Running Drunk

It is December 22^nd and I am preparing to board a plane from San Francisco back to Maine. Still inebriated from the night before I text my friend inquiring about a strategy for any hot girl that I happen to meet in first class. What's my motivation? New money or old? Both he says. After a short business trip to the city my boss has booked my return flight first class. I have never had the luxury before and I'm imagining unlimited champagne, spacious seats and a doting flight attendant with a pretty smile.

I take my seat in the first row next to a guy about my age. He must be further through his hangover because he immediately nods off. The couple next to me is young with a baby. Thank god the dude is sitting on the aisle between me and his super fine wife discouraging me from staring in her direction.

Unfortunately, our first class flight attendant is neither doting nor smiling. Picture a bitter and grumpy Philip Seymour Hoffman. While it is common for male flight attendants to be gay I'm not quite sure if this guy is but he definitely has something up his ass. He can be aptly described as deliberate in his work. And when I say deliberate I mean slow as shit.

He doesn't take our drink order until we are already ten minutes in the air. My drunken elation is quickly being replaced by a slow dull headache. I order a bloody Mary and so does the guy to my left who just came to. The super fine mother tries to order a Mimosa after her husband orders a bloody Mary and the flight attendant ridicules them both. US Air hasn't had champagne in nearly a decade... duh.

So my first experience in first class wasn't quite all that I dreamed it to be. Still as I sipped my bloody Mary and stretched out in the extra wide leather seat I smiled. So what if my fight attendant is a grouch and the flight has already been delayed two hours? I can smile because I already ran, albeit if it was at 2:00am PT. A run is a run... is a run.

At the end of 2011 I made three resolutions for running. The first two were completed long before: win a race and run a personal best at any distance. That left me with just one to complete- run every day in 2012. Easier said than done. What constitutes a run is the first question, which was something I had never settled. As 2012 progressed I decided on five miles. If misfortune or ill planning forced me to shorten the distance than so be it.  But who can argue with five miles, it is a legitimate distance.

Fast forward to December 21^st, and my five mile minimum is still intact! It is my last night in San Francisco and I want to have some fun. After downing two apps and a couple beers at an Irish sports pub in the financial district called the Royal Exchange I take BART to the Mission to meet up with my colleague and his friend. As the night progressed and we threw down more beer it quickly became midnight and I decide, fuck it, I 'm all in. The bars close at 2am and I throw down a couple vodka and red bulls.

My flight schedule the next morning were as follows: depart San Francisco at 9am PT for Charlotte, depart Charlotte and arrive in Portland at 8pm ET. I knew that I could't risk a delayed or canceled flight. With just over a week left I needed to snag the five miles before I stepped on the plane. Am I going to be able to get my drunk ass up at 6am and get it done?

I split a cab with my co-worker's friend (who happens to also be staying at the Omni Hotel at 500 California) and some random chick he picked up at the bar. As we get in my phone alerts me, my first flight has been delayed two hours! In my drunken state this seems immediately good, more time to sleep and run. But somewhere inside of me I realize there might be a problem with the connecting flight. I try to figure out the math but my brain is pickled.

Arriving back in my room just after 2am PT I decide there is only one safe bet. Run right then. I am very drunk but not totally wasted (if that makes any sense). I throw on my shoes, shorts and a t-shirt and head out on the Embarcadero for a 5 mile out and back that I have mapped out.

A mile in I realize that the pace is slow. When I say slow I mean, snail pace, probably 9 min/mi. I hit the accelerator slowly until I am satisfied I must be running under eight minute pace. I can't say this is the first time I have run drunk but never as long as five miles. It seems so far but I press on. I reach the turn around point and even add a little. As I speed back down the Embarcadero I am within a mile of the hotel when it hits me. I double over in the bushes and puke. I wait no more than a few seconds and then continue back, the nausea is gone as quickly as it arrived, thank god.

Why am I running at least five miles every day for an entire year? Partly to say I am a bad ass, yes. But part of me wants to disprove the whole day off thing. What are days off anyway? You walk every day, why not run every day?

What can I conclude from all this? I am bat shit crazy- check. I am lucky I just puked once- check. Crazy goals take crazy methods- also check. After flying into Boston I take a bus to Portland and arrive just after 1am ET on Saturday. If I had waited I would have blown it. I have lived to run another day with the streak intact.