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Lacking other transportation options, I call upon my running ability.


It’s 1 am on a Saturday and I’m done being out.

Being a cranky grandpa trapped in a 23-year-old female’s body, I have consumed my customary 1.5 drinks and am intolerant of inflicting upon myself anything that harks back to the gleefully misguided nights of wild college years. Damn kids!

I have to be up semi-early on Saturday (this) morning for work, so suddenly bed is all I can think about. Everyone else is being fun, ordering more drinks from the bar, and trying to cajole the frazzled karaoke mistress into bumping our names up on the list.

I pay this no mind. It’s nothing personal, everybody, but I am done.

My friends are thinking another round of Alaskan Ambers. I am thinking blankets. My friends are thinking, Aretha Franklin or Seal? I am thinking, hard pillows or cushy?

I find myself standing outside of the bar, having weaseled away from the group, the smoke, the angry din of shady people desperately trying to make eyes at one another across the room. The air is thick with alcoholically-influenced pheromones and sketchy pick-up attempts and thank you, it’s been fun, but that’s enough.

I am wearing jean shorts and sandals. Whatever. It’s 1 am and it’s Alaska, so who cares. On the other hand, it’s 1 am and it’s Alaska, so I’m cold standing outside the bar.

So after reveling in my newfound freedom for about 23 seconds, it is time to face a few mildly unpleasant truths:

  1. I am 3.3 miles from home.
  2. I am channeling an exorbitantly impatient form of Scrooge and will most certainly not be spending money on a taxi, let alone be standing around and waiting for it to mosey it’s lollygagging butt on over to my current location.
  3. There is no one to call for a ride.
  4. The busses do not run at this hour.

Luckily, I am not a bus.  

If I walk, it will take about 70 minutes. If I run, I will have at least an extra half hour to spend sleeping tonight.

So I proceed to jog – in sandals, jean shorts, and hair down – the entire 3.3 miles home. At what will turn out to be a perfectly respectable 8:47 pace, given the circumstances.

My flip flops are slapping loudly on the pavement. Also, I am discovering that these shorts need a belt. Wait, no, they really need a belt. I have to hold them up with one hand and hold my stuff in the other.

I look colossally foolish.

Various people observe my slightly embarrassing transportational situation, but most are too far gone to waste their remaining neurological facilities passing judgment on me, I hope.

But 0.2 miles from my destination, a guy steps out of a bar, takes one look at me slapping down the street struggling to hold up my shorts at 1:24 am like it’s as normal as water is wet, and remarks, with all the astute lucidity of Mona Lisa Vito, “What the **** is going on here?”

“I didn’t request commentary,” I reply insolently.

“Commentary?” He laughs because he LOVES IT, and yells, “Annnnd she’s gaining ground in the backstretch! CAN SHE DO IT! WORLD RECORD ON THE LINE,” and a whole string of nonsensical asininities one might associate with race commentators.

Obviously this is a chap I should turn around and shake hands with, but my pillow awaits, so I must ignore him and only hope we can trade similarly witty repartee on another occasion.

Mercifully, the door to my house appears, and I am soon inside assessing my feet for blisters. There are none, but my ankles and shins feel a little sore from the unfamiliar surface. Am I allowed to log this in my weekly mileage, I wonder?

I floss and brush my teeth and set my alarm for 7:30 so that I can get up and run before work.

Another day of habitual fun-shunning winds to a close, but not before I consult MapMyRun out of sheer curiosity about the pace I just held in backless sandals.

In other news, this wraps up another week that was needlessly above 70 miles. There is a 10K next Saturday that I really want to race in. I  just need to find a ride. So cross your fingers for me, because running to the site is out of the question as it is 16 miles away. Maybe if I race I will actually have something more interesting to write about than running home from a bar.

14 Comments leave one →
  1. Lori permalink
    09/19/2010 18:20

    Mona Lisa Vito? Oh yeah, you blend 🙂 Flip flops are better than five fingers, because your toes are FREE. Hmmm, running around Juneau at night. Sounds like a story I heard about a fellow you know running home from a pub in Scotland. Did you think about stopping and take a swim?

    • 09/19/2010 18:57

      What fellow was this?! FWB? No dip for me, but I did pause on the bridge to spy on either a sea lion or otter swimming below.

  2. 09/19/2010 19:46


    Oh wait, I am lazy.


  3. dubay319 permalink
    09/19/2010 21:09

    Another lovely blog, And a special thanks for leaving me at the bar with the Drunk Russian 🙂

  4. 09/20/2010 03:54

    ummmmmm i love this post. it sounds exactly like me. i think we’d be great friends / drinking partners / running buddies in real life!

  5. Lacey permalink
    09/20/2010 04:10

    lol. yes i actually used to do that in college- for the same reason of wanting to be home and not out. this is bringing back all sorts of hazy running in sandals memories. prolly terrible for the legs 🙂

    so there is a big bar scene in your area huh? it sounds like there is quite a night life!!!

    • 09/20/2010 10:47

      Hahaha, me too! Maybe it isn’t even that terrible for the legs…? I figured that if the Tarahumara Indians can hold up running zillions of miles in sandals, I could survive 3.

  6. jbf permalink
    09/20/2010 09:00

    I can’t help but deduce from the details given that there is a bar 0.2 miles from your place of residence, and wonder why that wasn’t where you were spending your time, rather than a place 3.3 miles away.

    • 09/20/2010 10:51

      We start out the evenings while busses are still running and are poor planners in terms of end-of-night transit.

      Other than that, I have no valid explanation for this poor choice.

  7. 09/20/2010 14:50

    haha….i’m such a grandma myself. i’m the girl who wants to get the party started at 6 so she can be in bed by 11. shameful really….

    (Aretha over Seal. ANYTHING over Seal.)

    • 09/20/2010 15:22

      Reportedly, they went with Seal and were subsequently booed off the stage. Bahahahhaa.

  8. 09/23/2010 16:36

    I think you should throw your training energy into the Beer Mile.

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