“Any advice?” someone asked…
“Keep turning left…” was the answer. Of course, the race was on a track.
10 Clydes and 2 skinnies from 5 different states convened at an undisclosed location somewhere in the wilds of Rhode Island for the 1st Annual Clydesdale Beer Mile Championships. It took 2 years and countless emails to coordinate a 12 person event, only emphasizing the profound sloth that can take over a Clydesdale, but in the end the event went off swimmingly.
Fast Freddie Kirk set up the course, complete with transition zone marked by a nice pastel chalk line, and the field was divided up into two heats. Creating the heats was ostensibly to keep the course clear and make it easier on the timing company, but realistically it was so that each participant had the chance to watch, laugh and cheer the other athletes.
Remember, this was no ordinary gathering of runners. These 10 Clydies brought over 2500 lbs to the track that day.
I'll never get my damage deposit back....
Timing was by Old Guy Timing Company, delayed slightly by the traffic caused from a Kenny Chesney concert (who the hell is Kenny Chesney?), which Big Sammy Voolich successfully avoided by detouring through Fall River and New Haven. Official rules were given (www.beermile.com), transition zones set up, and the race went off without incident.
Matinee Matt Corcoran looked like he was in control from the start, but an ill timed burp turned into infield fertilizer and a penalty lap was given. More on that later…
In the end, FFK was the master of Heat #1, proving once and for all that you can take the runner off the track but you can never take the track out of the runner, even when that runner is now the size of the grandstand. With smooth precision, FFK knocked off both laps and beers at perfectly timed intervals, gliding in at a fantastic 8:01.
I watched Heat #1 unfold and the multiple boots (Matt and Bob the Skinny) had the wheels turning. I didn’t expect King and Freddie to lose it, and given that we have, ahh, similar frames, lets say, I wasn’t that worried about it, but nevertheless I thought I’d throttle it down a bit to be safe.
That was Mistake #1. The liquid wasn’t really an issue, but once the pace was set and the race begun, it was almost impossible to make up ground or increase the pace. By a 1/3rd of the way in, the pace was what it was…
Mistake #2 was thinking that I could simply pound the beer down and take off, a la Big Man or the Manchester Pub Run. In fact, the opposite was true. Trying to get it down fast meant more foam, which *was* a pain. Herr Gut Dr Gill had more of an issue that I did, as he was drinking a very hoppy Dogfish IPA from a bottle, so suds it was for him. Nevertheless, the Gut Dr. relied on years of hashing to come in 3rd overall. Very nice…
KG tried to change the rules to his advantage and have the event be a Beer 2-Mile, knowing that the more drinking was required, the more he’d have an edge. No dice. “Tequila mile?” Not today….
A beer half marathon was briefly discussed, but then tabled.
In truth, the race didn’t feel as bad as I thought it would. The worst parts by far were the transition zones. Trying to catch your breath and drink at the same time was impossible, and unlike drinking from a cup, you couldn’t simply bang it down. In other events of this type I usually rely upon the teachings of the Zen masters. Zen archers are so carefully tuned to their bodies and minds that they learn to fire their arrows in between heartbeats. Over 11 years of Big Man I’ve learned how to carefully and quickly drop the beer and hot dog in between breaths. Not for Beer Mile, unfortunately. Much research and training needs to be done in this event.
After the race the group retired to Chez JDFatboy for swimming, drinking and eating. Many animals met their fate at the famed Beastmaster 6000 grill – yet their sacrifice was much appreciated by the assembled masses. And I do mean masses. Of special mention was the marinated steak tips brought by Peter Gill. In between the tearing of meat and wiping of sauce the group was as supportive as only Clydesdales can, reminding Matty at the end of virtually every sentence that he lost, that he was beaten by a 270 pound number cruncher, that he lost, that he puked, that he lost, and on and on. Ever the good sport, Matt was later seen loosening the binder clips on Ernie and Cavage’s waterskis. (Now there’s an image for you…)
At the end of the evening my wife commented that we had cooked the right amount of food, as there was only a single piece of BBQ’d chicken left. I had to explain to her that with this group it didn’t really matter how much food you cooked – they would simply eat until everything was gone. If we cooked a cow, all that would be left would be the bell and the horns.
All in all, it was a fabulous event. It was almost like a college reunion of sorts. If your college was a fat farm, I guess.
Perhaps the best comment of the day was from my wife Gianna. My wife could never figure out why a 5 K race in Boston would take me 11 hours, but after hanging out with this group she said, “Now I know why you like doing these races so much. What a great group of guys…”
Well, that’s not quite true. The *best* comment of the day came from Kevin Garlick, who after finishing his beer, dabbing his chin with a napkin, and pushing away a plate covered with bones and gristle, leaned back on the porch swing and loudly declared, “I’m getting in shape for this thing next year.”
You can imagine the reaction.
See you next year.
JDFatboy
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* Jeffrey Durso-Finley