Plethora

Best Story

January 2nd, 2010

In April of 2009 a colleague of mine had invited the entire team to her wedding and after we found out everyone was going to be there, we knew we had to go, too. So, we showed up first, of course, and picked a table to enjoy the reception, hoping others would come soon, and they did. It wasn’t long after the food had been eaten that I discovered it was an open bar, and more importantly, Lindsey had agreed to be out designated driver, but offered a warning, “Remember, you have to run 17 miles tomorrow!”

About 4 whiskey sours later I was talking into going downtown with a couple colleagues via taxicab to continue drinking and this way Lindsey could drink, too. We would crash at a colleagues house and party down. Or up. Whichever.

After a run for the border and multiple Miller Lite’s and Guinesses later Linds and I were well past our bedtime as we watched 3:00am tick by on the wall clock. We went to sleep, waking up with a sort of panic of not knowing where we were and then the greater panic of “how will we get home?”. I call a taxi based on my google search on my phone and when asked where to pick us up at I was forced to search through the homeowners mail to figure out my current address. Told it’ll be about 15 minutes and realizing I have no cash, still dressed in a suit I walk down the deserted street to a pharmacy, buy a gatorade to help nurse my hangover and a Sunday Paper, I get $50 cash and struggle to find the house I had just left. The cabbie picks us up in the same minivan I remember my parents owning when I was about 5 years old, complete with a faux wood siding on the outside of the van, which I guess was to make it look distinguished, and takes nothing but back roads back to the reception hall and telling us stories of some of his more interesting rides “husband and wife going to a prostitute” is a story that it’ll take a great deal of whiskey to forget. Also, the cabbie would open his door at stop lights and spit a disgusting amount of tobacco chew onto the road before continuing as if what he had just done wasn’t completely awful.

We finally arrive at my car which is now abandoned in the parking lot and we stop for McDonald’s on the way home and after chugging my remainder gatorade we go back to sleep. I wake up around 1pm loudly cursing myself for not heeding Lindsey’s warning the night before and devour french toast that Lindsey makes for us. A sort of breakfast for lunch meal which I at this time am dressing for what will be the longest run of my life, and again, trying to rehydrate myself with gatorade.

After some light stretching and loading up some podcasts and music on my iPod I hit the road. It’s an easy route, to Bally’s, turn around, back to the apartment, and repeat. Since it’s 4.2 miles to Bally’s I figure it’s a close enough to 17 miles for me and I run the first 4.2 listening to This American Life and keeping one eye shut as my brain feels like it’s cracking after each foot smashes into the ground. Then, as I turn around and head back the hangover has passed, I guzzle the gatorade I left at the roadside Bally’s sign and have officially “sweated out” the hangover and feel rejuvenated, almost making me laugh at the thought that Lindsey didn’t think of running off her hangover and how great I’ll feel for the rest of my Sunday. I then turn around at the apartment, drinking water now and find myself looking at the grass as I run thinking, “this seems like a good place to throw up…if I do in fact need to”. French toast now seems like an awful idea, as does drinking any more water or listening to someone talk about their American Life. I turn around at Bally’s and am now in the last quarter of my run. I have to take my iPod off because just hearing them is making me feel sick. I am now torn between walking and taking it slow, or sprinting and getting the run over with. I choose sprinting.

I get home and feel what I always have imagined Rocky felt like at the end of Rocky II when him and Apollo Creed both fall and he stumbles to his feet just long enough to be called the winner by knock out and then collapses into his trainers arms. I have nothing left and though covered in sweat am freezing. I get upstairs and begin to shiver. Linds wants me to drink something, but that just seems terrible right now and I collapse onto all fours and try to get warm. Linds looks at my face and sees I’m now sporting blue lips and have become more pale than Edward Cullen. I run/stumble to the bathroom and the only food in my stomach is now gone as I throw up. Linds now makes me toast with sugar on it, mixes water with sugar, and makes me tea, also with sugar. I nibble the toast, take a sip of the water, and immediately head back to the bathroom to throw up again.

Now, Linds is worried but I’m feeling pretty good. I eat a piece of the toast and half of the second, drink the water and then hit another wall as I lay down on the couch and begin to shut down again. Twenty minutes later I return to the bathroom and again am feeling much better as I realize Lindsey has now called my family and is being direct towards Wade Vandover who forces me to eat crackers or go to the hospital. I’m finally feeling good. Even laughing at America’s Funniest Home Video.

Anyway, I learned a valuable lesson. Don’t drink and run 17 miles. 16 maybe, but not 17. Kids, I am not a role model.

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