Tom’s Midnight Run and the Promise of Pancakes

I’m always tickled (that’s Southern for highly amused) when stuff that kind of starts as a joke morphs into something people actually want or enjoy.  Or at least they pretend that they do.  Like vibram five fingers, $3 cups of coffee or the Beastie Boys.  Such is the suspect history of the now somewhat regularly scheduled, and appropriately named Midnight Run.  Not to be confused with the 1998 film of the same title starring Robert De Niro and Charles Grodin, with which I understand there is still pending litigation.  No, this is little soiree is thrown together by our man Tom P.  I’d link to something for you for more information as proof of his existence, but Tom’s facebook page has fewer entries than Honey Boo Boo’s diet has vegetable options, and he works in some sort of IT function for one of the “big banks” which I believe still require some sort of internet scrubbing of your identity on par with entry into the witness protection program.

At any rate, this whole Midnight Run thing started a few years ago as an opportunity to get a mutual friend, Steve G., an ever-important headlamp run in advance of his first 100-miler.  For the unchurched, if you’re going to run 100 miles you’re going to be running in the dark at some point.  Even in Alaska.  Even in the summertime.  So, Steve here needs this headlamp run.  Tom, being a glutton for punishment and having agreed to mentor/coach/pace Steve and his then two-pack-a-day-Virginia-Slims-menthol-smoking, salami-eating-and-PBR-swilling, wanna-be-belt-buckle-wearing-self, schedules said run.  Needing witnesses should Steve not survive the effort, Tom invited a few other folks to take part in the possible carnage.  As legend has it, Anji PN. was the sole respondent, and now wears that crown like she’s the long-lost star of Toddlers and Tiaras.  (Thank heavens for TLC.  You make similes so much more fun!)  So with the cast of characters set, Tom directed all comers to the Booty Loop for the start and finish, and start and finish, etc., through one of the 704’s most well-heeled neighborhoods.

Fast-forward a few more years, to this one, specifically.  Tom’s still looking for ways to get out of the house after dark, Steve’s still after that 100-mile finish, Anji just wants to post pictures of me on her facebook page, and neighbors along the Booty Loop have yet to call the cops, so the Midnight Run goes on.  So as to keep his wife from getting suspicious, Tom has cast a much wider net for participants; going so far as to solicit “anyone who owns shoes” as a would-be takers.  To sweeten the deal, Tom puts out a buffet of that bests most ACC tailgate parties.  I’m an expert here, too, folks.  My undergrad is from Ole Miss where they all but offer a degree in tailgating, but back to Tom.  In hopes of diluting the number of wandering drunks making their way home from the uptown bars, this year’s Midnight Run also held the promise of pancakes for any runners willing to brave the hour and the repetition.  Tom’s obviously spent a little time around the marketing department this past year, realizing nothing draws the cheap carbohydrate loving distance runners out of the proverbial woodwork like pancakes.  “Hot, golden delicious pancakes as big as your face,” he promised, “made from organic flour milled by wee, tiny leprechauns!”  Wow!  That’s all I could say to that.  Where do I sign up?  Oh, and did I mention he also promised “pure maple syrup flown in directly on the backs of butterflies from a native Vermont forest that’s still populated by unicorns and wood nymphs?”  Double wow.  I mean, who could say no to that, right?!

So with just two days notice I was able to rearrange my schedule, cancel the free clinic I was hosting to help senior citizens file their taxes and learn how to use the interwebs, and find someone to cover my volunteer shift at Sister Mary Paraphernalia’s Orphanage.  I told my own kids they’d have to go to bed hungry because dad couldn’t make dinner tonight – I’d need to go to bed extra early in preparation for the Midnight Run.  But I knew all the heartbreak I’d caused and disappointed faces I’d left in my wake would be worth it for those incredible pancakes!  I dreamed about them as I faded off to sleep that afternoon…

Turns out I wasn’t the only one who took the bait.  Nearly two dozen others braved the early hour, the boredom of turning lap after lap, and the drudgery of Tom’s retelling of his days as a Spanish Conquistador.  We just wanted the pancakes and were willing to pay the price to get them.  The miles, the laps, the stories; they all wore on until finally the clock crept closer to the hour for which we’d all been waiting!  Those of us who’d stuck it out until the bitter end could practically taste them as we made the final approach up Hopedale Road toward the parking lot.  Daybreak was still more than an hour away.  We hoped our headlamps would catch the glinting wings of the weary butterflies, exhausted from their trip from the east.  Or maybe the flash of a leprechaun’s mischievous smile as he darted for cover in the surrounding shrubbery, lingering only long enough to see the pleasure on our faces as the fruits of his labor were transformed into delightfully fluffy discs that would make this all worth the effort and the hour.

Waaaaaiiit for it…

But there were no butterflies.  No leprechauns here, either.  And no magic pancakes.  There were, however, many low-hung heads and crocodile tears, whatever those are.  Not since Ron Burgundy’s unfortunate sign-off in San Diego has a group of people been so thoroughly disappointed in one human being.

After safely ushering Tom from the angry – and hungry – mob and in to his waiting car, I calmed the crowd by giving them a fictitious address at which to find him.  I’m sure the recent rains have washed most of the TP from whoever’s trees took the brunt of the crowd’s early morning anger.  For those who managed to make it to breakfast, I hope you can forgive old Tom.  And hear me now, future Midnight Runners.  You have been warned.

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It should be noted that Steve has since quit smoking; an accomplishment of his for which we are all very proud.