We'll Keep it Weirder Next Year. Promise.

So Saturday marked the race. We were registered and ready to get our jog on at the evening start time: five o’clock. The temperature was topping out around 103 degrees, and the Auditorium Shores starting point was almost completely without shade. The actual start of the race appeared to be delayed for a bit while they cleared the runway. The race path went from Auditorium Shores to Congress, south on Congress to Live Oak, West to South First, and back north to Auditorium Shores. Approximately three miles.

We have been doing four-mile runs on Town Lake for the past few months, so we thought this would be a breeze. My oh my, how cruel the gods are to give us such silly notions. While waiting for the delayed starting horn, the heat started to take its toll on the fidgety runners. Sweating profusely, and starting to question our sanity, we wondered if we might suffer heat stroke BEFORE the race even began. Many stayed out on the starting strip, under direct sun, baking like potato chips, while others of us huddled underneath the five or so trees that offered slivers of shade from the blazes of hell above.

Then the horn blew, about twenties minutes late. We were just happy to get some wind going, and to get as far away as possible from the obnoxious DJ at the start line, who insisted on barking “git ‘er done!” every thirty seconds, with the most grating, honky-tonkin’, hillbilly bullshit accent ever attempted. We’re all about southern country-isms. We grew up with them. Hell, we have even attempted to invent a few ourselves. But shit, man. There’s something to be said for thickening up one’s homes-spun wisdom repertoire. Repeatedly quoting a already-tired sitcom-line might be construed as a lack of creativity on the part of a performer. Just a thought.

Then again, maybe it was the heat that made us think he was repeating it. Maybe there was no DJ. And if there was, he is probably the nicest and most talented man on air today. We don’t know. It was fucking HOT, okay? We hated EVERYTHING at that time.

After the horn, we waited for the sweaty mass of joggers to pass. When everyone else had cleared out of our way, we struck out from beneath our shade tree. We could not say for sure, but it appeared as if some dude was actually crossing the FINISH line as we crossed the START line. How encouraging.

Mile one was pleasant in the same way that an alleyway stabbing might be considered as such: ruthlessly brutal and confusing. Death march brutal and IRS confusing.

How brutal?

We’re sure that some seasoned runners amongst us just hammered right up the seemingly infinite incline that is Congress from the river. Sweet Jesus… all spots of shade were populated by exhausted runners, trying to catch their breath, with friends and onlookers fetching water. Oh, the humanity of it all.

How confusing?

The first food stop we hit was for bacon. Bacon? My word, we LOVE bacon. But we had approximately four teaspoons of water left in our system after that horrific wait for the starting horn. That will hopefully be the last time that we ever turn down free bacon. It looked delicious too. So crispy, salty, and hot. We do fantasize that we die whilst dining on piles of bacon, but we prefer to do that in private. Seriously. In a Jacuzzi filled with champagne or something like that. Not sweating like a whore in church, gasping for air in front of strangers on street corners. That’s not the way to enjoy pork products.

We opted for cups of water in place of platefuls of scrumptious bacon. Cups… of water. No bacon. Meh.

A word for those who ever find themselves in a jogging situation where water is handed to you in cups as you hoof by: go ahead and stop to drink it. (Lesson: go ahead and stop to drink) Trying to drink a cup of water while running is a complete waste of time. Just go ahead and pour it over your open-mouthed face if you intend to keep on the go. Regardless of how much effort you put into the process, 75% of it will end up on your shirt. The other 25% will come damn close to drowning you as it screws with your patterned breathing. There is probably a very intelligent method for dealing with this problem in runners’ circles, but we recommend you go ahead and stop. Don’t water the pavement like we did. Plus, we got a big splash right on our crotch so it looked like we were making our own crotch lemonade. Sweet. (Lesson: if you ever pee yourself in a race, go ahead and drink while jogging to “explain” the stain)

Then we hit the Amy’s Ice Cream table. Literally, we ran right into it. We snagged two jello-shot cups of chocolate coldness and tried (again) to jog while eating them. Silly. The first one went all over the left side of our face. Chocolate all over everything. In our beard, nose and a little on our ear. So we wiped half of it off with our sleeve, to give it that “used toilet paper” look. (Lesson: that’s fantastic, no lesson there) The other cup was crammed into our mouth with great force, to avoid the issues with cup one. We refused to miss a single bit of cold, chocolaty goodness. The onlookers at Guerro’s were thoroughly entertained watching us stagger around, drenched in sweat, with what looked like pissed-shorts, face covered in melting chocolate, holding our head to try and beat the brain freeze while moaning pained nonsense. For a brief moment we were unaware that our shoes were probably melting and that half of our internal organs had simply given up. (Lesson: ice cream helps us forget that we are at risk of immediate death by ridiculous hotness)

With the first mile, bacon, and ice cream behind us, we entered fevered delirium just before hitting Live Oak. We found ourselves trotting through lawns with other joggers, desperately searching for any kind of shade. Our real saviors came in the form of local residents who stood out in front of their homes, spraying us with water hoses and sprinklers. We entered into a line of hose finders, all of us parading along from water spout to water spout, lingering above the ones placed on the pavement which shot up, to cool our undercarriages. At this point, we noticed that our white shirt was completely transparent. Our tattoos and nipples were out for everyone to view, and for the sun to ruthlessly stab. (Lesson: don’t bother wearing white t-shirts for races) As we approached the school on Live Oak and South First, there were well-wishing children lining the curb with hoses and water guns, screaming about how “that guy right there is totally naked!” We looked it, but that’s just because our skin is very fair, and it just kinda blends with white cotton when soaked, alright? The remainder of the trip was downhill, so we stopped cursing the race planners for trying to kill us. Still no shade to speak of, but with the approach of Freddie’s on South First, we were honestly looking forward to drinking a beer.

Drinking a beer? For serious?

Looking back, the idea of drinking a beer at that time was the furthest thing from brilliant, but we have very little discipline when it comes to such things. When available for free, we never pass up an opportunity for booze. Lucky for our liver, Freddie’s was busy replenishing their curbside beer stock, so we took a water (begrudgingly, yet thankfully) instead. The remainder of the route was lined with cheering well-wishers in lawn chairs, people playing live music, and other runners who had already finished and had decided to go against the grain to lend support to the rest of us. Supposedly there were some deli sandwiches being offered along there somewhere, but we were too busy trying to beat the sun-armed reaper. No time to ask them to hold the mayo.

Man, just as a pointless aside, we seriously hate mayo. And “deli” sandwiches almost always guarantee a thick slathering of the stuff. Perhaps it is beneficial that we neglected to notice this stop. Our gag reflex was on full alert, as was our pass-out reflex, and seeing that semenish paste might have caused us to collapse on the spot. (Lesson: continue to avoid evil condiments under running conditions)

We pretty much blacked out for the remainder of the thing. We vaguely remember crossing the finishing line and heading straight for the water tubs. We wanted to push all the volunteers out of our way so we could dive right in that ice-filled bath of chilled goodness. But we took five bottles of water instead. Two of them probably evaporated as soon as the water came in contact with the griddle that was the simmering top of our sun-scorched head (Lesson: wear a hat next time). We wandered with the herd through a banana/powerbar tent, where we snagged handfuls of we-don’t-know-what. It could have been raw chicken in boxes of kitty litter and we would have walked out of there with armfuls of the stuff.

We crashed against a fence, under a tree, and tried to die. But we really wanted to try one of the powerbars first. The whole table of said bars was rather damaged by the heat. All the ones we came across had the look and consistency of warmed feces, but the taste of chocolate and earwax. We guess that this is what they are supposed to taste like. It was interesting, but hardly worth staying alive for. Next time, we’ll go ahead and die instead of eating a poo-like earwax bar. For those who LOVE powerbars and other brands of the same ilk, feel free to recommend better tasting ones. We are not getting any younger, and we’ll probably need to adopt some sort of energy bar variety soon.

Nothing too poo-ish please.

As for the race itself, it was an experience. A test of our will. Our ability to choose water over bacon. Our finish time was just a notch above “inert”, and just below “sloth”, so that’s awesome. (Lesson: don’t bother timing yourself) Next year, we will not be running this race. Neither will we be jogging, walking, or pacing ourselves briskly along its course. Oh no. Next year we will dress up in the least amount of clothing allowed by law, tour the race with a large crew, and consume all the free bacon-beer-brisket-ice cream-beer-sandwiches-beer-power drinks-beer that all those suckers who bother running: leave behind. We're already marking my calendar. You?