One Four Oh

We're just going to get the obvious out of the way right now. Did I say break 1:40 or make 1:40? I'm not going back to look and will scowl at you if you choose to. Because I got a 1:40:46, which in itself felt like an act of God, so we're not going to get all technical about it now. Please just be happy and stop nit picking. Thank you.

So yes, divine intervention was at work in pastoral Quechee, VT this weekend (go ahead, say it: Queeeeecheeeee. It really cleanses the palate.) Since Friday I'd been thinking the odds of running 13.1 way-sub-8 miles would be low unless the climate was completely ideal (50 degrees, cloudy), and I knew it was going to be upper-60s and sunny. Which meant I spent the early part of this morning making peace with my soon-to-be unmet race goal.

My cynicism also meant I might have been more drunk Saturday night than ever before in my life.

This is actually not saying a whole lot, because while I like to talk up my love of vodka martinis, I actually never drink more than one without heading for a 7 pm nap. But for some reason, at the restaurant last night I thought, "Why the hell not? Let's have another!" And the second drink was a hum dinger (yes, I said "hum dinger"). Why do they do that? Give you a weak one and then spin your brain with the second one?

I had every intention of blaming the cosmos for my failure today, by which I don't mean "the universe" but rather 4 parts vodka, 2 parts Triple Sec, 2 parts cranberry, and 1 part lime juice. Especially because the second drink was more like 12 parts vodka, 2 parts Triple Sec, etc.--what I think they should call a Quechee Cosmo Combo. Having touted myself as the new and improved Loosey Goosey Mommy, I was passed out in bed before Henry could ask for "one last hug." But then I was awake again at 10, 12, 3, 4:30, 5 and 6, when Henry did ask me to turn the light on so he could play. This is not how I have seen drunkenness advertised, and I would like to complain to the management of drunkenness that if I wanted a night like that, I'd be on board for giving Henry a baby brother or sister.

Why am I belaboring the drinks? I dunno. Probably because the race could best be described as green and pretty, and that's sorta boring compared to my recollection of last night's warm and cozy feeling of swanky mirth.

Green and pretty. Beautiful, lush Vermonty countryside and the most environmentally conscious event I've ever run. Other than the cups, the only paper was pinned to my singlet. No joke. I imagine that the bazillion hybrid drivers in attendance were pleased as punch in their Priuses (woot for alliteration). The trash cans were so complicated in their designations that my post-race brain had trouble not throwing my watermelon rind in the bin marked "trash"-- because there was one for "compost." I did pick the right one for cans, however, after enjoying my most favorite treat after a long run:


It's totally clear to me why this race sells out in an hour, and it's not just the cold cans of Coke (woot x2 for alliteration). Perfectly executed by the organizers, it is a gorgeous downhill course that only has you fighting your footing on one bridge and fighting the incline of one steep hill. The local bands along the route are always fun, and if I didn't have to fight for every single second on my watch, I know I could have paused to score some weed from either the Jimi Hendrix band or the bongo players (or both).

My only complaint about the day concerns the weather. Does Vermont really have to have clear blue skies and 68 degrees on an early-June Sunday morning? Because that is just awful, torturous weather. It makes me all sweaty and crabby when I run. If you want to be a perfect state of towering pines and unpolluted creeks, that's fine by me. But for crying out loud, stop being so perfect with your weather. Runners are grouchy when it's sunny and 70 degrees. And to be honest, a stomach ache (see treatise on martinis above) and the sun kind of made me hate most of the 100 minutes and 46 seconds I was running.

I realize this is the most rambling race report (woot x3 for alliteration) ever posted to the interwebs, but I swear I've had nothing to drink since my 1 pm margarita. And I came up empty on the pot, because apparently Vermonters don't just sell it next to the Cabot cheese and Stonyfield Farm yogurt.

I could go on forever with miscellaneous trivia about the day, such as my micro-celebrity moment with blog reader Brenda and my thrill upon hearing cheers for my Lowell singlet. No one ever cheers for Lowell unless you go to high school in Lowell, and maybe not even then.

But I think it's best if I just stop here with the stats and hope you come back to read my blog again, given today's report. Did I even mention what the race was? Good God. Covered Bridges Half-Marathon: You should run it. That sentence would have been a far more efficient race report.

Chip time: 1:40:46
Pace: 7:42
Overall: 183/1793
Age group: 12/363


Yes, I am quite loyal to the sport.