Yesterday was the East Nashville Tomato Art Festival, which kicked off in the morning with a kid's fun run. Gus ran the same race last year, tripped at the starting line, and hobbled sobbing (and bleeding) the rest of the way.
This year went a lot more smoothly. And more quickly!
This year went a lot more smoothly. And more quickly!
Check out that stride!
This is the "sporty shirt" he purchased especially for the race. He says the mesh contributed greatly to his amazing speed.
Next on the program was the Tomato 5K, in which I ran with 746 other happy racers, including a man dressed as a bottle of ketchup.
Next on the program was the Tomato 5K, in which I ran with 746 other happy racers, including a man dressed as a bottle of ketchup.
And despite my aforementioned lack of muscle tone, I beat my time from last year, and ...
That's first place in my age bracket, by the way. Not first overall. The first place runner finished in 18 minutes, which ... if I get out my calculator and figure out that person's pace is ... COMPLETELY INSANE. How does a body move that fast for that long? I don't get it. My race pace was a 7:38 mile, which, if we're being honest, almost killed me.
There is nothing attractive about me running my very very fastest. I can just feel the ugly oozing from my pores. And I can hear it. HEH! HEH! HEH! HEH! HEH! HEH! HEH! HEH! HEH! I was panting like a St. Bernard. I actually had to tell myself to just shut up and get a grip at the top of mile three.And then there was my neighbor Kathy, who doesn't "consider herself a runner." When I saw her at the beginning of the race, I was ever the douchey race veteran squealing, "Yayeeee! Is this your first race? Good foryooou!"
So of course she smoked my ass. There I was, closing in on the home stretch, a tenth of a mile left to go, when from the corner of my eye I see my wee speedy neighbor flying past me on the left hand side.
Of course. Not only is Kathy one of the nicest people in the world, she is a tiny muscular goddess, chiseled from the finest Italian marble. It's only natural that I should still be picking her dust out of my teeth, even if she did take up running, oh, I don't know, LAST WEEK. The moral of the story, of course, is to just do your best, and ...
There is nothing attractive about me running my very very fastest. I can just feel the ugly oozing from my pores. And I can hear it. HEH! HEH! HEH! HEH! HEH! HEH! HEH! HEH! HEH! I was panting like a St. Bernard. I actually had to tell myself to just shut up and get a grip at the top of mile three.And then there was my neighbor Kathy, who doesn't "consider herself a runner." When I saw her at the beginning of the race, I was ever the douchey race veteran squealing, "Yayeeee! Is this your first race? Good foryooou!"
So of course she smoked my ass. There I was, closing in on the home stretch, a tenth of a mile left to go, when from the corner of my eye I see my wee speedy neighbor flying past me on the left hand side.
Of course. Not only is Kathy one of the nicest people in the world, she is a tiny muscular goddess, chiseled from the finest Italian marble. It's only natural that I should still be picking her dust out of my teeth, even if she did take up running, oh, I don't know, LAST WEEK. The moral of the story, of course, is to just do your best, and ...
... thank God for age brackets.
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