Dirty Jokes and Stories

We ran cross country back in school, and loved (almost) every lung-searing, near-hurling moment of it.  There’s still something about this time of year that brings all the memories back to life. Hill repeats, poison ivy, the smell of pine needles packed along the trailside, and the excitement of spiking-up for the first meet of the season.  If you do – or did – run cross country, you’ll probably have memories (or nightmares) like this.  If you didn’t, here are a dozen reasons cross country runners are such a special breed.

Had a laugh at my own expense the other day. Not because I’m that terribly amusing, but because I realized just how much of a running geek I actually am. My wife and I just celebrated 19 years together by exchanging a pretty pricey set of running watches. You know, the kind that plunk more features on your wrist than were on board the Apollo 11. And no, that’s not actually a newsflash in itself, but it did make me stop and ponder some of those many lists that I – and likely you, too – have come across over the years. The ones that start with, “you know you’re a runner if…” Go ahead. Dock me ten yards for piling on, but I couldn’t resist.

More reasons you know you’re a runner:

1. You’ve planned a vacation or long weekend around a race. Bonus points if you’ve sold your family or significant other on the idea.
2. You have enough race tees to make one of those quilts. You just couldn’t make the pile small enough to make one.
3. You have have a drawer or cabinet just for your nutrition products.
4. Your running shoes are your most expensive shoes.
5. Some of the most spendy apparel you own is the stuff you sweat all over.
6. Sure, you have particular shoes for long runs, trail runs, speed work, race day. But you also the same system for socks.
7. You might not recognize some of your running pals in street clothes.
8. Your weekend plans revolve around your training plans or races.
9. You actually have a favorite flavor of energy gels.
10. First thing you ask a friend you haven’t seen in a while: “so, what are you training for these days?”

Got more? Send ‘em on! Who don’t like lists?!

Being crammed into a van full of hot, stinky people, snaking along twisty mountain roads sounds more like something from a third world commute to a sweatshop making Nike apparel than something you’d actually pay money to do. But I did, and so did 140-something other teams in this year’s Blue Ridge Relay. I’ve done the BRR several times on 10- and 12-person teams over the years; some have been BYO-everything, others in such high style I’m too embarrassed to go into detail (but I loved it!), most were somewhere in between. This, however, was my first 6-person team. That’s 210 miles divided into 36 legs to be shared by 6 runners, at roughly 35 miles each. Sounded pretty good on paper – and it was. I’ve never had to do much in the way of planning for these events, having always gotten lucky enough to be asked to jump in on a team. Since I generally have enough fitness on board to make it easy to say yes, I was happy to get in here but unsure what to expect going all “ultra style” at the BRR. Even though I’m still wearing compression socks to recover from the most recent effort, you knew I couldn’t come away without something to say about how to do it next time.

• DO NOT underestimate the accumulated fatigue and how those will affect your runs later in the relay. This is the area where I believe having some legit ultra experience really is a plus. No offense, Ironpeeps, but being able to meter out effort with the understanding that you’ll need something in the tank say, 24 hours later, is something more likely in the ultra folks’ lexicon versus that of the triathlete. I’m not judging, I’m just saying’.
• You really can’t cram for downhills. On a 10 or 12 person team, you might get a shot at a serving of downhill. On a 6 person team, you’re getting waaaaay more than the USRDA of hills. You can chug up a hill any way that works for you, but it’s those downhill runs that’ll get you hurting sooner rather than later. If there’s any way for you to practice those in advance and get more comfortable with “flowing” and letting gravity do the work, the better off you’ll be. Again, that damned accumulated fatigue.

• And about those uphills. Ain’t no shame in walking here. Unless you’re a total machine, you’ll probably make better time power walking the really steep hills and save some energy for the remainder of the run.A skill worth practicing if you’re new to the idea, or just a non-believer.

• Underestimate your team’s goal pace. At least from my perspective on this solitary experience, I think our team’s goal pace, and thus estimated finish time, was way out of whack. Granted, I realize there was probably less math involved in getting Apollo 13 back to earth than in trying to calculate when we would finish, but my best guess based again on this one experience might be to take everyone’s marathon pace, add a minute to that and come up with an average. Based on our team’s just-under 33 hour finish, that’s about a 9:25 pace/4:05 26.2 finish. I’ll bet that math works out. In fact, I’m so convinced that’s a pretty good best guess, I’m going to copyright it. Now, where will I spend that Pulitzer Prize money?

• You don’t need as much sleep – or caffeine – as you think. Betsy and I traded time at the wheel and in the navigator’s seat and managed to sneak in a couple of naps during some of the longer legs in the overnight and early morning hours. Being aware of the space, time and distance between the current and upcoming routes makes planning for these critical, albeit short, periods time to sleep.The spans between runs didn’t seem as long as I had expected. Getting folks in and out of the van, changing clothes, getting fed and watered, then moving on to the next exchange absorbed a bit of that time. In the overnight and early morning hours, we hustled up even more so in order to get a few critical winks of sleep to get us through until the daylight hours. We had some Cokes and canned Starbucks on board, but there was plenty left at the end of the ride.

• Have a plan “b” and maybe even “c”. The “Varsity” van, as it was called, was faced with a “WTF are we gonna do now?” situation when one of their team members got sick. Well, at least she didn’t puke all up in the van. (Hey, neither did I!) They finally figured it out how to handle it without leaving her on the curb and made the best of the situation. This was probably more difficult to do in the heat of the moment and someone holding her hair out. Might be good to consider other “what if’s” as a team and discuss some options. Barf bags being one of those options. Probably good fodder for the drive up to the start.

• Decide early how – or if – you’d like to compete. Having two 6-person teams made this a lot of fun. Until one of the Varsity runners went out, it seemed like these two vans were going to be pretty well balanced and would have a good time trash talking and such and “racing” each other from EZ to EZ. Not that the experience itself isn’t a good one, but it’s helpful if everyone on board has the same attitude and expectations going into it. Personally, I’m not going to bust a gizzard trying to PR my portion if the guy – or gal – running the route after me is going to make a stop at the Mennonite bake sale they pass along their route. Unless they bring something back for me, too. They do make some nice baked goods…

A couple of other notes:

• DO NOT drape your nasty, sweat-soaked, testicle-hugging running shorts over the open bin that contains your team’s entire food supply. This opens up the definition of “nut allergies” to include just about everyone. At least in our van.

• If you’re going to add a tally of “kills” on the side of your van, you’d better damned well have more than 6. That’s just sad.

• DO NOT pack all your crap in crinkly, mylar bags. You may not think it’s that loud, but listening to that crap crinkling at 3AM while trying to take a 12 minute nap would likely be justifiable homicide in front of the right jury.

• If you get carsick AT ALL negotiate a deal with your team members in advance to sit in the front seat or drive. The longest stretch of straight road along the entire 210 miles is likely only about 100 feet long.

• Ivan Konermann takes some great pictures. If that brother can make ME look good, you know he’s got a gift. Or just some really badass editing software.

You had your fill of run of the mill 5K’s long ago. Marathons, mud runs, zombies. Been there and done all that, too. Now you’re stuck wondering how you’ll stay motivated to train this season. Think you’re ready for the next big thing in themed events? Race promoters are already plotting and planning on how they’ll lure you to the start line! Check out some of these ideas you may (or may not) see on the calendar coming soon!

The Coffee Run. Expect an early start time on this one, sponsored by a well-known roastery. Features include all the free coffee you can drink before the gun goes off. The hitch? A very, very limited number of porta-johns strategically placed just past the finish. I’m predicting some incredibly quick times and unusual strides as participants aim to finish fast – and dry.

The 401K. Also known as the Golden Parachute Run. This one is a very exclusive ultra distance event featuring CEO and CFO types from Fortune 500 companies famous for “earning” those big stock options and bonuses. Online registration is being handled by an unnamed offshore company. Expect most of the actual running to be outsourced to India.

Paul Ryan Marathon. Their tagline, “Everyone PR’s Here” is likely going to make for some interesting advertising. No clock, no time splits; just tell everyone how fast you ran. This course is not, however, a certified Boston qualifier. Expect your brother to give you grief if he doesn’t believe your finishing time. Must be prepared to explain “forgotten” actual finish time on national television.

Election Cycle. A full on sprint around the new Giordana velodrome! This one’s for would-be elected officials only, but the real winners here are the voters. Those running, er riding, for office must limit their campaign speeches to only what they can eek out in one complete breath immediately following the bell lap! Sponsored by the Short Attention Span Theatre.

Date Night Dash. Must have child(ren) to enter. Participants are timed on how fast and far they can get away from the house once the sitter arrives. No mercy, no whining. If I want to hear that, I’ll stay here at home. “Because I Said So” logo tees sure to be an instant classic.

Commitment Crit. Shaping up to be THE event unmarried-but-still-dating cyclist’s calendar. A race against time, your girlfriend’s biological clock and her mother’s remarks about your unwillingness to commit. No winners here. This event will be officiated by her mother. Sponsored by her wannabe bridesmaids and the Elvis Gold Lame Wedding Chapel. Good luck with that.

Remote Control Run. Teams of roommates, couples or siblings are encouraged to go head to head as “Dowton Abbey” takes on “Duck Dynasty” in this race to control the small screen! Command over the living room’s tv remote remains with the racer only as long as he or she can keep the treadmill turning. Relay teams welcome!

iPod Playlist PR Time Trial. Parents and kids! Here’s your best PR opportunity on the race calendar! Participants must trade iPods before the start, in a test to determine who can endure the others music before they make it to the finish! Disclaimer: kids who are lousy listeners have a distinct advantage here. Penalty points will be assessed for removing earbuds or skipping songs before the finish.

The “Real” Morning After Run. This is the faster paced cousin of the old “walk of shame.” Hook-ups from the previous evening’s pre-race party are on the clock as they make those awkward goodbyes and their eventual escape toward the finish line! Time bonuses awarded for best pickup line. Sponsored by baddates.com and “I’ll have what she’s having.”

The “Worrier” Dash. Coming this Mother’s Day, moms of grown children are staged in front of a mock evening newscast report containing alarming yet fictitious health risks found in common places. The clock starts at immediately after the broadcast. Who will reach the phone first to warn their kids?! This event will start in waves based on the entrants number of kids or grand kids.

If you can’t find something here that suits your fancy or fetish, just wait! Researchers are busily tabulating results from exhaustive Facebook polls, monitoring your mobile phone usage, and conducting other market research with CIA drones to create an event you won’t want to miss!

I’m not saying I’m old, but I’m old enough to remember how we used to buy running shoes. Or at least how I did. Granted, I did just celebrate a birthday, but it really wasn’t all that long ago when running shoes were shelved along the walls of the neighborhood sporting goods stores. This was also the same place you bought your baseball mitt, fishing license, and other bits and pieces for playing outdoors.

The shop in my part of town was York Arms Sporting Goods. Yeah, they sold guns, too. Go figure. It wasn’t Duck Dynasty, but I recall my wispy freshman frame being more than just a bit out of place in a joint more famous for outfitting the backwoods expeditions of Memphis’ cotton kings and its state championship football teams. Running – as a solitary pursuit – was well into its first boom, but would still elicit an “I-don’t-get-it” head waggle from the guy selling said shoes who likely equated running as punishment from his former glory days. Meh. But at least they had a size 9 ½.

My first real running shoe came from that shop. The adidas Oregon. I remember it well. Nike was still an upstart, and nearly everyone on my cross country squad ran in the Oregon. We’d spike up for meets, but this shoe did the lion’s share of the weekday work. Forget specialized needs for over-pronators, heel strikers, midfoot runners and all that jazz. The only real question was could you get them in your size.

A lot has changed since that boom that then birthed the specialty running shop. Shoes are more complicated than the old adidas I bought back then, and just having the right size isn’t close to enough. The features change faster than Apple releases new renditions of the iPod. Deciphering the differences, and often times critical nuances, between makes and models can be as perilous as acting as your own attorney – or, worse yet, cutting your own hair. Well-trained staff that know their stuff and the products they sell.

Getting the runner in just the right shoe is no small feat, says Mark Allard from Raleigh’s New Balance store. “It’s a multi step process that you’re just not going to get on the internet or through a ‘big box’ store.” But that’s just part of the reason your local specialty running shop will never go out of style.

“We don’t ‘just’ sell shoes anymore,” says Chris Elkins, who owns the Run For Your Life shop in Charlotte’s University area. “If you’re going to be a real part of the running community, you need do more than that.”

Training programs, fun runs, races, injury clinics, nutrition seminars – even yoga; it’s all part of what a makes the specialty running shop the hub of that running community. It’s listening, learning and forming relationships with the folks who come through the front door.

“It’s not something that’s contrived,” says Cheri Armour, from Fleet Feet Sports in Raleigh. “It’s the real deal. We want the best for the people who come in here and we want to see them do well.”

Armour says the clinics and programs Fleet Feet offers are a direct response to requests from clients who frequent the shop. It’s no different for Elkins and Run For Your Life.

“You wouldn’t have thought five years ago we’d also be offering yoga for runners, but we’re doing that, too,” he says.

Sure, your specialty shop won’t always be able to beat the price of some online retailer or big box store, but that’s not their goal. And the siren’s call of a deep discount on a discontinued old favorite may sometimes be too much for even the most loyal local shopper to resist. But some things still can’t be measured in dollars and cents.

“It’s that personalized experience,” adds Christie Garella, who shops her local Run For Your Life store and is part of one of their running groups. “It’s motivating, it pushes you… it’s great to be a part of something like that.”

Try getting that on the interwebs.

If Wheaties™ is the breakfast of champions, then blueberry pancakes are the fuel of the certifiably insane. Or at least damn fools, because that’s what I ordered as my pre-race meal in the nervous, dwindling hours before my first ultracross race. Ultracross. How do I explain this… Simply put, it’s like the bastard child of endurance mountain biking and cyclocross. And as the name portends, it’s kinda like cyclocross in that it’s skinny tires on dirt, but extrapolate that over distance. Fifty-ish miles, to be somewhat exact. Like endurance racing, it’s over a much longer time than a typical ‘cross race. Yep, you’re gonna be on that bike for a while, so energy management is part of the equation. Obstacles? Check. But think stream crossing and fallen trees. Got run-ups, too. The kind that should have stairs, or at least a rope. And like both its parents, there’s beer. Although dirt, bikes and beer go together like peanut butter, jelly and bread, being nearly blinded by the effort, I can’t confirm whether or not the smattering of spectators imbibed. But there was indeed beer for the racers, or near survivors, strategically placed with about 50 miles on your legs and at the foot of the last, long run-up of the day.

Gravel grinders, or all-day affairs on (mostly) unpaved country roads are fringe but infinitely more common in the Midwest and big, square states where winding farm roads go on seemingly forever. This particular event, Southern Cross, is the first of its kind in these parts. It also happens to be the last event of the 2011-12 American UltraCross Championship Series and the first event of the 2012-13 series. (It’s actually not as complicated as it sounds.) This one’s put together by a fellah named Eddie O’Dea, whose own racing resume is nearly as long as the course mapped for this event. I expected nothing less than the brain-numbing climbs and white-knuckle descents from a joint colloquially considered to be “your grandfather’s cyclocross.” In other words, you ain’t gonna see anything in the way of PVC barriers and dizzy circles around a grade school ballfield. Mother Nature’s work in this area is challenge enough. As photog-advocate-cyclist Weldon Weaver put it, girls in boots and puppies are in short supply along this kind of course. So true.

The start and finish on the Montaluce Winery outside Dahlonega, Georgia was damn near the biggest bait-and-switch for which I have ever fallen. A rolling, tree-lined cyclocross-style start leads you off the lush, landscaped property. From there, the course goes uphill, unpaved and gets generally more evil in a hurry. Run-ups that should require handrails, hills – that if snow covered – could easily make a case for chairlifts, and downhills over washouts, loose gravel and blind turns… on a “course” that’s still open to any would-be traffic. What’s not to love! The registration page shouldn’t require a waiver but a note from your mom and a physician’s release form.

While a late winter, ultra-distance off-road event might be the last hurrah for a few hard-core ‘crossers before they flip to road racing, mountain biking or other warm-weather pursuits, the grizzled endurance folk to the just plain curious all have their place here. While the warnings to keep the prissy carbon bits at home were generally adhered to, the field at Southern Cross was a do-it-yourselfer’s dream. From sho’ nuff cx rigs to modified 29’ers to singlespeed to some serious Frankenbike set-ups, it’s all on display. And at some points along the course each and every set-up might likely find a groove, in other parts its pilot might be left searching for that extra gear, wider tires, better braking and so on. There’s likely no perfect tool for a job such as this, so knowledge of the course, your strengths, weaknesses and what you’re willing to gamble make gear choice a part of the game. No crew or pit bikes here, either. You’ll get home – hopefully – with the one you rode in on. And you’d better know how to fix it, too. Stories of sticks sucked into rear derailleurs, untimely epic blow-outs and other mechanicals were passed all around at the post-race party. Like other long-distance efforts, eating and drinking along the way are part of the equation. It’s just prying your fingers from the controls long enough to get them to your face that’s the greater issue.

O’Dea’s course description begins with one word. Hard. It could end right there. And everyone I spoke to at the finish or the post-race get-together agreed. Only they added a few more expletives. In some cases, a lot more. But like the bumper sticker says, sometimes the “fun” hurts pretty $%&# bad. From every granny-geared, lung-searing, near-puking climb to every scary-fast, 40-plus-mile-an-hour, death-grip on the handlebar downhill, to that last, will-breaking run-up before the finish; it was all fun. And, yeah, it hurt pretty $%&# bad. But an event that’s this well done and in such a beautiful part of the country, ultracross – or at least Southern Cross – can’t stay fringe for long.

Blueberry pancakes, anyone?

To hear Tommy Holderness tell it, Charlotte’s Burrito Bikers just kind of happened.  An idea plucked from a bike magazine five years ago has turned into a regular Sunday service, if you will, providing a portable hot breakfast to the homeless in uptown Charlotte, and has since then stories have spawned start-ups in Chapel Hill, Carborro, and Winston-Salem.  And even Louisville, Kentucky.

“It’s pretty cool the way it’s grown,” admits Holderness, a Charlotte attorney and cyclist.  What started with Holderness and his neighbor John Oxrider is now a network of friends, fellow cyclists, and churches who take turns making breakfast burritos, wrapping, reheating and then delivering them on Sunday mornings.  Rain or shine, wet, hot or cold, the Burrito Bikers make the rounds.  The impact they have on their clientele is obvious, with the chorus of “thank you’s” and “God Bless you’s”. In a matter of minutes, the Bikers themselves are left with empty packs, but not without also being affected by the interaction. “You get down there and meet these people, your perception changes,” says Holderness. 

Jon Harding is a first-time rider with the Burrito Bikers.  His homemade granola bars were a hit with the crowd.  Sunday’s ride allowed him to roll his love for bikes and serving others into one experience.  “It was a great opportunity, and a blast doing it on two wheels,” says Harding.

The willingness of others to serve in some way means Holderness, Oxrider and other regulars aren’t on the hook to cook, pack and ride each and every Sunday.  A scheduled rotation of volunteers ensures there’s a backpack of burritos every week.  The bikers themselves bring along extra snacks and drinks, since the group that waits for them along Tryon Street will exhaust the burrito supply in a matter of minutes.  A list of stand-by riders can cover any shortfall in personnel, as was the case on a most recent Sunday when I had the chance to ride with the Burrito Bikers.  I’d been turned down before, apparently failing to respond quickly enough to an all-call for last-minute volunteers.  Not this time.  And I would bring along a pannier of PB and J’s. 

Tryon Street in uptown Charlotte looks decidedly different on early Sunday mornings; the bustle of the business-doing workweek crowd giving way to the slower, less-determined pace of those with nowhere else to go or be.  Burritos, bottle water, snacks and yes, PB and J’s, all quickly moved from backpacks and panniers and in to waiting hands.  The Burrito Bikers’ destination is a solemn and stark contrast to its starting point just a few miles away along one of Charlotte’s most affluent streets.  Here, where most neighbors could quite seemingly cover the costs of a fleet of Burrito Bikers, this group provides more than just a hot breakfast once a week.  It’s coming face-to-face with homelessness and showing that people care enough to do more than write a check.  And as long as the story of the Burrito Bikers continues to spread, perhaps it will inspire others to make such meaningful gestures in their hometowns.

One hundred miles.  A c-note.  Century.  No matter how you say it (or write it) in the end, it’s still a long damn way.  Heck, it’s a long way to drive, but after running my first hundred-miler I can honestly say it was – and wasn’t – most everything that I expected.  I know it’s terribly ridiculous and ironic to say something that took me the better part of an entire day seemed to go by so quickly, but that’s how it felt.  Like my wife always says, ‘that’s a long time to be out there with your own thoughts,’ and in a way she’s right.  Over that kind of mileage you’d think you’d reach some sort of grand epiphany.  I didn’t.  But I tried to absorb every minute or at least every mile that I could; to bank the experience for withdrawal in some future trying time that would require my unwavering attention and endurance.  I’m still not sure what exactly I socked away.  Despite the finite start and finish of the accomplishment, the middle, the actual journey itself, continues to be a mosaic of individual snapshots and micro-experiences that I’m mulling over in no particular order.  Not in a post-traumatic, waking-up-in-a-mess-of-twisted-sweaty-sheets way, but in a more meaningful, yet somehow still a “Jim Morrison and the naked Indian dreams” kind of way.

Part of me expected this to be like other firsts.  Granted, this whole ultra business is unique in and of itself and the Umstead 100 is a special race in its own right.  It’s a familiar, looped course with an opportunity for high performance, redemption, survival and disappointment.  It’s an amalgam of veterans and virgins all harboring the same pre-race baggage: doubt.  Will I win?  Will I finish?  Will I puke all over myself?  Nowhere was this more evident for me than flip-switch transition from the back-slapping reunions and hearty conversation of the pre-race supper to the stoic, nervous laughter just a few hours later when these very same folks, now decked out in their game day regalia and cautious smiles, massed at the start line.

The weather was perfect and the semi-formal start quickly gave way to the idle chatter of those early miles.  Even that eventually trailed off as partners began to separate when nature, hunger, variety or other needs and distractions came calling and the gravity of the task at hand took hold.  At this distance a few will race, many will run, most all will walk at some point and some will not even complete the journey regardless of how many miles and months they’ve invested.

I knew the halfway point should be nearly automatic.  I was relying on a conservative game plan and the novelty of adding a new running partner with each additional lap to bolster my enthusiasm in the later miles.  But my decision-making process in bringing pacers and crew had as much to do with the fear of the unknown as it did with the desire to share this entire experience.  And guilt is a powerful motivator in its own right.  I’d prefer to not endure a three-hour car trip with friends I’d disobliged only to pull up short of the finish.

With its eight loops, the Umstead course is situated in such a way that you see fellow runners coming and going with every lap.  As the miles and the day wear on, happy how-do-you-do’s morph into polite nods of the head, and eventual disregard as the “death march” of the overnight takes hold.  It is here, in these cold and anonymous hours well after dark that the burden of doubt is at its heaviest; where exhaustion gives disbelief more credence.  I was able to wile away these hours, as well, with the ready conversation of my pacers and crew.

By the time I’d begun the eighth and final loop, I’d realized that this whole thing was about to be over. Done. In the books. Granted, I was ready to be finished, but not sure I was really prepared. I had half expected, almost anticipated, that I’d be overwhelmed with emotion; choked-up at the perceived magnitude of running 100 miles.  But I didn’t cure cancer, I didn’t solve the world economic crisis. I didn’t run to raise awareness or money for a cause. I didn’t win. I just ran around in circles, literally, with the solitary goal of getting right back where I started, just 100 miles later. When you really stop and think about it, just how much praise should be heaped upon that sort of accomplishment? Greater goods are achieved each and every day.

But chasing that same “first time” flood of euphoria is what kept me going back to the marathon year after hear in hopes of recapturing more of the same. I never did. I eventually stopped searching.  I wouldn’t feel them again this day either.  Rather than excitement, pride or satisfaction, it was gratitude that washed over me during those final steps of this 20 hour journey. Not in the sense that I was grateful to be done, although I was thrilled to be so. It was gratitude in the sense that I’d suddenly realized what a selfish pursuit this journey was and that I was now keenly aware of the innumerable sacrifices made and inconveniences endured by so many family members and friends to see me to the finish. Yeah, this “shout out” is the best I can muster because I’ll never be able to fully repay you for everything that each of you did – and you know who you are. Everyone who stayed with me, prayed with me, ran with me, walked with me, rubbed me down or propped me up, listened to me, talked to me, loved me or put up with me. I can only say again, thank you.

# # #

Original run in Endurance Magazine, May 2010. (c) D.C. Lucchesi

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.