El Vino, a 7.5-minute mile y Sir-Mix-A-Lot

I love wine. No surprise. I love to run. No surprise here either. So let’s move on to something you don’t know. Mary signed us up for the Tacoma Narrows Half Marathon on August 8th. The 8th is exactly six days after our viaje de Barthelona. This poses a problem. Nine times out of ten it is awesome to combine two things I love. Tica and Paz. Afternoons and naps. Weekends and steak. But in this particular case, I am scared to death to combine two of my most beloved pastimes: drinking Spanish wines and training for half marathons.

En Espana, I plan to be Spanish. Vino at lunch. Siesta in the afternoon. Vino con nuestra cena en la noche. The purpose of the trip is to live a Spanish lifestyle. Initially, training for a half was not on the agenda. While Sir-Mix-a-Lot sang about liking big butts, I sing about big, bold reds, Spanish riojas (and I cannot lie). Here, in Tacoma, I don’t drink red wine when school’s in session. I can’t teach with a tannin headache. From September through early June, I’m relegated to buttery chardonnays if I know that I might have more than two glasses of red wine. Chardonnay season is difficult for me because, “when a red walks in…I get sprung.”

“So, what the hell to do?” To quote Mike Watt.

“Just wing the race. Chillax. Run it easy and just train when you can in Barcelona.” Pero, este es impossible.

Experience has illustrated this impossibility. In July 2008, the Tacoma Rainiers season was in full swing. I worked from sun up to sun down. And I didn’t have the chance to train well (all runners know what this means: interval work, tempo runs, LSD, and proper recovery days). The baseball team sponsored the Narrows half and gave anyone who worked for the club free registration. I said “Yes!” – in early June, very optimistically. Too optimistically – before I fully knew how taxing a minor league season can be on a front office employee.

Race day came, and I stood at the starting line. My long run, in preparation for the half, was six miles, and it had been done more than a month before race day.

I’m just gonna sit back, relax, and run ten-minute miles, I told myself. The starter gun popped, and 18 minutes later I passed the three-mile marker. I felt better than I thought I would. Six minute miles felt fantastico. I died on mile six. Stopped on a hill on mile ten. Finished at one hour and 53 minutes. So slow. I could barely walk for a week. The nightly trek to the press box on the top of Cheney Stadium, to say the least, reminded me of my poor training and inability to chillax during a race. Walking stiff legged up 100 stairs just plain hurts.

This coming August 8th, I will not be able to hold back. The flow of the pack will pull me with them. So I have to train well for the race. I have to do my three longest training runs of 11, 12, and 14 miles along the streets of Barcelona. My 12 miler falls smack dab during our trip to Pamplona for the Fiesta de San Fermin and the running of the bulls, a revelry that matches Mardi Gras. And I plan to partake.



Here is a video of the Fiesta de San Fermin.

I will have to find a way to join two things that I love together, like big cups of coffee and College Gameday.

So sing along with me to Sir-Mix-A-Lot's "Baby Got Back."

I like big reds and I can not lie
You other runners can’t deny
That when a rioja gets served with a nitty gritty taste
And an aroma in your face
You get sprung, wanna swirl on your tongue

So, runners! (Yeah!) Runners! (Yeah!)
Has your blogger got to run (Hell yeah!)
Tell ‘em to train it! (Train it!) Train it! (Train it!)
Run that tempo run!
B-Town got track?!