I laid in Oregon like a broad

I did. It is a difficult realization when you run a website that scolds people who lay in various places like broads, but I indeed laid all over the Oregon roads like a broad.

Every August in the Portland area, Nike sponsors a race called "Hood 2 Coast" that entails a team of 12 running 197 miles from Mt. Hood to the Pacific Ocean in Seaside, Oregon. This thing takes about 28 hours on average (although some of the elite teams can do it in 16), and there is not much opportunity to rest in the course of the run. I slept for about an hour at Mt. Saint Helens High School, and got some burgers at the Jewell School, which does one fundraiser a year (this was it) to cover the entire year's worth of expenses. Nice deal they've got going.

Anyway, I was never a runner. When I did track, I was a jumper (see here). I had run approximately 6 miles in the past year now that I have a job and stuff...although that isn't counting miles spent playing basketball or anything. Still. Not a long way. I agreed to do this last November, thinking that August 2008 would never actually get here. Well, get here it did. If only I had a way of knowing, like with a calendar or something...oh well. So I decided a week ago to begin my training. I did about 2 miles a day three days, one in a tropical gaycane, in preparation for this race. 6 miles would be enough, right? In the 'cane, I hurt my knee a bit, but figured it would go away. I don't really get injured. So on I flew to Portland to run my 6, 6, and 4 mile legs.

And then, it was go time. My teammate gave me the bracelet of running and I slapped it on my wrist, as I'm prone to do with awesome slap bracelets that are in no way gay as fuck or anything and really go well with my eyes. And then I started cruising. And not like, in a Larry Craig cruising for gay sex manner, but in a cruising like Steve motherfucking Prefontaine style. Running legit 7:30 minute miles, which still sucks, but not too much for someone who doesn't ever...well, run. But then the pain came on a back road about a mile and a half in, and I started limp running a bit. Then I had to take periodic breaks. People asked me if I needed help, and since they weren't orthopedic surgeons, I told them to keep running. Douchebags. And then, about a mile later, it happened. I felt a slight pop in the knee, and I fell to that knee. I couldn't believe it. I was laying on the road like a broad. A motorcycle police squadron came up, lights on, to embarrass the everliving hell out of me. "Should we go and get your van?". Fine, fuckers. Go. Van 722.

Oh well. I made about 3 miles. Out of 16 total. My teammates had to pick up the slack. I didn't really have to fly all the way out to Oregon for this, as I could have slept in a Kia van much cheaper if I just went to Hertz or something. Without the knee pain. Whatever. I guess if I do anything like this again, I'll actually have to train a bit for it. But that is doubtful, as running sucks and is clearly best left to the Kenyans.