The Pig Run Recovery, Or Not

The Rest of the Story.....

So as I reflect on what went wrong, I must re live the 48 hours that followed the now infamous "Pig Run". As I punched the button on my watch officially terminating the mental and physical beat down, surrendered my bib tag, and wandered toward the hydration table, I once again contemplated over what could have been. The post race chatter always bores me, as the athletes roll up and lay out a laundry list of justificatory logic that thwarted a PR longer than a 5 year olds Christmas wish list. If you can't trump an all night bender, a 120 mile week, a 46 year old broken body and a pair of shoes closing in on 1700 miles, Get Outta My Face!!
Back to the Jeep for a quick gear transfiguration, and the big question. Do I hang for the award ceremony, or do I just bolt? Normally a fourth place finish is reason enough to hang my head and head home, but as i scan the award table I am transfixed on the hardware that is the winners spoils. A sweet Brass plated swine trophy sparkling under the mid day sun. Trophy's, mugs, medals, hell even sneakers just plain suck. Cash is a whole different story, however that was not part of the booty. I graciously accepted the sparkling swine, the "chump for finish" medal and the cheesy short sleeve tek shirt, grabbed another banana and bounced.

The Afternoon Regrouping

An uneventful ride home, a most excellent invigorating shower followed by a rice load and it was off to the Brew Fest. A power nap was going to have to wait. After about 2 hours of beer sampling, and senseless chatter with friends, I was ready to crash and burn. The lazy boy chair was heaven like, as I spilled into a fetal position and drew the down comforter to my neck. The New York football Jets were crushing the hapless Vikings as I drifted into an exercise induced coma. I woke to the vibration of a cell text as my dear friend JSA, who had just completed a 6 hour bike ride for MS, asked, "howd it go?".

The Sickness That Is

I woke Saturday morning feeling like I had been chained to the back of a pick up truck and dragged across a dirt parking lot for days. My god, I had slept to nearly 8AM!! Had I missed a local 5K, or a group run, I needed to jump online immediately. Nothing, crickets. Fully aware that I was likely born with a terminal affliction of having the lines of communication between my brain and body severed for life, I needed another fix. A 3200 foot ascent up Mt. Greylock, a punishing assault on Berry Pond, didn't matter. My body was busted up and I wanted to finish the job in fine fashion. Had I known where those loose screws in my head were, I would have tightened them down years ago. Being a nut case can manifest itself in many ways, the guy who pushes the shopping cart full of empty Mt. Dew cans for miles, or the dude who only ventures out when it rains is not a life one would hope for. These social maladies are personally harmless. The physical assault that I steadily apply to my failing body is nothing short of a slow and certain premeditated suicide.

Starting the Recovery Process

A day of light exertion and stretching followed by hydration and nutrition while the broken body attempts to heal makes too much sense. With no races on the radar screen, and a PRC board void of any plans, I promptly text one of a dwindling collection of sure bet running partners. Knowing full well that Ms. Peeps would be involved in some sort of rec. ride or run, I thought I would at least see what was up. True to form, an almost immediate response indicating a bike riding plan was already in motion. My instincts were screaming not to engage, but I had to at least pry for a bit of insight into the details. The core elements of this agenda will be as predictable as the rising sun. Starbucks, time delays and plan changes by the minute are implicit.

The Un-Complicated Bike Journey North

In an attempt to ignite a volley of texts that would take hours and lead to utter chaos, I opted to go the old fashioned route and establish direct contact by dialing her cell. The fish tank water is starting to look more like a solid than a liquid, the lawn is going to require a combine soon, and I'm not missing an entire slate of games, so this ride can and will not be an all day boondoggle. No sooner did we terminate our conversation outlining a ride on the bike path and back, an un-complicated 20 mile out and back, my cell jumps to life as an incoming text is in queue. It was too good to be true!! Johnny A. is now involved meaning this is likely going to force myself to eject gracefully from the outing. As I read along plodding through sketchy details involving a motorcycle event, a route down Dalton Division Road, down Hubbard Ave. through the death tunnel and a trek through Coltsville, I can see that this again will evolve into a texting marathon.

The Biker Motor Cade

Bare with me on this one folks, this is one of those treats in life you just have to be there to even begin to comprehend. The plan is to be in Adams at 11AM for the Biker thing. Those of you not from the Berkshires, This is the Westernmost portion of Massachusetts. Yes, Mass does border NY., and for you Bostonions who keep our taxes and insurance rates up, not only is there life beyond 495, there is 70 more miles of the Mass turnpike west of 495. Now Berkshire county has a reputation of being a mecca of culture and arts with the likes of Tanglewood and Williams college to name a few, however as you make the trek north along the main thoroughfare known as route 7 from the CT. border to VT., the cultural landscape begins to erode. Not only does the IQ start to descend at an alarming rate, the gene pool becomes mighty shallow and lets just say, the family tree loses a few branches. So as our fearless leader is barking commands in an effort to get to "the right spot" and hook up with "some friends" by 11AM. After nearly an hour of rural landscape, the three amigos bank a hard right onto Rt. 116, and Golly Gee whiz kiddos, you better brace yourself for this spectacle I will try to recount. Now I have never been to a tractor pull, or a pre NASCAR tailgating shindig, hell I'm city folk venturing into north county. My first thought was that there was a parade fixing to roll on through. County route 116 was overflowing with scores of people lining the curb nearly 12 deep. Corn fields and meadows were filled with on lookers clearly feeling it. We're talkin circa 1970 folding lawn chairs, pick up trucks, hay wagons and enough Monte Carlo's and Trans Am's for cruiser night. If I only had a vendor's license and a wagon stock piled with fresh John Deer mesh hats, plaid shirts, (complete with cut off sleeves), shelled peanuts, and a few bags of Kingsford Charcoal, I would have been a rich man.
The deep heart thumping rumble of the approaching stream of motorcycles had the sense of an approaching freight train. The crowd had steadily worked itself into a fever pitch and nearly erupted into a frenzy as the succession of bikers rolled on by.

The Let Down

This disturbing event lasted about 2 minutes, that seemed like 3. When the crowd finally dispersed after gathering peanut shells, empty Bud bottles, and folding up the chairs, we got back on our bikes and headed home. What the hell was that? It was like some bad dream, or a regrettable movie rental that was finally over. The ride home was uneventful other than the occasional downpours from the remnants of hurricane Kyle as it pulled away toward the gulf of Maine. Alas, I finally returned home, soaked, covered in mud, tired as hell and attempting to shake any memory of that thing that occurred in Adams. A shower, and again I found myself surrendering to another exercise induced coma in my throne, that is the Lazy Chair.

And You Thought I had enough Exercise
Guess again!