Saturday, June 2, 2012

Running with the Devil(ishly Sexy Wife) - Running of the Bulls 8K

Normally, I sign up for the races, and then drag along my wife, Sherri, to some of the shorter, harder events (I'm cruel like that). For the Running of the Bulls 8K the situation was reversed. Sherri suggested that we run our hometown race and even signed us up. I've always had some conflict and/or injury in the past couple of years that kept me from running this race. This year would have been the same since I was still recovering from the brutal beating at the hands of the sexy chocolatier. But I was determined to run, even in my broken down state, to keep my wife happy. If Momma ain't happy, ain't nobody happy.

Picking up our bibs on race morning, I can' tell  you how jealous I was of Sherri's number - 666. Sometimes I actually need the threat of a possible attack by a mythical creature to run well. Or to simply have something interesting to think about during the slow slog that I call "racing".

Thanks to Shannon for this picture!

Geek aside: Shouldn't the base-10 number of Satan, 666, actually be converted to base-6 notation for maximum evilness? If so, wouldn't that make the true number of the beast 3030 in base-6?

The Race - The Devil Gets His Due

I love running through Durham. It's been my home town for the past 17 years and it seems to get better and better. Great restaurants, great breweries,  and great trails. What more could you want? Oh yeah, a great minor league baseball team, a top-tier university, and being ranked the most tolerant city in the US. That's nice too. Ok, enough Bull City cheerleading. On to the race.

I had no intention of running quickly, which is good because I am unable to muster any real speed on my bruised foot and gimpy ankle. Sherri was fine with running a slow pace. We were there just for fun after all. So, off we trotted in the middle of the back of the pack, enjoying the atmosphere and generally having a good time.

If only we had known that Old Scratch wanted his bib and was willing to sacrifice a calf (Sherri's) to get it, we might have run a little faster. In the last half mile of the race, with nothing but one big downhill left to the finish, I smelled sulphur. I hadn't eaten eggs for breakfast that morning, so I knew it wasn't me. The sulfurous, hissing rapidly approaching from the rear should have been a clue. By the time I heard Sherri yelp in pain, Beelzebub had sacrificed her calf and scampered off to the finish line.

Sherri tried to walk it off, but this was the mother of all evil calf cramps. I helped her limp along for about a block before we abandoned the race, in sight of the finish.

Sherri wanted to finish in style and since that wasn't going to happen, we simply headed home. But that's not so bad. We live in Durham after all.