So it doesn’t happen in F3 unless there is a Back Blast. My stomach lining would disagree with that after a dozen donuts. It might even make its own “back blast” all over your shoes. But rules are rules so…
This morning 15 HIMs showed up for a pre-race Murph. I was glad when Old Maid read a short piece about Lt. Michael Murphy and the sacrifice he, his team, and the teams who tried to extract them made in that battle. At the July 4th convergence when Theismann read through something similar I realized I knew nothing about the soldiers and sailors I was supposedly honoring by doing the Murph. So now it is a pet peeve when we do one but don’t call out those heroes beforehand. If democracy dies in darkness then sacrifice dies in silence. 15 headed off to make it a great day.
Thang 1: Murph
PAX: Burt, Frisco, Theismann, Half, Joe Smith, Biner, Ma bell, Greenbow, Kermit, Blue water, Old Maid, Schlitz, Triple Lindy, Spit-Shine
We did COT before the race because once Half and Joe Smith call their secret Uber to the finish line it’s hard to coordinate getting everyone back together. Plus there was a rumor Red Ryder was around somewhere and having him in the circle drastically increases your chance of actually having to talk to him.
COT:
Count-a-rama: 4 Respects, 9 Mehs, 2 Hates
Announcements:
Krispy Kreme challenge is today in about 20 minutes (TYFYL, Theismann)
Burt will be attending a mandatory craft beer class after showing up with canned urine to end everyone’s Dry January.
Prayers:
Burt switched to Prayers without telling anyone and apparently said something inspirational but I was talking to Theismann so I missed it.
Other spoken and unspoken prayers
Spit-Shine took us out of COT and led us to the starting line.
Thang 2: Race to the Middle
When we arrived at the starting line we ran into Banjo and (as we were all worried about) Red Ryder. Luckily, the day was brightened by the appearance of Banjo’s 2.x Jazz Hands.
“Hi, I’m Frisco,” I said.
Jazz Hands pulled out a special edition K-Bar trench knife. “Dad says you like to put made up stuff about people in Back Blasts…”
“Uh, that’s a Frisco from South Wake,” I said, crossing my fingers behind my back. “Those guys are all troglodytes down there. Anything you tell me about your father that is embarrassing I will never mention.” (I told myself lying to kids was only wrong when they were under the age of 10. After that they were practically teenagers and pretty much deserved it for all the gray hairs and wrinkles they gave their parents—I mean look at Biner, he’s 31!)
“…ok…,” Jazz Hands said, putting away her special edition K-Bar trench knife. “Did you know that when he runs long distances he wears—“
“Frisco!” A voice yelled. It was Banjo and he was trying to retrieve his own special edition K-Bar trench knife (they are from Kentucky after all) from his fanny pack. There had been a break in the stream of Raleigh, JoCo, Carpex, Churham, South VA, north Georgia, Alaska, Fiji, and Charlotte PAX coming by to kiss Banjo The Godfather’s sweaty headband and pay their respects for their region. It was time to go. The race had started.
I slipped away into the crowd of runners as I heard Ma Bell yell “Hey! Who cut the elastic waistband on my shorts with a special edition K-Bar trench knife and pants-ed me!?!”
Well played, Banjo, I thought, though it could have been Jazz Hands (teenagers, bent on anarchy and world domination, etc.) Nothing would slow up the line of runners faster than the sight of a man trying to cover up a UNC Tarheels tramp stamp he had gotten during a wild night in enemy territory.
Thang 3: Just A Dozen Donuts
I had hung back with Greenbow for the first leg. It was nice talking to him. We had gotten through most of my elementary school years by the time we hit the donut tables. He had repeatedly told me I could run in ahead and leave him to walk/run (he was nursing an injury) but I felt like he didn’t really “get me” yet and wanted to give him as much back story for context as possible.
I knew a dozen donuts is a lot to consume. But I had no idea how much I would hate donuts after I had eaten 5. After 6 I considered eating one of my fingers just to have a different taste in my mouth. At 8 I was seriously flagging in ambition. Every time I looked down at the box I expected to be on my last donut or at least my last few donuts.
Banana Seat from South Wake walked up with some of the SW gang around halfway through donut #9.
“Frisco, have you ever thought what bacon grease and vomit would taste like on a donut?”
My stomach rumbled and not in a good way. “No,” I said, weakly. Suddenly I could taste what I hoped was imaginary vomit in my mouth.
“Or fried pickles in some cold solidified grease,” said some SW-er in a pink princess costume. It was getting bad in my gut. Very bad sounds were coming out of it.
“Guys! Please!” I said.
“Sorry, Frisco,” Banana Seat said. Then he leaned close and whispered “us troglodytes ain’t got no manners.” He grabbed the rest of my donuts, dropped them on the ground and stepped on them leaving a giant SW imprinted on them. (South Wake guys are required to have a “SW” logo branded into the running shoes treads for exactly this reason.)
I’ll spare you the eating of that SW marked crushed donut stack. At one point another South Wake PAX named Rainmaker walked up.
“Do you need me to throw those last donuts out within site of the judges and call you a ride on one of the golf carts? Also you can’t lay there blubbering like that. It’s hurting the other runners’ confidence.”
He was dressed as a police officer but I wasn’t taking any chances. He looked legit but I could totally see him tasing me and then having Slide Rule roll me the rest of the race on a gurney while he yelled “Make way for the F3 Carpecker! Also Google “F3 South Wake schedule”! Make way for…”
I clutched the smashed donuts to my chest protectively, hissed out “my precious, my precious!” and scuttled off through the crowd of students and other runners trying not to puke.
Thang 4: To the Finish
The run back was relatively uneventful except for trying not to blow merlot and still maintain some sort of respectable speed. I had lost Greenbow somewhere in the throng in front of Krispy Kreme. So I decided to see what I could do now that I was on a massive sugar rush. It was actually respectable (not in the diaper-wearing Respect PAX sense though I was worried that might be in my near future).
My time wasn’t great at 1:15:something but I got lots of encouragement from the other PAX when I got back:
Theismann: Well, I guess there’s lots of room for improvement next year
Schlitz: Medals and trophies aren’t a measure accomplishment! Actually I guess they are.
Biner: Meh.
Ma Bell: Only place to go is up from here.
Red Ryder: We have a workout group called F3. Meets in the mornings, you should come out.
Half: Don’t even think about talking to me at work.
Joe Smith: I don’t know what happened. I watched 1,000s of hours of competitive eating videos…oh uh good work, Franz…Franchesco…Fromcozo? I just don’t know what happened. Hours of videos, hours…
NMS:
Even though this BB is relatively short (for a Frisco BB) I’ll put the real NMS in a second post. That one is a little more serious and maybe not for younger audiences.
Great being out with all the F3-ers today and 2.0s. Quite a few guys from other regions stopped by to say hello. Though i did viciously malign SW I’ve been over the wall twice to post there and they are great guys and throw out a solid beatdown.
Yes it was a day to remember. Which I did 30 minutes after I got to the house. And 2 hours later. Then 1 hour after that. And a few more times that day.