Stampede!

There is something beautifully strange about Asheville, North Carolina. This artsy community has so much to offer in the way of interesting eating establishments, art shops and book stores. It's also a seeming haven for bohemian inebriated homeless people berating people for money, making it somewhat uncomfortable for tourists like me. Tourists like me who see the indigent every day in downtown Atlanta. Somehow in Asheville, the homeless more belligerent than desperate; more drunk than strung out on drugs; and more entitled than needy. I am still trying to digest this segment of my latest travels to Asheville.

Aside from pondering the human condition of the indigent in a quiet mountain town, I am smiling at the wonderful weekend spent running the Sunset Stampede, spending time with friends, and finally coming home.

This year's Stampede proved to be my best race in Asheville yet. The drive up to Asheville was superbly gorgeous as I was graced by brilliant sunshine, butterflies, and parachuters. There was an individual just off of I-85 driving back to earth in a parachute. I thought for certain this individual would land in the middle of the interstate and be splatter like a bug on the bumper of a large automobile. I'm not sure where he or she landed. I met friends at the hotel after the lunch hour and we wandered over to my favorite chocolate shop, The Chocolate Fetish. We weaved in and out of shops looking at funky pottery, toys, books and other sundry items. It was good.

With the race time at 4:00 p.m., we walked from the hotel to the start at about 3:30 p.m. in time to jog around and visit the portajohn. My running buddy had an unfortunate portajohn experience. As anyone who has used one of these receptacles knows, users of a portajohn do their best not to look or smell once inside. Running buddy noticed a funny noise as she went about her business, realizing that the previous user had put the lid down on the portlet. Fortunately for her, she remained "unscathed," but embarrassed.

As the race started we kept an easy pace. We witnessed the very reason people shouldn't wear headphones during races. Two individuals, both wearing headphones, ran into each other, one person falling down and rolling on the ground. Running buddy and I cruised together for about two miles until the Hill started and I lagged behind (as usual). Said Hill goes on for about two and a half miles. I worked. I waited to hear the cowbells at the top. I avoided motorists zooming down the Hill. I waited for cowbells. We reached the top in quiet bliss. No bells to signal our victory. It was somewhat disappointing. But then the four mile downhill began. I let myself go, but was passed by a few people going down the hill. I hit the six mile mark at about 56:40 (pretty slow). I then began to have a chat with myself, that I really shouldn't leave anything out on the course. I would regret it if I finished knowing I could have run harder. I need to run this race as if I may not get to run it again for a while (which may be a possibility). So, I pushed. At mile eight, I really pushed and started passing people, all the while resisting the urge to look at my watch. The last mile my mind told my legs to work. I came up the hill and turned the corner to the finish seeing the clock tick up from the 1:27:40s. The final finish time was 1:27:59. I was roughly three minutes behind running buddy, one of my closer finishes to her. I was elated. This time was my best one yet for the Stampede.

Life beckons. Husband and I are contemplating a life choice that will change me completely. It may mean the end of my running freedom as I currently know it. I can't leave anything out on the course. I need to run as if each day, each race, may be my last for a while. I need to wring this running life like a wet sponge, hoping to extract as much water as I can.

Par-Tay

So husband and I launched into a new era of our couple-dom: we had a party. Neither one of us had ever really "thrown" a party in our entire lives. I don't count the "party" I had in the seventh grade for Halloween when four or five people came over and walked through our dank basement that we decorated as a haunted house. This divine suare celebrated the friendship of the "law buds" with whom husband shared the experience of schooling. All attendees worked into nice neat couples (though one with child in tow).

The production of the par-tay involved much pondering, preparation and cleaning. I can't understand the utter compulsion clean everything so thoroughly when people are going to dribble beer, chips and other items on the floor anyway. I suppose it's all about impressions. For me it's about nice neat vacuum cleaner lines (that are promptly sullied by dog footprints within seconds of their creation). We don't want others to know that we actually live and use our residences. So, I spent most of Saturday morning ensuring that no one would find my long hairs on the floor in the bathroom. Meanwhile, husband prepared the outside of the house and foraged for beer. We had lots of beer - several coolers full of beer to be specific.

The party went well. People enjoyed themselves through conversation, food and drink. While we had a plethora of beer, I abstained because not only do I not like beer (or really alcohol of any kind), but also because I don't do "under the influence" well. My inebriated experiences are highlighted by: 1. asking someone to stick me with a pitchfork 2. puffing on a cigar in a German restaurant and 3. asking someone if he was going to try to have sex with me as I laid on the cold ground with my head probably inches from where the fine gentleman inside the tent to whom this question was directed had just relieved himself of some beer. These three instances, among others, I don't care to relive.

When the party was over, we cleaned. Again. Additionally, when the party was over we had beer left over, a couple of coolers full to be exact. Being inexperienced in the ways of beer and thinking the brew would get "skunky," husband offered the two coolers to a work friend who gladly took burden off of our hands. This resolution came after we had toted the coolers to different locations in the house, attempted to put the beer in the refrigerator and even went so far as to ponder purchasing an auxiliary "beer fridge." The other carnage left over included a slew of buns ranging from hot dog to hamburger. I've tried to come up with innovative ways of dealing with the buns by eating them as snacks, making modified cheese toast out of them and attempting to use them as currency (the bun market is not high these days though). Our refrigerator was also glutted with leftover desserts brought by the party-goers. I decided that husband and I could not possibly eat four pies (it would not be wise), so I brought an untouched apple pie with me to work on Monday. Monday was a busy day at work as I spent most of the day fetching chairs. Yesterday I forgot completely about the pie. I saw the pie this morning in the break room, still untouched, but then promptly forgot about it again. About mid-day, an e-mail comes across entitled "Pie." Apparently there had been much conversation among the office about the pie to which I was not privy. Everyone had been asked about the pie, except, of course, the person who brought the pie. I fessed up in an e-mail response that I, yes I, was the source of the mystery pie. I was then subsequently told by no less than five people that I should have put some explicit notification that the pie was for common consumption as if I had just committed a criminal offense by leaving an unattended wanton pie on its lonesome. Typically something put out on a counter, in the middle of the counter of the break room, will disappear, without notice. For some reason this pie had a menacing look about it that made it somewhat disarming. If it had been a rhubarb pie, I would've understood, but apple seemed harmless. Honestly, I didn't have time to put a note on the darn pie. Next time the pie will come with a note that says "eat me."