maybe this team might become respectable again, only to look like dog -- oh, I'm sorry -- dawg turds again this year, as they looked last night. Maybe next year.

I have seen the Cleveland Indians go from a team that was so bad they made movies about it, to a team that, in a new, record-settingly full ballpark, reached and lost the World Series twice in the 1990s, one time just two outs away from winning the whole damned thing, then all those players left Cleveland for bigger paychecks (bon voyage, Albert; bye, Jim; see ya, Manny), while the Indians got "rebuilding years," until last year when I saw the team win its last post-season game, putting them one win away from another chance to lose the World Series, only to lose three straight games to Boston, which won the Series, something Cleveland has not done since 1948, when ironically the team beat both Boston teams. This was supposed to be their year. Maybe next year.

I have seen the Cleveland Cavaliers, a team that has never won a championship in its existence, a team that in the late 1980s to mid-1990s was one of the best basketball teams in the league, a team that unfortunately had to play against a guy named Michael Jordan, who played in the same conference and prevented the Cavs from ever reaching the NBA Finals, eventually leading the team to break apart and fall into such futility that I stopped watching basketball altogether, until the team was so bad that it got the first pick in the 2003 draft and selected Akron-born phenomenon, LeBron James, who has returned the team to success, taken them to the playoffs three consecutive years, to the NBA Finals in 2006-07, losing to the San Antonio Spurs, returning to the conference finals again last year, only to lose, of course, to Boston. This is supposed to be their year. Maybe this is next year?

I have seen The Drive, The Fumble, The Shot, The Move, The Blown Save. I have seen coaches and players leave Cleveland to win championships elsewhere. (Oh, hi Jim, Manny, Bill and Ron! Thanks for joining, Charlie!) I have seen hope dashed, smelled its decayed flesh, and tasted its rancid bitterness.

I watch sports not thinking my team will win, but knowing it will figure out a way not to. I cheer for players who are rumored to be on the first flight out of Cleveland when their contract is through. I wincingly root for teams that I'm scared will build me up just to let me down (let me down) and mess me around and then worst of all (worst of all) they never call, baby, when they say they will (say they will) but I love them still.

I am a Cleveland sports fan. And I know why they brew good beer with 10 percent ABV.

This is my baggage. Thank you for listening.

Back Talk
Wherein I'm just too angry at my local sports team to be all that clever in response to your comments this week, but it doesn't matter because your comments are never all that good anyway.

Marcy thinks everyone whose name starts with V looks the same and admits to a perverted fetish for odors: "Are you and Vanilla the same person? You both said the SAME damn thing in your comments HAHAHHAAA I'm anal about smelling. I also put deodorant on before bed."

Answer: No, Vanilla and I are not the same person. I'm the faster and better looking one, whose only children are illegitamate. I also know how to copy and paste. Please keep the anal smelling talk off my site.

Xenia has some advice in regards to my not running: "Let's see -- you have poor eyesight, a propensity to drop your pants, and somehow hurt your leg while scooting closer to your desk. Perhaps if you laid off that extra-curricular activity of yours, you'd be able to run. Just saying."

Answer: Next, your going to tell me that forearm soreness is not a common running injury.

Ms. V shows why she is a good teacher: "Okay, I know it looks like we've been on your blog for like, 15 minutes, but seriously, my 5th period class spent all this time watching Soul 2 Soul and explaining to me that it's a REALLY old group.

"I'm like, NO, this guy that put this up is really young and hip. Except for the fact that you're experiencing some age related aches and pains."

Answer: My SiteMeter clocked you at 13:48. I'm glad to see your students are learning under the influence of my alcoholy writing. I'm a premium role model.

Thanks for stopping by everyone. I'm sorry if your comments didn't get the treatment you felt they deserved. Maybe next year.

Happy Hour is nearly upon us. I hope you brew a fine weekend for yourselves. Run well and drink well. Cheers.

F#CK.

Thanks for ruining my weekend Boston (and you too Vanilla). This heartbreaking Cleveland loss in the ALCS shall go down as "the choke" or "the stop sign" or perhaps "the curse of Joel Skinner."

However, baseball was the only reason for my cussing this weekend. I got back on the roads Sunday with a 30-minute run. No route in mind. I just ran until my timer went off and turned back toward home. Sometimes those can be the best runs. Running without direction or regimen.

Obviously, the world was glad to have me back. One kindly old lady aimed her car for a friendly bumper nudge. And I swear I heard a faint cat call from the window of a passing SUV. It's good to be missed. And this morning only a little soreness. But it's not the hip pain I was feeling before. This is more like the soreness of muscles that aren't used to moving so much. I even played with my big green bouncy ball again. Without falling!

It's time to get back into race shape. There's the Home Run for the Homeless, a four-mile race on Thanksgiving morning (read: hungover). And Martini is baiting me with an ultra in January. Apparently, he thinks we'll be able to train for a 50K during the typically mild Ohio winter. All I have to do is ramp back up to my marathon training in a couple weeks and then double the mileage. I'm sure it'll be fine. Good times! Now I can get back to writing about running instead of that rambling nonsense I posted Friday.

Beer Healing

I decided last night that I would not in fact go for a run. My knee didn't feel all that bad, but it was sticky balls hot outside and iced knee sounded better than icked knee.

What I did do was engage in two of my favorite non-running like an idiot activities. I grabbed my keys and went down to the pub where I plunked myself down in front of the projection screen TV to watch baseball and asked the kind barmaid for a draft beer.

It's been awhile since I've gone to the bar by myself, and I don't often get the chance to watch a game. I am of bare pocketbook and no cable so I usually just listen to the radio broadcast and wait for the highlights during the news.

But last night seemed special. I am near payday so a little $10 beer holla seemed like a cost-conscious splurge and the Cleveland Indians were about to sweep the Minnesota Twins in a three-game series with the grand finale that wasn't between C.C. Sabathia and Johan Santana. Basically, the game was over after the first inning, which ironically I listened to on the radio while I was eating my dinner at home. But despite not seeing too much action it was still a nice treat.

And we can just call it carb-loading for my eight-miler tonight.

Marathon Countdown: 29 days.