So, we stormed the Bastille last night. Of course, by "stormed the Bastille," I mean, "ran a 5K," and by "ran," I mean, "dodged crowds and walkers and potholes and curbs and road signs." Oy.
Tara and I made a game time decision to head down to Bastille Days for the annual 9 p.m. race. I planned to take my sweet ass time, enjoy the scenery, burn some calories. Little did I know Tara, apparently, planned to win.
She took off like a pistol, weaving through people, hopping curbs, cutting through sidewalks, hurdling small children (not true). She's all, "Wheee! Win! Fast! Fun!" And I'm all, "Dude, I just ate half a Jack's pizza three hours ago, shit."
It also doesn't help that she weighs as much as one of my arms and a third of my right leg. Perhaps if I stopped eating all the pizza... hmmm.
So she was gone. I kept her in eyesight, watching her agile, little body morph into unusual shapes to weave inbetween runners, dodge bushes and jump over fire hydrants, simultaneously, but I decided I'd avoid certain death and hang back with the pack.
Besides, I hate 5Ks. They are not my thing. Throw me in a marathon any day.
I must say I've never run the streets of Milwaukee in the dark of night, despite my reputation as a street thug (cough). It was a wee bit exciting, especially when I caught up with Tara's pistol ass and shared a beer about two-thirds of the way through.
We finished the race together, as we began, and paraded around Bastille Days smelling like sweat, drinking more beer and justifying our slow race time (I blame the pizza) (and the crowd) (and the fact that I suck).
Just another night in the mean streets of Milwaukee.