Big Man Run VIII
 Race Report

-Jeff Durso-Finley-
Lawrenceville, New Jersey

You can never go home again. Didn’t Thomas Wolfe say something to
that effect? I’m sure scholars over the years have parsed that statement
into meaning that home, as you know it and remember it, simply doesn’t
exist anymore. Things change, people age, but in the case of the Big Man
Run, it means that Khoury’s adds ferns and paneling. Ahh, the Return.

This had been an awful summer of running for me, so as much as I was
looking forward to seeing everyone, I was having stress dreams about Winter
Hill. I had gotten myself in killer shape for the Alton Lakes Half
Marathon, ran wonderfully, and then used that as a springboard for a great
showing in the Manchester Pub Run, (Report to follow), but work had gone
berserk, I’ve got some floating cartilage in my knee – the other one, not
the one that was scoped last year – and to top it off I pulled my groin in
the first softball game of the summer. I don’t think I had run 5 good
miles in the month leading up to the race, never mind ‘training like a
Marine’ as Matty likes to put it, so my pre-race anxiety level was high.

The bar was crawling and the taps were pouring when I arrived, always
a good sign, and I figured I’d get weighed in and get going. A couple big
hugs to some old friends, Cavage and Freddie, put a big smile on my face,
and then I made it to the front of the line for the scale. I knew I was
up there, Low Mileage + Summer Vacation = JDFatterboy, but I almost lost it
when I went over three bills. What the Hell!? The girl running the scale
gave it away though, by flashing her eyes at Freddie, who’d snuck in behind
me and plopped his massive big toe on the scale and pressed like he was
trying to squish a post-nuclear cockroach. Fair enough – I’d used that one
on him last year in Wellfleet – and he got me good.

I still was well over fighting weight, which explained a hell of a
lot of why running had been tougher this summer, but as I said to a good
friend earlier that week, I
* earned * that extra weight and enjoyed every goddamn minute of it. Eat
drink and be merry, for tomorrow we shall diet, or, as another old friend
used to say, “you never know how much is enough till you know how much is
too much”. I’m working on that one this summer…

I knew that this wasn’t going to be a balls-to-the-wall race for me,
so I plotted to go out VEERRRRY slow, stay in the top quarter heading up
the hill, and then hope that transition and ‘course knowledge’ would help
me make it through the day. Even so, I was expecting a weak finish, but I
also had decided that I’d run as hard as I could, even if it meant I
couldn’t run again for a week.

I was very chatty pre-race with folks, as one of the drags of our
move to NJ has been that I simply can’t make as many races as I’d like to.
I try, but it’s just hard to co-ordinate so many schedules, so I’m further
and further out of the loop and I went from conversation to conversation to
catch up. I saw Larry Phillips, which was a treat, Larry Driscoll and
Sue, and in a sign of times, Glenn O’Connor, Matty and I sat around and
talked about babies. Karen’s due this winter, and as Matt talked about how
much he was looking forward to this life change it was all I could do to
keep from telling him that Gianna is due in October, so we’ll have four
kids in tow by Halloween. Yep, things sure change. Hell, Matt’ll be a
great father, so I can’t wait to see the little one at BMR next summer.
You know, Matt, Jeff’s a nice name……even for a girl.

The police escort arrived a few minutes late, just as I heard someone
say behind me (I’m sure it was Freddie) say that Paulie’s assertion that
this was legal race was a crock. There seemed to be a big crowd of first
timers, as every time a bus or a car went by someone would say behind me,
“Wait, we’re running INTO traffic??!!”….. that, and the fact that there was
no starting line, the course was a mystery, and we were starting at a
different time seemed to be a cause for concern. They’d obviously never
done the BMR before…..

……….except, Papa’s pre-race instructions included him jumping on a mountain
bike and saying that he’d lead the pack. Sorry, Paul, I couldn’t help it,
but as you jumped on the bike I turned around and said loudly, “Everyone be
sure to tap Paulie on the shoulder as you pass him going up the hill” and
then not quite so loudly, “We do have EMT’s standing by, don’t we?”

Freddie, Smitty and I have always had great pre-race mind games, so
when FFK told me about his knee injury I was sure it was total B.S. Of
course, when I told him that my running had been poor, he gave me that
little eyebrow thingie to tell me he thought I was sandbagging as well.
Smitty was nowhere to found, so it either meant that he was hiding up
Broadway in order to kick my ass from behind or that he’d gotten in at 4:00
am last night and hadn’t woken up yet. Still, I looked for FFK hiding in
the crowd – imagine that, a 6’6 265 pound man who’s trying to blend in –
and resigned myself to the agony ahead.

Having done this ridiculous race before, I knew that you could end
the race before it had begun by trying to hammer Winter Hill. So, I hung
back and just tried to keep a strong, but not anaerobic pace, all the while
keeping an eye out for fat guys, and actually was quite pleased with my
breath and my legs when I crested the hill. Yes, I would have like to be
further ahead and, yes, I could see a couple of guys I’d need to pass
later, but I likely could have been dry heaving at the side of the road, so
I was actually thinking positive thoughts. First bar was a breeze, and I
was feeling like this might actually be ok, including passing, and then
having been passed, by Jim Hayes for the first of many times that day. I
couldn’t get the beer’s CO2 out for what seemed like forever, and I’m sure
the guys who were running near me thought I was going to blow a few times,
but by the time we hit Bar # 2 I was still strong (ish) and had some room
in my stomach.

Of course, who do I see in Bar # 2 than Peter Gill, who looks at me
and says, “I’m in here first?! What’s wrong with you!?” Thanks a lot, I’m
thinking – as much as I love Peter – so I kill the beer, stuff the dog, and
head out in front of Peter and soon come up to, and pass, Larry D. As far
as I’m concerned, all is well. Little did I know that the distance between
Bar # 2 and Bar #3 was 9 miles. “Jesus Christ, Paulie”, I was thinking,
“You are turning this into a road race!” This was the toughest part of the
race as far as I was concerned. There were only a handful of people around
me, I was passed AGAIN by Jim, I got a little distance ahead of one of the
guys I had spotted as in my weight division, and it was all I could do to
hold on to the last bar.

I freely admit, I almost blew chunks in Tir Na Nog. A little
re-directed air, some off chewing, and I almost lost it, but I got it back
together. It was hot, I was beat, but I knew the course from here on out
and if I could get out on the road, the combo of the short distance and the
beer/hotdog added weight in everyone –to me it’s just as Bill Parcells
says, “Deck chairs on the Queen Mary” – would make it tough for someone to
pass me, so this was the deal – just hang on.

There’s always a point on the Big Man Run where I say to myself, “You
are an idiot…..You paid to do this!!!!???” and heading up underneath the
overpass was my moment this year. I was dying…Jim had already passed me
again and was gone like a shot. I had passed the folks I had targeted as
possibly in my division, but I didn’t know how far behind they were and if
they caught me? They were home free.

It didn’t matter. There was enough space between us and I limped
home, shocked to find out that I finished 26th overall, whereby I
immediately bellowed, “Paulie, Where are the results!!!” (Paul went on a
pre-race diatribe about how he didn’t want to hear from people about ‘when
the results were going to be posted’…I couldn’t help myself.)

The normal post-race idiocy started, and I had a great time meeting
this years winner, who, despite being a goddamn skinny mother, rolled with
the BMR ebbs and flows with aplomb, vowing to come back for the Games,
buying rounds for the regulars, and though I think he was used to a very
different ‘athletic’ scene in SoCal of yogurt spooning, salad eating,
resting-heart-rate-comparing weenies, he jumped right into the program with
the Clydie-Yahoos as if he was a long lost brother. Stick with us, David.
We’ll get you into the next weight division up, just ask Cavage.

I also had a great time meeting Richard Carr from Ohio and, as he
claimed that he was going to start a similar race at home, I said I’d be
there to help him get things rolling. Looks like we have a road trip in
the works, boys….

Rounds were bought, beer flowed, barbs were tossed, Hawaiian Shirts
blinded, the usual group stayed close together and tried to see if we could
touch the ceiling with stacked empty plastic cups, but in the end there
wasn’t a person in the room who didn’t echo the oft-repeated refrain that
this was the ‘best Christmas ever’.

Well, it was late…

See you next year,

JDFatboy