Twenty-six big ones down; Monkey Boy contemplating Chiquita sponsorship
4.25.2004
So we ran Nashville!
The day started with thunderstorms, which delayed our race start for 30 minutes. Everybody was hustled to nearby parking garages while the lightning cleared up. We all stayed drier than we might otherwise, thanks to a nice guy who brought a 100-roll of trashbags to the shuttle bus. All of us--except, curiously, Monkey Boy--donned them and stayed dry. Monkey Boy was soaked to the bone.
In the pre-race pre-dawn, the start area had Starbucks Coffee, fruit, water, and all sorts of goodies. They served the Starbucks in tiny little paper cups; my question to the attendants as to the official Starbucks name for that size went unanswered; "Really Big?" was about as close as it got. I guess nobody's on the top of their game at 5 A.M.
When young dawn finally managed to roll out of bed with her waterlogged fingers, it was to behold a huge sea of runners. The draw this year was that the race organizers had eliminated some big hills for a flatter, faster course. Let me just tell you that this course was anything but flat. Up and down, up and down...Chapel Hill was definitely good preparation.
And I did okay for the most part. I started to flag around mile 23, and my pace slowed quite a bit. Maybe it was all the walking and other non-running forward movement I was doing at that time. Actually, I was tired and feeling a little sick, but managed to pull myself together for a decent finish.
Shel and Sher met us all at different places in the race (thanks to cell phones) and cheered and took pictures (which will be posted here as soon as they are ready). And at the end, Shel, Sher, and the Fam that ran the 1/2 marathon were in the stands at the finish line cheering as I crossed! What a tremendous feeling.
According to the official results, my chip time was 4:24, but my watch chrono said that I finished in 4:15. I thought at first that my watch battery was getting low or something. But wait -- when I checked again at the race site online, I noticed that the official results also list my gun time as 4:24, which suggests that the start gate simply failed to register my crossing. For comparison, I checked on the times of a few of my running companions, and their chip and gun times were indeed different, as they should be. Gimme my nine minutes back!
And the Fam? Monkey Boy and the Club President put in a terrific showing for the half-marathon, which they ran together and completed in 2:43. La and her friend Maith powered through those 13 miles for a quick 2:40 tandem finish.
One of the coolest moments was when we were running the first out-and-back leg of the course, and about two miles in we hear this roar from the crowd ahead of us. Suddenly the leaders appear over the crest of the hill! The Kenyan men et al, flying past us in a dead heat. I didn't know the first thing about who was who, but I was screaming for them just like everybody else. And a few moments later, the Russian women, duking it out! We all screamed for them again. It's not everyday that you pass so close to world-class athletes.
We all ran with our own custom name banners pinned to our shirts, of course: La was "Wunder Woman," Grizzlius Grumpus was "Old Bear," I was "Black Buzzard," and Bruinus Aurelius, good sport that he is, wore his recently acquired moniker "Monkey Boy" with flair. And we all got plenty of shouts from the crowd; Monkey Boy took the overall props award, though, as his name alternately delighted and disturbed legions of shouting bystanders. He says that the runners around him eventually started asking each other out loud, "Why does everybody keep shouting for a 'Monkey Boy'?" To which MB would proudly turn to them mid-stride, puff his chest out and thumb his banner, and tell them "That's ME. I'M Monkey Boy!"
But it's anybody's guess as to what moment was proudest for our Monkey Boy. Perhaps the story that endears the MB to me the most involves an event that transpired place prior to the actual race start. It seems that just moments away from the start, MB's stomach decided that it had had enough of pre-race excitement and coffee, and demanded immediate attention. Ever alert, our spry simian quickly made his way to the nearest port-o-jon and opened the door, only to have fate greet him in the same way it greets virtually every female before the race: with the prospect of relieving oneself sans bath tissue.
What to do, Gentle Readers?! How could our Monkey Boy make do(o)? Quickly surveying his surroundings, MB scanned over the various forms of pre-race detritus that covered the ground and port-o-jon floor: cups, bottles, wrapper, discarded fruit in a multiplicity of shapes, until, perhaps drawn by some unseen inexorable force connected with his name...
The only decision left, of course, was whether to use the inside or the outside. MB assures me that the latter is much preferable, which leads me to believe that he had sufficient natural resources to experiment with both.
The day started with thunderstorms, which delayed our race start for 30 minutes. Everybody was hustled to nearby parking garages while the lightning cleared up. We all stayed drier than we might otherwise, thanks to a nice guy who brought a 100-roll of trashbags to the shuttle bus. All of us--except, curiously, Monkey Boy--donned them and stayed dry. Monkey Boy was soaked to the bone.
In the pre-race pre-dawn, the start area had Starbucks Coffee, fruit, water, and all sorts of goodies. They served the Starbucks in tiny little paper cups; my question to the attendants as to the official Starbucks name for that size went unanswered; "Really Big?" was about as close as it got. I guess nobody's on the top of their game at 5 A.M.
When young dawn finally managed to roll out of bed with her waterlogged fingers, it was to behold a huge sea of runners. The draw this year was that the race organizers had eliminated some big hills for a flatter, faster course. Let me just tell you that this course was anything but flat. Up and down, up and down...Chapel Hill was definitely good preparation.
And I did okay for the most part. I started to flag around mile 23, and my pace slowed quite a bit. Maybe it was all the walking and other non-running forward movement I was doing at that time. Actually, I was tired and feeling a little sick, but managed to pull myself together for a decent finish.
Shel and Sher met us all at different places in the race (thanks to cell phones) and cheered and took pictures (which will be posted here as soon as they are ready). And at the end, Shel, Sher, and the Fam that ran the 1/2 marathon were in the stands at the finish line cheering as I crossed! What a tremendous feeling.
According to the official results, my chip time was 4:24, but my watch chrono said that I finished in 4:15. I thought at first that my watch battery was getting low or something. But wait -- when I checked again at the race site online, I noticed that the official results also list my gun time as 4:24, which suggests that the start gate simply failed to register my crossing. For comparison, I checked on the times of a few of my running companions, and their chip and gun times were indeed different, as they should be. Gimme my nine minutes back!
And the Fam? Monkey Boy and the Club President put in a terrific showing for the half-marathon, which they ran together and completed in 2:43. La and her friend Maith powered through those 13 miles for a quick 2:40 tandem finish.
One of the coolest moments was when we were running the first out-and-back leg of the course, and about two miles in we hear this roar from the crowd ahead of us. Suddenly the leaders appear over the crest of the hill! The Kenyan men et al, flying past us in a dead heat. I didn't know the first thing about who was who, but I was screaming for them just like everybody else. And a few moments later, the Russian women, duking it out! We all screamed for them again. It's not everyday that you pass so close to world-class athletes.
We all ran with our own custom name banners pinned to our shirts, of course: La was "Wunder Woman," Grizzlius Grumpus was "Old Bear," I was "Black Buzzard," and Bruinus Aurelius, good sport that he is, wore his recently acquired moniker "Monkey Boy" with flair. And we all got plenty of shouts from the crowd; Monkey Boy took the overall props award, though, as his name alternately delighted and disturbed legions of shouting bystanders. He says that the runners around him eventually started asking each other out loud, "Why does everybody keep shouting for a 'Monkey Boy'?" To which MB would proudly turn to them mid-stride, puff his chest out and thumb his banner, and tell them "That's ME. I'M Monkey Boy!"
But it's anybody's guess as to what moment was proudest for our Monkey Boy. Perhaps the story that endears the MB to me the most involves an event that transpired place prior to the actual race start. It seems that just moments away from the start, MB's stomach decided that it had had enough of pre-race excitement and coffee, and demanded immediate attention. Ever alert, our spry simian quickly made his way to the nearest port-o-jon and opened the door, only to have fate greet him in the same way it greets virtually every female before the race: with the prospect of relieving oneself sans bath tissue.
What to do, Gentle Readers?! How could our Monkey Boy make do(o)? Quickly surveying his surroundings, MB scanned over the various forms of pre-race detritus that covered the ground and port-o-jon floor: cups, bottles, wrapper, discarded fruit in a multiplicity of shapes, until, perhaps drawn by some unseen inexorable force connected with his name...
"Aha! There it is, my salvation! Some obliging Dick or Jane has eaten a largish banana and left its peel neatly quartered -- I'm covered, as it were!"
The only decision left, of course, was whether to use the inside or the outside. MB assures me that the latter is much preferable, which leads me to believe that he had sufficient natural resources to experiment with both.
