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SUMMER RACING SERIES

LIKES: cheese, endorphins, being asleep, being awake, being alive, good old music from when I was 15, shel silverstein, south park, my job, spanish, reference books, ginseng, being social, being asocial, hot springs, the sun, my sweet schwinn, being broke but always managing beer money, stealing necessary household items, my bunny, tempeh, discussing possible modern daoists, feeling smart, soccer, the rain, carnivourus plants, etymologies, good movies, Brails, hiking, being bull headed, the moon, good professors, tequila, worker stirkes, funky days, travel by bike, being vegetarian...

DISLIKES: carlos mencia, going to a state funded school but still having to pay state taxes with money I don't have, cement, Descarte, cars, people who have slutty profile pictures, infact people generally need too much attention, new green day, trucks, the word 'hella,' vegetarians....

Friends don’t let friends run drunk, do they?

Friends don’t let friends run drunk, do they?
Entry # 1

The BarRun.
There are all these rules we have in society about when you should and more importantly shouldn’t drink.  Don’t drink drive, don’t drink at work, don’t drink and get pregnant, don’t drink and operate heavy machinery.  I don’t know about you, but I don’t really understand when it is to be good time to drink.

I have named this section such because it eloquently combines these two perfect activities into a unified theme.  Let me recount:
It was my last weekend in Eugene, and I was in the sweaty, miserable, and morose process of packing up everything I owned, cleaning my well worn and well-abused party house, and trying to move my life to Portland.  It had been my last day of work, and last chance to say goodbye to four years of friends and memories. 

I had been packing/cleaning/contemplating suicide rather than move for 2 days straight and was already late for the going away party I planned for myself at this awful bar I love so much.  What I really wanted and what I really needed was a good long run to rid the anxiety, sweat out the dirt and calm me the frick down.  But no dice, I had obligations.....

And of this dilemma was born the perfect solution.

I went to the bar, got wasted on free drinks, and come 1:30am was ready to go home.  But, having worn my spandex and running shoes out, I had a plan.

“Come on.” I slurred to my equally drink boyfriend, who as I recall was wearing sparkling gold spandex and a pink cowboy hat.  “Lets run home.” 

It was infallible.  I was absolutely trashed, running home with ole’ Gold Pants for protection, in the dark along an unlit semi-wild-like trail.  Brilliance, I tell you. 

I pushed hard too, harder then Gold Pants had ever seen and whose drunken body initially could not keep up.  My stride was perfect, and it felt like my legs were devouring the dark trail before me.  It was pitch black in some places and we were basically running blind, not knowing where we had come from or where the trail was leading.  And for the first time my brain shut down too, and not only was I literately stumbling through the darkness, but more importantly it was also figurative.

Mentally I was running blind.  With running there are always doubts, thoughts, pains, times, mile markers, splits, desires, doldrums, fears and at least for me a non stop inner monologue that won’t quit.  But the alcohol that night, the binge drinking in excess, it seems, shut down some part of my brain and killed all the thought process.  All I was left with was the moment; each time my foot hit the ground was the only moment.  And when running is usually a compilation of all these repetitions, all these strides, turnovers and minutes or miles, you become aware of every moment before and conscience of every one to come. 

As for me, on the trail, in the dark, with Gold Pants and I, stride in stride for the first and maybe only time, there was no duress.  A moment never lasted long because the next always washed it away.  There were no thoughts of sustaining or pacing.  I only vaguely remember thinking that I was already going “this” fast, so maybe I should run faster, and slowing down was never an option because the feeling of collapsed lungs and lactic acid never caught up.  The notion to go faster merely renewed itself in every moment. 

It was my most perfect run.  It was the only time I have ever run with true intensity and fierceness, and didn’t even bother with the possibility of doubt.  And if I can’t train my brain to emulate an intoxicated-like-stupor on command, my only option of becoming an elite athlete to also become an alcoholic.

When I ran when I was drunk I became untouchable. 

However, it is worth noting that running speeds up the metabolism and I got a wicked hangover before I could even make it to bed.