Error: I'm afraid this is the first I've heard of a "trackback" flavoured Blosxom. Try dropping the "/+trackback" bit from the end of the URL.
Local Area Alcoholic Finishes Half-Marathon
AP: Router. Austin, TX
This past sunday one local Austinite managed to become a local hero. Bar fixture Darin "Gilly" Gillis was coaxed into entering the AT&T Half Marathon race one drunken night by his girlfriend Claudia. However, instead of defaulting on the drunken promise to help train with her for this monumental race; this local area alocholic tried something new. Learning how to run. And run a long ways. 13.1 miles to be exact.
Gilly, as the barflys refer to him, had never even run 5 miles before; let alone 13 and a bit. The odds were stacked against him as the 3-month training schedule began in December. And as word spread you could find local pools going on in Irish Pubs around the city. Mother Eagens had him listed as a 3-1 to finish the race, 10-1 to finish without stopping. Sherlock's, Bagpipes, Fados, heck even a few gentlemen's clubs, had bets on wether or not this wino could put aside the jack and cokes and shiner bocks long enough to even be sober for the race day. And the odds didn't get shorter as race day approached and the winter-time house party season got into full swing.
The doubters had good reason to doubt; because this poor overweight alchy had only trained on dirt trails and only managed to work up to 9 miles total just a few weeks before the race -- not great preparation for a 13.1 mile race on pavement. But the stubborn bastard just thought he could eek it out anyway. The odds makers didn't realize one thing that any pubcrawler could tell you after trying to match carbombs with Gilly; he just won't quit. Even after 3 carbombs. It's called a 3 carbomb night and trust me its par for the course with this guy. A monster. A monster that just won't quit.
Early sunday, the race begins. The first 5 miles were a breeze; Gilly and Claudia were both hanging strong after a quick run south of the Colorado River, and crossing back over to the north bank was a pleasant jog. None of the usual pains really, a bothersome foot, cold muscle. Nothing bad. Then came the 8 mile mark. This was the point where it all started to come unravelled. The dull grinding of kneecap on bone... Slowly building, snowballing, turning into twin fireballs of pain in each knee; a constant reminder that maybe a vodka tonic isn't the best joint lubricant on the market.
Quoted at saying "I don't need advil, I need my pain to finish", he sounded tough and full of resolve as they approached the ninth mile. About 500 yards afterwards, he was on the verge of tears and breezing by the medical stop for a tylenol. Unfortunately, they didn't have advil. "Oh well, that stuff is supposed to cause stomach bleeding for boozers anyway right?" was the thought on his mind as he gritted his teeth and approached a monstrous hill (i know, big hill in Austin? WTF???) before the 9th mile. Then came the tears... Not really like a waterfall, as he was trying to remain stoic in front of his lover, but more like a dam with a pinhole in it. But no one was there to jam a thumb in the dam to keep it from leaking. Oh yeah, and the dam is breathing in and out with the force of 10 camels trying to get oxygen to deprived muscles. Something like that anyway...
The tears would come and go, 7 or 8 times by the final tally. But as many times as he felt like quitting, and Claudia offered to walk w/ him; NO was the firm (sometimes indiscernable) answer each time. After all, what is the point of pain without meaning? Finishing a race like this would be a blow to non-alcoholics everywhere. Like watching Norm from Cheers join the NBA and score a double double. Like watching Hunter S. Thompson get elected to be the president of the United States. Like watching Gilly finish a half marathon...
Down the final stretch from the Texas Capital Claudia and Darin came stampeding through. Thank god no one has an artist's rendition of the scene; because the photographers that take pictures of cute kittens with balls of yarn would be out of a job given the cuteness level of the scene during the final stretch. The two runners linked arms and grabbed each others hands and hustled the 10 city blocks to the finish line. "That's beautiful," could be heard by the spectators. It may have been a beautiful moment, but for those two taking each others hands was a race-saving-moment. Gilly was on the verge of collapse, already one mile into the praying-to-Jesus-to-come-down-from-heaven-and-carry-his-body-in-order-to-finish-the-race stage, and was ready to throw in the towel. But his novia grabbed his hand and would not let him quit down the stretch.
As they crossed the finish line, it all blurred together. Shouting, cheering, crying, laughing all at the same time as medals were placed upon their heads. It was like Jack Daniels had won the world series. Or Captain Morgan had taken the cup at the Regata... Then the knees started to sieze up and then began the ice bags treatment, the shoulder-assist to the car, and the calling of Mom to let her know that 'Darin Did It'. "The most physically painful accomplishment I've ever achieved," he muttered after rattling off a few hijacked verses of a rap song ("I've got some ice bags where my knees used to be..."), "and I couldn't have done it without my girl's support. Now how about that victory Fat Tire? Isn't it happy hour somewhere?"
