Stretch Armstrong Runs a Race

It's been a few years since I started running.  I started at... Christmas... of 2009.  So, a few.  I ran a race last weekend, my fourth time in this race, which was my first race ever.  I have run this race with two other people, now, and twice by myself.  It was both of their first races ever, too, and it's so much fun to be there for that experience.

This race is 2 miles.  Last year I finished in 18 minutes.  Boom.  The year before that, 19 and change, and I PLACED and got a trophy.  I still don't know how I missed my trophy last year.

This year, I was coming off of pneumonia and had not run for a solid month prior to the race.  I was nervous going in, actually, afraid of how bad it was going to feel to finish last, or, you know, second to last.

There's this big ass loser in our town that I cannot stand, for whom I have a visceral dislike that I can't even pinpoint, there's really no reason for it.  This guy typically plays the National Antehm at this particular race, on trumpet.  He's all right on the trumpet.  Whatever.

This year, he also ran.  Make no mistake, I don't care if I did one solid cough the entire race, I was DETERMINED to beat this guy.

The first year I ran this race, and I ran every step, I finished in 24.40.  That's not at all a good time, that's super duper slow, but whatever.  I don't give a shit what you think.  I am a runner, goddammit.

Anyway.  This year, I ran about a half mile, then walk-ran the rest of the race.  It was a gorgeous day, warm and sunny, and I decided, well, fuck it.  I don't even care.  I enjoyed myself.  In that first 1/2 mile, I noticed the tubby yellow shirt of The Trumpeter, just ahead of me.  I looked at Mel- let's do this shit.  We pulled ahead of him, and even though a little while later I started walking some, and Mel ran on, go ahead her, his bright yellow shirt stayed behind us.

In the end, I finished in 24.40 - I KNOW - and was pretty satisfied, considering the state I was in.  Had time for some animal crackers and gatorade, when I heard the announcer call the Trumpeter's name, and announce his time.

30.something-or-other.

HAHA.  Fat fucker.  I beat the shit out of you, and I'm out of shape.

Oh, how unsportsmanlike I am.  Fuck it.

I had fun racing, and I'm pretty much ready to get back on the pavement.  Daylight savings is here, it's warm enough, and I've got to maintain a significant lead on trumpeters.

In other news, there's been some sad times lately, but during the sad times, there is often a moment where I can see people I love, and this was one of those.  Look at these cute girlies:

Now, look at my left arm.  It's freakishly long, and bent at an odd angle, and extremely thin.  Stretch armstrong.  That's me.

The baby is writing in a diary.  I did that, when I was little.  He doesn't know I took a picture.  He also doesn't know I'm going to post a picture of his diary on the internet.  PARENTING WIN.

"I went to a britthay at crassgates."  I went to a birthday at Cross Gates.  He had fun at that birthday party, a party of triplets, who live across the street from me.  I'm so glad.  I feel no compunction about letting him go over there to play, because I'm pretty sure she can't remember how many first graders are supposed to be there anyway, and so one more doesn't really make an impact.

Oh, how hilarious is the life.  Happy Tuesday, everybody.  I wish you a long arm, a britthay and a good run, beating out a yellow shirted trumpet playing asshole.