The Tortoise and the Hare - Beer Mile Version

If you want to skip the details of this story, I’ll sum it up for you…

I can’t chug.

I used to be able to run at an alarming rate. No one believes me though. “You ran a mile in what?? … Unbelievable!” It is true though. I don’t like to talk about it very much, unless it is going to directly and promptly benefit me. Example 1: The director of sales operations at my company was a four-minute miler. I projectile vomitted my skills on to him during my interview in hopes of landing a job (careful not to mention the fact that I was faster). Example 2: Girl at bar “Ugh! Why can’t I find a sub-four minute miler to makeout with?? Me: “Hi, I’m Clay, there are less than 300 of us in America, so, chances you’d find another one tonight are pretty slim.” Other than those two situations it really does no good to talk about how fast I used to be. It’s akin to leading off a conversation with.. “Yea, I started a dot com back in the mid 90s.” Nobody cares. It is like any other obscure accomplishment, and I am totally content to be a has been at 30. That’s not to say that when I’m out running around the Charles and I get passed by some former high school all-star who has just had a come to jesus about marathoning, that I don’t feel like yelling out something moronic like “oh yea? Well, that used to be my warm-up pace…when my foot was broken.” I keep it to myself..

Last Saturday, three years after I ungracefully left the sport of competitive racing, I stepped on the track again. A week prior, in a grain induced buzz, I had agreed to participate in the 2nd Annual Boston Triathlon Club Beer Mile. For those not familiar with this type of contest, it is like any mile race on a 400 meter track. The only real difference is that before you start each lap, you have to consume a 12oz beer containing more than 5% alcohol by volume (light beers are out). Whoever crosses the line first is the winner. Those who can’t keep the suds down? Penalty lap. I don’t run beer miles very often. In fact I’ve never raced in an official beer mile (rules can be found at www.beermile.com). The only reason I agreed to enter at this moment in my life is because I was told last year’s winner ran something like 9:40, and I thought that this was my chance to get back on the podium. It’s true, I haven’t run faster than a 7 minute mile in over three years, but God created muscle memory for a reason – and this was my reason. In my own fuzzy logic I assumed that I could do the running portion of this mile in 5 minutes…leaving over 4 minutes of time to consume the beers. Okay, enough of the back story this is how it went down.

When last year’s Beer Mile Champion, Todd (not his real name), showed up at Roberto Clemente Field, he was just as I pictured. This guy was obviously the alpha male of the Boston Tri Club. He had the gear, the shaved legs, and the general ‘top dog’ look that exists in every local running or tri club. I’m sure the girls that join the club are wooed by his training log and racing tales. Even I was impressed by how he played his role. The only thing keeping me from any type of nervousness was the fact that I knew his time from last year. It was time take the beer to the track. It was time for glory. It was my time. The starters pistol barked sharply in the darkening night (he said “Go!”), and as soon as I cracked open that first can of Coors O… I knew I was in trouble….

A true beer mile is BYOB. For a week leading up to the race I struggled with my choice. I was convinced that Guiness would be my best bet. Low carbonation = easier to get down = faster beer drinking splits = I win my comeback reunion tour race. Unfortunately Guiness doesn’t come in 12oz cans. The smallest is 14.9, and the thought of 12 extra ounces of beer in my belly during the bell lap scared me into choosing Coors Original. It was a decision worthy of the Donner Party. Which means I regretted it.

…I tried to chug. I know, I know, relax the jaw, open up the throat. I’ve seen Super Troopers. My problem is that my throat doesn’t really open. My doctor told me never to get fat because I’d probably have sleep apnea. As I gulped ridiculously at the can of Coors I was so glad that none of my friends were there to see this. My buddy Danny can drink beer so fast it’s actually on his resume. I could picture the disappointment on his face if he had seen this. One by one, my competitors finished their beers and took off down the track. Mercifully I slurped up the last of my first Coors. I thought very seriously of pulling up with a hamstring injury to avoid further embarrassment, when all of the sudden I noticed that I was literally screaming past the drinker/runners in front of me. Before I got half way around the track I went by Todd with ease. I started laughing and belching at the same time. *Don’t do that by the way, it doesn’t feel good*. Before I knew it I was in second place. Only the first guy to finish his beer was ahead of me and I was gaining on him too. I had all but forgotten the torment of drinking that first beer when I cruised into the transition zone and cracked open Coors #2.

It was worse than the first. It burned. My throat fought against the searing liquid and closed tighter. I’m used to doing things my body doesn’t want to do.. like taxes, so I willed it open and poured the cold brew as fast as I could. I imagine I looked much like a high schooler, trying to down his first beer…hating the taste, and hating the situation he is in, but doing it nonetheless because he doesn’t want to lose face(yes, I was describing myself as a high schooler). The guy who finished his first beer first…finished his second before I was half way done. I wrote him off right there and then. Every time you lose a race, there is a point where you know you’ve lost, and you start focusing on second place *aside* - People who scoff at this and want to call me a quitter, you have obviously never been in this type of situation before, and thus I write you off as a human being. *end aside* That was the moment for me in this barley laden championship. As I came to grips with this truth, Todd finished his second beer and headed out into he darkness for lap 2. I panicked. I was like a clogged sink, and my beer couldn’t get past the giant hair ball in the pipes…in this case the hair ball was my body’s reflex to something it considered to be an awful idea.

Todd had me by 40 meters as I started my second lap. Amazingly, I caught him on the back stretch, his frosted tips shinning slightly in the little light we had on the track. It was clear that this was going to be a battle. He could certainly drink faster than me, but I was brutally eating away at his status in the club as a good runner. Here I was, an out of shape outsider, making him look like he was running in peanut butter. I wont over do the details of the third beer. It was horrid. The guy who eventually won the race was already running again by the time I cracked open my 3rd. Milers and those who write about milers talk about how the 3rd lap is more agonizing than the 4th. That certainly crosses over to the beer mile. Toddy started lap 3 at least 80 meters ahead of me, his loyal club mates cheering his effort. I was crying. Beer stings when it gets in your eyes, and nose, and I had resorted to pouring beer in any hole near my face in order to start on my third lap.

I didn’t catch Todd until the final straight of lap 3. All I could think of was my upcoming 4th Coors. The running had been fairly easy. I didn’t even feel sloshy. I belched a lot, but besides that it actually felt good to be out on the track and not drinking. Around the time that I cracked my 4th beer, the winner crossed the line. I didn’t realize it at the time because I was uber focused on my task. It was the first time I have been lapped in any race. I can only conclude that he cheated. Todd glared at me as I threw back his 4th. It was then that the tortoise versus the hare analogy dawned on me. Slow and steady wins the race eh? Not when I’m in the race pal! The gap was over 150 meters when I somehow got through the last beer. I moaned and belched at the same time as I leaped off the line for my final lap. If you’re curious, it is similar to the sound that a water buffalo makes as it watches its calf get eaten by a lion.

It took me about 50 meters to get my bearings and remember how slow Todd was. I hit the accelerator. I had been so slow on my last beer that when I started the last lap, I wasn’t even in 3rd place. I was in 5th. I wasn’t concerned with those guys. I was looking for shining frosted tips in the distance. I floated. I remembered what it was like to ask my body to produce more speed and then have it simply happen. With each step I took Todd got closer. I began to think of some good quotes for the paper. Maybe Sports Center would pick this up as a top 10 play. With 100 meters to go I threw it all down. Flying down the straight I felt like a cheetah that happened to stumble onto a gazelle with only two legs. Todd was mine.

Everything got really blurry. The conclusion was made that I ran my last lap somewhere under 65 seconds (4:20 mile pace), which was a positive thing, considering it took me over 90 seconds to drink my last beer. My friend Todd had looked over his shoulder in the last 20 meters. It’s amazing what pride and reputation will do for you in a race. Somehow Todd surged at just the right moment, and as he crossed the finish line a step ahead of me, he threw his hands in the air triumphantly. He had solidified legend. The turtle, once again, beat the rabbit.

My time was 9 minutes and 15 seconds. The result was upsetting. However, I was noble in defeat. I stomped around the track kicking empty beer cans, pointing fingers, making comments about how the women’s winner shouldn’t get a medal because she finished in 13 minutes. I called the overall winner a dirty cheat… I name dropped famous runners I’ve run with and projected their disapproval on how this whole operation was put together. I questioned the manhood of a 60 year old participate because he was wearing tights, and I belched out slanderous statements about triathletes in general. “You can’t just pick one sport you…you…thirds of humans??!” As I staggered away, I announced my retirement from beer miling, and warned the organizers about even thinking of asking me back next year. Yes. Four beers in 9 minutes. it sped through my veins at 180 beats per minute. And yes, I will be back next year. But next year, I’m drinking Guiness.

*photo courtesy of Claire Wood

Operation Overlord

Trying to come up with a good first blog is like trying to come up with a believable story when your mom asks why there's a condom wrapper on your bedroom floor (years ago...and the story had to do with a make-shift water balloon fight...). It's not easy. The last thing you want is to be seen as a disappointment... So, to be safe, I've decided to tell a story that happened about 8 years ago on a rural road that winds through the wooded hills of the Hudson Valley.

Operation Overlord:

The name given to this tale of tales is a little misleading. There was no invasion per se. This is more of play on the word overlord, which will make more and more sense as you read on. It was late fall, circa 2000. The Army cross country team was finishing up a run at one of our favorite trails. All of our training spots are named. There's Harriman, named for its close proximity to Harriman State Park. The Aqueduct, named for an old railroad bed that somehow leads to a Romanesque water supply system. Blackrock, the Dew loop, Lee Gate, and Joe's Pole were some others. On this day, we were running at Hagen Das. This run was named well before my time, and while I'm not sure exactly why it is called Hagen Das, I know we often made fun of our women's team for eating ice cream after practice, so there's a good chance it's related to that.

I remember it being an overcast day. We had probably run our normal 7 or 8 mile loop. The cool thing about this run is the massive train tussle bridge that we park the van under. It's actually in the movie Michael Clayton in the scene where his car blows up. The trail that he runs up into the woods shortly after the explosion is part of Hagen Das. Anyway, the train bridge is like 150 feet above the road. You have to run up a quarter mile hill to get up to the tracks and then come back toward the road almost half a mile to get up to the bridge. For some reason a good number of us decided to run up to the bridge that day. We had never done it before, and we couldn't really figure out why (I mean besides the fact that the track was actively in use, and the idea of going up there automatically triggered thoughts of Gordie LaChance, Chris Chambers, and Teddy Duchamp in the train bridge scene of Stand by Me...let's face it, nobody wants to end up like Ray Brower, and we were smart sensible West Pointers), but today it seemed like a really good idea.

At this point I have to start talking about a guy on our team that we nicknamed Red Reeder. His last name was actually Reiter, but that was close enough for us. Red Reeder was a WWII hero and later became the Athletic Director at West Point for 20 years, but none of us knew that at the time. We just knew Red Reeder because he had a room named after him in Washington Hall and that's where you went to buy your bus tickets to the New York airports so you could get the hell out of that place for two weeks twice a year. Our Red was a great kid. Super nice, super smart, super religious, and super easy to make fun of. Don't get upset - everyone gets made fun of their first year as an Army distance runner. Actually during this story I think Red was sophomore, so it did last a little longer for him. We were actually very harsh with Red. He used to bring his books with him on the van out to our running trails. Seeing as that was a time for bonding with each other, we gave Red a lot of shit for that. Red, to his credit, pulled a play straight out of Dr. King's playbook and just peacefully ignored us. Of course that just made us try that much harder, and lead to the infamous van ride where we asked Red which of our male track coaches he would rather perform fellatio on. If members of the class of 2002 track team, mainly me, are found dead one day, double gun shot wounds to the head and groin, track down Red for questioning first.

Back on the bridge... I should really rename this story, the day that Will tried to shit on Red Reeder from a 150 foot train bridge. I'm getting ahead of myself now. So, we get to the bridge. It's high. Really high. The 15 passenger van looks like a Smart car. At first, the 6 or 7 guys who chose not to pay tribute to a Rob Reiner film didn't notice us up there. So obviously we decide get their attention the old fashioned way...congealed saliva bombs. Unfortunately most of us were dehydrated from the run, and our weak attempts simply evaporated before hitting the ground. The better idea would be to try and urinate on our teammates from 150 feet, but the distance runner normally hoses off a tree or two well before the run finishes, and thus with our guns empty, we decided to just yell down and let our presence known.

The ooohs and aaahs from below were so anticlimactic. Red Reeder wouldn't even acknowledge our feat. He was nose deep in either his Chem201 book, or the bible. Well that just wouldn't do. Will and I looked at each other for a moment, minds racing, searching. I had nothing, and was getting frustrated. Then, out of nowhere, Will just smiled and said. "I can't piss...but I could deuce". Of course - brilliant! And with that, Will dropped trou, and wedged his ass through a gap in the iron cross beams of the bridge. The laughter below only lasted a moment. It became obvious that this was no run-of-the-mill moon job. Will was trying so hard to push it out, the groans were clearly audible below. Red, meanwhile, never looked up. My mind had already come up with an explanation to coach on why Will got a hernia on the Hagan Das train bridge when all of a sudden there was loaf jettison...

Now granted, this turd was barely dollar menu worthy, but size really didn't matter here. The mini-charcoal like briquette floated down toward the van from the Overlord above. It was the "Oh my God!" that shook Red from his page of double bonds or verse. I clearly remember him pushing his glasses up on his nose as he tilted his head skyward. I'm not sure if he saw it in the air or not. I'm going to guess no because honestly, who expects to see falling solid waste...at any time?

Now, I wish I could change the ending of this story. It would be great to say that Will's slider sized poo either landed on Red or even better, on his Chemistry text or the 23rd Psalm...and further more, that this all went down as a 90 car Norfolk Southern powered rail convoy barreled down on us...but none of that would be true. Will's junior pie missed Red by about five feet. He never even flinched.