Masochism, San Francisco Style
So, for reasons my inner-self is still wrestling with, I decided a few months back to run the Bay to Breakers. For those of you who don't know, the Bay to Breakers is a 12K (yes, like you I don't really know how far that is, I don't understand that Canadian measurement system, but I think it's a little over 7 miles) race that takes place every year in San Francisco. The race starts on Howard Street, near the BAY, and ends at the Ocean (The BREAKERS). This being San Francisco, it's not so much a race as a travelling party where freaks of all natures dress up in costume (and some dirty hippies run nekkid), drink and dance to live music and DJs along the way. Not me, I'm running this bitch.
My decisision began as part of a ploy to convince my unsuspecting body that it was time to stop smoking, however my body disagrees (except for my lungs, which were strongly outvoted) and I continue my self abuse with a pack of Camel Lights every couple of days. The month of April was one of the toughest months of my life, so my burgeoning running career stopped dead in its tracks as I worked 12-hour days at my day job, put a magazine out and planned an Issue Release party. During this time, my acid reflux worsened, making every meal of the month a near vomitous experience.
Here we are two days till race day and I've only been running again for about a week. And I've only been running about 3 miles, which I think equals 3.141592653K, although maybe not. I'm nowhere near ready for this, but I hear it gets so crowded you have to walk the first mile or so. I'm seriously considering hopping in a cab at Mile 2, cruising to the finish in style, beatin' them Kenyans, collecting the mucho dinero prize money and buying a truckload of cigarettes to celebrate (or maybe a truckload of The Patch).
My decisision began as part of a ploy to convince my unsuspecting body that it was time to stop smoking, however my body disagrees (except for my lungs, which were strongly outvoted) and I continue my self abuse with a pack of Camel Lights every couple of days. The month of April was one of the toughest months of my life, so my burgeoning running career stopped dead in its tracks as I worked 12-hour days at my day job, put a magazine out and planned an Issue Release party. During this time, my acid reflux worsened, making every meal of the month a near vomitous experience.
Here we are two days till race day and I've only been running again for about a week. And I've only been running about 3 miles, which I think equals 3.141592653K, although maybe not. I'm nowhere near ready for this, but I hear it gets so crowded you have to walk the first mile or so. I'm seriously considering hopping in a cab at Mile 2, cruising to the finish in style, beatin' them Kenyans, collecting the mucho dinero prize money and buying a truckload of cigarettes to celebrate (or maybe a truckload of The Patch).
