I'm back after another absence, during which I'm sure your lives lost a significant amount of purpose and meaning. They say that "absence makes the heart grow fonder." Then again, they also say "out of sight, out of mind." And, in my vast experience as a morally questionable human being, I have found the latter to be the truer statement.
So thank you for sticking by me long enough for this new post to come out, instead of wandering off to repeatedly click the 'random article' button of Wikipedia, like I have been known to do in fits of interzone boredom.
Oh yeah, I'm calling the internet the interzone now. It's an allusion to Interzone, the setting of William S Burroughs' novel Naked Lunch. Basically, it's a fictional setting influenced by the International Zone in Tangier, Morocco, in which Burroughs spent some time enjoying the sun, surf and freedom from extradition.
This last factor became important after the author shot his common-law wife in the face during one of the most spectacular party trick failures of recent memory. The couple referred to it as their "William Tell trick." Basically, the soon to be deceased half of the pair would put a glass on her head and WSB would pull one of his several guns and try not to murder her. Evidently, one night he didn't try very hard. Good thing they were in Mexico at the time, so he was able to escape justice pretty easily.
Just for future reference.
Anyway, Interzone is a messed up place where people eat garbage and have huge crazy orgies and turn into bugs and slime and switch genders and kill and maim pretty much whenever they want. Fairly appropriate for cyberspace, really.
It is also home to the namesake of the band Steely Dan.
A stern yet fair sheriff, perhaps? An outlaw with a strong sense of justice? Nope.
Oh yes, read that again if you have to. The truth hasn't changed. I have the specific passage here, but you know what? I'm not going to post it. Read the book, if you like, you'll find it soon enough, and quite possibly won't read much further.
There, that's my justification for the term. Gosh, I hope it catches on.
Back to the wacky misadventures of Rev:
Oh yes, Boilermaker!
I ran the 2008 Boilermaker, as promised in an earlier post.
And, as expected, it was a blast. I was nervous, as my globe trekking adventures and general laziness had led to me not training as much as I should have. I topped out at a distance of about 6 miles, which is significantly less than the 9.3 miles that makes up that most Utican of races (p < .05).
Nonetheless, I had already bought my JetBlue tickets, and so was pretty much locked into doing this thing. Plus there was the whole boasting post (see above) which, had I bitched out on running, would have made me look like... well... a bitch. And we can't have that, can we?
My nervousness was compounded when I decided that I would be running alongside two of my friends, also native to Central New York, Curly and Bluish-Green. Now Bluish-Green is in training for the USMC Marathon, and Curly had run 9.3 miles the week before "to see how it would feel." Moral: they're both better runners than I, and I was scared that the pace they would set would result in me winning the Boilermaker consolation prize: a free IV and oxygen mask.
Not really funny.
So I was prepared to put my foot down, and dictate my own pace. Did that happen? We'll see.
Here's Curly and I before the Race began:
This was pretty early in the morning, so it's possible I'm actually asleep in this picture.
We met up with Bluish-Green after the cameras had gone, but here's a picture of the three of us in mid-race:
This is on the Parkway... I forget which mile. More than 2.
And finally, after the finish line:
I made it, and I think I shaved 5 minutes or so off of the first time I ran. Coolness. Even so, I stuck mostly to my own pace. I slowed my companions up a little towards the end, but gave a pretty good sprint at the last second. Sweet, sweet success.
Which brings us to the point of it all: Beer. The finish line is strategically located at the FX Matt Brewing Company, and immediately funnels the runners into a bitchin' party in the back parking lot. It looks like this:
Lots of people.
And dehydrated, endorphin-charged runners and tables and tables of free beer at 10:00 on a Sunday Morning. It might not be Heaven, but it's a damn sight better than Church.
Here I am as a proud endorser of both Saranac Beer and Hitler hairstyles.
Well, that was my wonderful experience with Boilermaker 2008. Now I have 11 months to not train for Boilermaker 2009! Huzzah!
I leave you now with Groucho Glasses.
Good night, and God Bless.