Life Lesson #38: Run, baby, run!
Today is the worst day of my life. 
Okay. That might be a bit of an exaggeration. But I swear I have not felt this horrible in a very, very long time.
It’s only eleven in the morning and already I’ve:
Overslept by an hour.
Was late to work because I overslept by an hour.
Have vomited three times. At work.
Forgot to put on deodorant.
This has all happened because I decided to drink my face off yesterday. In comparison, yesterday was my proudest day.
Marathon Sunday means running twenty plus miles for a bunch of people with way more endurance and balls than I’ll ever have. For everyone else, it means drinking heavily from the moment they wake ‘til they pass out. I am clearly in the latter of the two categories.
I made the decision three years ago to truly embrace the Marathon as a Supportive, Enthusiastic, Drunk Spectator. You see, I like the independent nature of running itself. You don’t need a team. You don’t have to be in great shape. And the event itself, well, you only have to watch it once a year. So I feel like I can really put my heart and soul into going bananas since I won’t get to do it for another three hundred and sixty five.
The first time I watched it was from the last mile mark on Fifth Avenue. I brought my little brother with me since his track coach was going to be in it. We had a blast making fun of everyone in the stands and cracking jokes about this crazy lady with a guitar playing ‘inspirational’ music to get the runners through their last few steps. She sounded like she was dying and literarily had people booing to shut her up. All in all, it was a tame experience. After, I went home and called it a day. But I vowed to return the next year.
Two years ago, I lived on the 97th Street between Fifth and Madison. It was the first time Goose was running in it. Madonna and I were ready to be her Number One Fans.
Doing so included meeting at a bar underneath the 59th Street Bridge with assorted family and friends. We wanted to be the first of the group to cheer her on as she came into Manhattan.
A half dozen or so beers post-noon and we completely missed her at the first designated stop.
“Did you guys see her?! She just went by,” her brother’s girlfriend told us as she made her way over to the corner we were trying to see Goose from. Woops.
Okay, on to the next stop then. Harlem, here we come. But first, I just want to grab another drink.
Obviously there was no way we were going to make it up there in time. I mean, I wasn’t going to run there for crying out loud. So into a cab we go.
Ten minutes later and we seemed to be slowing down to a snail’s pace, even though there was barely a car on the road.
“Dude, you got to go faster, we’re trying to catch up to my sister,” her brother said.
Suddenly, the cab came to a stop as it broke down blocks from where we needed to be. Which I found hilarious. I mean, we’re in a cab because were too lazy to walk to meet up with our friend who’s running the Marathon! And the cab just comes to a sputtering halt! Amazing.
After standing on First Avenue and Who Knows What Street for a few minutes, we realize, there’s no way she didn’t already go by.
“Okay, how about we go to Central Park since that’s where it’ll end? At least we’ll see her there,” Madonna said.
Which brings us right back to where we started. The corner of 97th and Fifth. Ten feet outside of our apartment. Woops again. But at least we see her there.
“Where the hell have you guys been?!” Goose asked, jogging in place and looking amazingly normal for someone who’s been running for a few hours at this point.
“Um, well, we had some trouble keeping up with you,” is the best response I could come up with.
The next year, a wiser Madonna and I decided to throw a party at our apartment since Goose and another of their friends from college would both be running it. And this time, our apartment was actually on First Avenue, only one floor up. With windows wide open and a fantastic spread from Dunkin Donuts and York Wines and Liquors, we were ready.
I spent hours on the street, mimosa/baileys/beer in hand, screaming and cheering with Westchester.
“Gooooo Dave! You can do it!”
“Yea Linda, that’s right!”
“Steve! Steve! Steve!”
“We love you ITALY!”
“Come on man with the leg cramp! Walk it off, buddy, walk it off!”
Three hours later, I think I gave myself alcohol poisoning with a side of bronchitis. Running from kitchen to street with mimosa/baileys/beer in hand, I barely made it to the bars after the race only to be taken home a few minutes later.
And then there was yesterday. Which did not disappoint. I had my first drink in hand at 10:30 am at Hansel’s sisters’ apartment (another friend to add to the marathon-runner list). Which, now when I think about it, was only a few hours after I had stopped drinking from Saturday’s antics. Which in turn, had started as a cure for Friday night’s bartending that didn’t end ‘til the sun was almost up. So basically, there was no more liquid in my body that was not some sort of alcohol. I think my body was actually a liquor store.
The majority of the day was spent swallowing mimosas and Coronas and the occasional piece of bagel. And rather than barely making it to the end of the race, I actually made it out to the bar where Hansel was working. No lightweight behavior for me: I’ve had three years of training now! I was even prouder when several hours later, Hansel and I were basically sent home by the manager, probably because we were the drunkest couple on the UES.
Okay. That might be a bit of an exaggeration. But I swear I have not felt this horrible in a very, very long time.
It’s only eleven in the morning and already I’ve:
Overslept by an hour.
Was late to work because I overslept by an hour.
Have vomited three times. At work.
Forgot to put on deodorant.
This has all happened because I decided to drink my face off yesterday. In comparison, yesterday was my proudest day.
Marathon Sunday means running twenty plus miles for a bunch of people with way more endurance and balls than I’ll ever have. For everyone else, it means drinking heavily from the moment they wake ‘til they pass out. I am clearly in the latter of the two categories.
I made the decision three years ago to truly embrace the Marathon as a Supportive, Enthusiastic, Drunk Spectator. You see, I like the independent nature of running itself. You don’t need a team. You don’t have to be in great shape. And the event itself, well, you only have to watch it once a year. So I feel like I can really put my heart and soul into going bananas since I won’t get to do it for another three hundred and sixty five.
The first time I watched it was from the last mile mark on Fifth Avenue. I brought my little brother with me since his track coach was going to be in it. We had a blast making fun of everyone in the stands and cracking jokes about this crazy lady with a guitar playing ‘inspirational’ music to get the runners through their last few steps. She sounded like she was dying and literarily had people booing to shut her up. All in all, it was a tame experience. After, I went home and called it a day. But I vowed to return the next year.Two years ago, I lived on the 97th Street between Fifth and Madison. It was the first time Goose was running in it. Madonna and I were ready to be her Number One Fans.
Doing so included meeting at a bar underneath the 59th Street Bridge with assorted family and friends. We wanted to be the first of the group to cheer her on as she came into Manhattan.
A half dozen or so beers post-noon and we completely missed her at the first designated stop.
“Did you guys see her?! She just went by,” her brother’s girlfriend told us as she made her way over to the corner we were trying to see Goose from. Woops.
Okay, on to the next stop then. Harlem, here we come. But first, I just want to grab another drink.
Obviously there was no way we were going to make it up there in time. I mean, I wasn’t going to run there for crying out loud. So into a cab we go.
Ten minutes later and we seemed to be slowing down to a snail’s pace, even though there was barely a car on the road.
“Dude, you got to go faster, we’re trying to catch up to my sister,” her brother said.
Suddenly, the cab came to a stop as it broke down blocks from where we needed to be. Which I found hilarious. I mean, we’re in a cab because were too lazy to walk to meet up with our friend who’s running the Marathon! And the cab just comes to a sputtering halt! Amazing.
After standing on First Avenue and Who Knows What Street for a few minutes, we realize, there’s no way she didn’t already go by.
“Okay, how about we go to Central Park since that’s where it’ll end? At least we’ll see her there,” Madonna said.
Which brings us right back to where we started. The corner of 97th and Fifth. Ten feet outside of our apartment. Woops again. But at least we see her there.
“Where the hell have you guys been?!” Goose asked, jogging in place and looking amazingly normal for someone who’s been running for a few hours at this point.
“Um, well, we had some trouble keeping up with you,” is the best response I could come up with.
The next year, a wiser Madonna and I decided to throw a party at our apartment since Goose and another of their friends from college would both be running it. And this time, our apartment was actually on First Avenue, only one floor up. With windows wide open and a fantastic spread from Dunkin Donuts and York Wines and Liquors, we were ready.
I spent hours on the street, mimosa/baileys/beer in hand, screaming and cheering with Westchester.
“Gooooo Dave! You can do it!”
“Yea Linda, that’s right!”
“Steve! Steve! Steve!”
“We love you ITALY!”
“Come on man with the leg cramp! Walk it off, buddy, walk it off!”
Three hours later, I think I gave myself alcohol poisoning with a side of bronchitis. Running from kitchen to street with mimosa/baileys/beer in hand, I barely made it to the bars after the race only to be taken home a few minutes later.
And then there was yesterday. Which did not disappoint. I had my first drink in hand at 10:30 am at Hansel’s sisters’ apartment (another friend to add to the marathon-runner list). Which, now when I think about it, was only a few hours after I had stopped drinking from Saturday’s antics. Which in turn, had started as a cure for Friday night’s bartending that didn’t end ‘til the sun was almost up. So basically, there was no more liquid in my body that was not some sort of alcohol. I think my body was actually a liquor store.
The majority of the day was spent swallowing mimosas and Coronas and the occasional piece of bagel. And rather than barely making it to the end of the race, I actually made it out to the bar where Hansel was working. No lightweight behavior for me: I’ve had three years of training now! I was even prouder when several hours later, Hansel and I were basically sent home by the manager, probably because we were the drunkest couple on the UES.
Life Lesson # 38: I continue to look back on yesterday with pride as memories of one of the city’s finest days breakthrough. Seeing all the people I knew as they panted their way to the finish line. Seeing all the same people hours later getting shit-faced at the bar. A wise stop to H.F.T.’s apartment to go to the bathroom when the line at the bar seemed worse than anything at Disneyland. A delicious addition to the usual champagne-orange juice combination: Fresca. A dance-off to The Jackson Five, Shakira and Bruce.
So I didn’t run the marathon. Nor am I inspired to give it a whirl next year. That’s just silly. But you can bet your ass I will be one of the best damn fans you’re ever going to see. Because each year, it just gets better and better.
Side note: To all of you that ran - congrats! And to Goose in particular: Happy Birthday!!!
posted by Penny at 4:50 PM
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