Run, Drink, Repeat

In my many days of running and drinking, I've stumbled upon a theory that may or may not hold water. I mean, it certainly holds booze...Dating back to my earliest college days, I would often limit my drinking to Saturday evenings for the sake of maximizing my training. Early, or as early as I could muster (sometime between 10AM and 12PM), on Sunday morning, I'd head out for thirteen miles of fun Sunday long run. By and large, I always felt surprisingly good on these. It began to dawn on me that, after a dozen or more drinks and generally some late-night grub, I might secretly be loaded with gobs of early morning energy.

Of course, I think the state of my body does a lot to cloud my perception, making me feel as if I'm moving much quicker than I really am, but sometimes the watch doesn't lie. Okay, the watch never lies I guess, so I really mean it helps support my somewhat Swiss cheese thesis. With similar conditions weather-wise, I completed the same thirteen-and-a-half mile run these past two Sundays. Preceding the first I had a good quantity of beer as well as late-night pie, and preceding the more recent run I had merely had a dinner of pizza, Sprite, and ice cream cake. One thing about me, I'm always a pillar of fitness and health. Anyway, though quite similar, I completed the post booze run about a minute faster than the boozeless run, which equates to a solid 4.5 seconds per mile or so.

This morning then, fresh off many delicious drinks and some late-night pizza, I headed out for eight miles of glory. It was drizzly and 45°, but because I don't like clingy wet clothes while running (I kind of love them otherwise) I opted for shorts sans shirt. The result, not surprisingly, was a healthy dose of heckling. Of course, with my iPod blaring, many of these went unheard, but I'm pretty sure I caught a "Put a fucking shirt on" from some lady in a car. She was probably just jealous of my triangular chest hair and the strange daddy long-legs hairs populating my shoulders. But mixed with heckles, sometimes I get encouragement and hey, either way I consider it totally worth it.

Barreling through the Hacidic district on the beginning of my run I nearly gave an elderly Hacid a heart attack, but I can't say why. He just had this horrified look on his face and seemed unable to move. Sorry old dude. On the return journey, a little deeper in the heart of Hacidum, a guy headed into his building took a look at me and yelled "Ironman!" encouragingly. I gave him my preferred props-point and he gave me a nod. Then, closing in on the busier bits of Bedford Ave, I spotted another runner about my age, running in the opposite direction. He gave me a strong high-five that, with the force of our opposite momentum, nearly took my arm off. It was so worth it though, because for every high-five another runner has bestowed on me running (this being my second ever...the first also administered in Williamsburg, at McCarren Park), probably four-hundred runners have given me dirty looks. Seriously, aren't we supposed to support each other out there? Nothing like smiling at someone to have them frown back at you.

And really, I promise, I looked less toolish than this pair I might have referenced in my last post...