17 and a life to go...

Holy shitzl. I have never wanted to NOT run more than this morning. Martin came in yesterday, which means we were in a Mexican restaurant having ritas by 2pm. We had 2.5 each. He had an allergic reaction to something either in the chips, salsa, or drink. It made his face red and blotchy. Hilarious -- if not for the not being able to breathe aspect of the reaction.

After watching Longhorn football at the Fox and Hound and having dinner at Dough I had consumed a total of 7 alcoholic beverages including Tequila, Texas-made beer, and Italian wine (Feudi). I was carbed out. And pissed. Drunk.

I woke up after an odd night of sleep. Buster whining. Too hot. Too cold. I wrestled back and forth with the idea of scrapping the long run. After about an hour of this, I quietly laced up the trainers and left.

I opened up well enough -- easy. Thankfully, the detox came quicker than expected. I had forced myself to drink as much water as possible before bed. Note to self: this works. Like clockwork, though, I felt a pain in my gut indicating that I needed to drop a deuce. I remember looking at the watch to see how far I had run -- only 1.8. Funny, I thought, right before "2." I soldiered on.

Somewhere along mile 4 or 5 I started to hit a stride. Clicking off 7:45s, I was fully committed. I then came upon a guy setting out cones for runners. He was nice and acknowledged me with a "good job runner." I nodded and said thank you. He eventually passed me later in his car; I assumed he was heading out to set the next marker. What surprised me, however, was when he stopped in the middle of the road a little less than a quarter mile away. Already another marker? Can't be I thought. In fact, he had stopped because 4 or 5 feral dogs were laying near the street. I had already picked several rocks up and was fondling their grooves in order to become familiar with how I would defend myself. The dogs never attacked. In fact, my presence barely registered a response from any of them. I appreciated their disinterest, but I really appreciated the act of kindness from the guy in the car. I waved and he drove off when the situation appeared safe.

At around the time I turned back, I was oiled and ready to roll. I started hitting 7:30 - 7:35 miles. I was hardly breathing and my legs felt sharp -- transition was smooth. On the return route I ran past scores of joggers and bikers. Although there were a few cordial riders, the rest gave me no reason to withdraw my criticism and bias towards them. If they rode in groups, they chatted one another's faces off. If they rode alone, their seriousness was akin to Floyd Landis in his doping hearings. C'mon people. Perhaps they were still frustrated from trying to fit their fleshy mass into those compression suits. Who knows. I sure don't.

I finished a bit tired, but strong enough that if I was pressed to do 26.2, I could have finished it at an even lower pace. This is the first time I have ever felt this way. Trust me; I have run MANY hung over long runs. Now, on to bigger and better.

17 miles - 2:12:16 - 7:47 pace