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:
- I am 3.3 miles from home.
- 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.
- There is no one to call for a ride.
- 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.