There has to be a good reason to set my alarm clock to blast off on a Sunday morning at 7:00 AM. The Wharf to Wharf race qualifies. It’s a tradition, a ritual. The course winds along the coast for six miles from the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk to Capitola village. It’s just me and 14,999 of my closest friends.
This year Ed dropped Connie and me off at the mouth of the San Lorenzo River. We walked across the railroad trestle to the Boardwalk, which itself is a fun thing to do. We joined all the other runners milling around, looking for their friends. Everyone starts out clean and fresh, jumping around and stretching to keep warm and dissipate the excitement. Unless you’re standing in a port-a-potty line, in which case you’re tapping your foot and squeezing your thighs together.
The gun fires! The race begins! You don’t move. Connie and I passed the starting line at two minutes after the gun. NOTE: I must remember to subtract those two minutes from my race time.
Amazingly, I found myself running along in the pack as if I were still a runner. By the time I passed The Hook and those other famous surfing spots along Pleasure Point, the aromas and energy had evolved from “fresh” and “energetic” to something more seasoned and plodding. The pace really grinds to a crawl after you cross the finish line and join the bottleneck in Capitola village. There is no way to avoid rubbing sweaty shoulders with your fellow runners. Yes, today I shared bodily fluids with strangers.
To commemorate her first Wharf to Wharf, I proudly presented my t-shirt to Connie, the bandit.
Changing the subject - - I'm posting my new red, black, and white cow and bull pictures. Seeing them at the San Telmo feria (a Buenos Aires street fair) I immediately extrapolated to Ed and me. I learned that it is impossible to line them up on the wall so that neither assumes the alpha bovine position. After many holes in the wall I gave up on the equality thing. You’ll see that I’ve allowed Mr. Ed a slightly superior place. For now.
This year Ed dropped Connie and me off at the mouth of the San Lorenzo River. We walked across the railroad trestle to the Boardwalk, which itself is a fun thing to do. We joined all the other runners milling around, looking for their friends. Everyone starts out clean and fresh, jumping around and stretching to keep warm and dissipate the excitement. Unless you’re standing in a port-a-potty line, in which case you’re tapping your foot and squeezing your thighs together.
The gun fires! The race begins! You don’t move. Connie and I passed the starting line at two minutes after the gun. NOTE: I must remember to subtract those two minutes from my race time.
Amazingly, I found myself running along in the pack as if I were still a runner. By the time I passed The Hook and those other famous surfing spots along Pleasure Point, the aromas and energy had evolved from “fresh” and “energetic” to something more seasoned and plodding. The pace really grinds to a crawl after you cross the finish line and join the bottleneck in Capitola village. There is no way to avoid rubbing sweaty shoulders with your fellow runners. Yes, today I shared bodily fluids with strangers.
To commemorate her first Wharf to Wharf, I proudly presented my t-shirt to Connie, the bandit.
Changing the subject - - I'm posting my new red, black, and white cow and bull pictures. Seeing them at the San Telmo feria (a Buenos Aires street fair) I immediately extrapolated to Ed and me. I learned that it is impossible to line them up on the wall so that neither assumes the alpha bovine position. After many holes in the wall I gave up on the equality thing. You’ll see that I’ve allowed Mr. Ed a slightly superior place. For now.
1 comment:
Only a Northern Californian would punch holes in a wall seeking equality for bovines.
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