At the crizzack

Apparently when you are training for a marathon, sleeping in on the weekends doesn't happen. I thought I would take a picture just to document the fact that I was up and dressed at 5:45 AM on a Saturday morning.

5:45 AM. I wanted to write that again just in case anyone missed it the first time.

AM. Dressed.

This Saturday marked the last long training run for those who are competing in the Boston Marathon. It is tradition for those running on charity training teams to meet up at the start line in Hopkinton. I know this because several of the runners I manage are training for Boston. What I didn't know was that everyone within a 3,000 mile radius would show up.

Seriously, there had to have been a couple of thousand runners in Hopkinton center when I got there at around ten of 8. Sure, it was a nice morning, sunny, but Jack Frost was ALL up on my nose. So, to see so many people giddy with joy while wearing what I refer to as knuckle

pants, it was surprising. I thought I would show you the craziness:

Look at that, tons and tons of peeps all out in the freezing cold, chatting, and PSYCHED that they are about to embark on a 22+ mile run. I can see now why only a certain few run marathons. You have to be a different breed, with out a doubt. I thought this would be a great first test to see if I have any of that breed in me. So, I joined the crowd; chatted it up with a few veterans about sweat rates, lactic acid thresholds, ideal race weight, you know, things I have no business talking about. Hey, since I was dressed in micro-this and ultra-wick that, I had to blend in. It was right around this time when I noticed the majority of the heard crowding the Saucony press table - yeah, I told you this event was serious bidness. I needed to inspect this tomfoolery, if for nothing else then the body heat.

"Are you serious? I can just take as many as I want? Wow! Thanks, this stuff is like gold!"

"Gold, what? What is this treasure they speak of?" I thought to myself. As I made my way through the spandex and B.O., I saw the piles of neon packets, which were disappearing by the fistful.

"Goo?"

"Yeah, Goo, take some for the run," the nice lady with the terrible breath said. So, I grabbed a few, based on the colors of course, not to the flavors. What? Red is usually much better than blue and brown is way better than all of them, because it usually means chocolate. Then again, I had, and still have, no idea what I am talking so I probably should have checked.

As I have said before, I am not very patient when it comes to certain things and well, I had to try this little packet of wonder before my run. I mean, who can resist a name like, EXPRESSO BLAST? Not Brian Hetzel, that is for sure. So I ripped that jammy open like what and downed the gel in one.

Espresso Blast, really, Goo company? Or how about, let's say, Slimy Hot Trash? That would be WAAAAAAAAAAY more accurate in describing the foulness that oozed out of the packaging. Thanks, Goo, for ruining all of the credibility I had built up. That dry heave destroyed everything.