Prologue – Spring of 1984 and 2017
If I’m going to be perfectly honest with you, running sucks. If I’m chasing a ball or someone or someone is chasing me, then I’m down with that part of the sport/activity. But the simple activity of just running – for the fun or supposed enjoyment? The exercise endured one step at a time, traveling various distances within nothing but one’s legs. Nah – that sounds like work to me. I’ll take the Slaughter Starter for my cardio – thank you very much and may I have another? Why is running at the bottom of my list you ask? As I continue to open my kimono, I’ll admit there is one sport that in my entire amateur/recreational/intramural athletic career that I have quit – only one: Junior High School Track.
As a gangly 7th grader lacking toughness for football, height and quickness for hoops, and a broken jaw that ended my baseball career, there was only one team that I had any chance to represent the Grier Knights back in 1984 – track. I should mention the coach didn’t cut either. My athletic limitations once again pushed me far from my vision as the white Carl Lewis or Edwin Moses. I was relegated to the slow heats of the famed events like the 400, 800, and 1600. After countless, miserable hours of “practice,” my primary goal was not to finish last in our weekly meets. Every day after school was running various distances for a few hours and it sucked to the point that I decided one afternoon to catch a ride home with my carpool and skip the few remaining weeks of the season. Why? I can’t recall. Is it something I regret? Maybe – the bold words of quitter are permanently etched on my resume. That was a long time ago but likely a rock in my shoe that I’ve failed to shake free.
So earlier this year, in late spring at The Fighting Yank one Saturday morning, Quiche begins to work on me: “I’m putting together a team for the Tuna 200; I need you to run in it…” I’d heard the stories from fellow F3’ers that participated in the Blue Ridge and Palmetto 200. There was intrigue, but admittedly more for the 2nd F than the 1st F. “I’m not a runner – there are some other guys you should ask.” I replied on that occasion and the others when asked. Sargento joins the recruitment process and as many of you in F3 land know, Sargento is relentless in his pursuits to EH someone. “I think I have Plantar Fasciitis,” I tell my fellow Wolfpack fan. “Ah, me too, just rub your foot on a golf ball…fix that right up. So the race is in October – when do you want to start training?” Temptation and curiosity began to wrestle inside my mind. I buy a pair of Brooks – like all the cool runners are wearing these days. On May 25th I find myself in the parking lot of Publix instead of The Goat – my virgin voyage to the mid-week running AO. Stroganoff, Gastone, and Outhouse are stretching and welcome me. At 0530, there is no warm-up, just a fleet escape that I apply chase – a new attempt at the sport – this is gonna suck.
Thang: October 20, 2017 – The Fury’s Expedited Mosey to the Coast
The second platoon of Team GasHouse arrived at the rendezvous point Friday at 0800, following our Nantan’s detailed parking instructions, aligning our vehicles without the benefit of parking lines. This apparently had not occurred in the past two events meaning we were off to a good start. With Mayor captaining our van, Dolph, Qehshe, Freight, Def Leppard, Outhouse, and Short Sale, collectively known as The Fury, headed east in the St. Marks Church van decorated with the logos of our F3 tribe. With two prior races under his belt, The Mayor had planned our mission with flawless detail, complete with water, snacks, maps, and most importantly precision timing to arrive well ahead of our pre-arranged times. If you think Mayor is nothing but a pretty face – you must think again.
We dropped off I-85, east on I-40. I noticed a stand near exit 270 there was a large sign offering free degrees but the line was too long and we were on a mission. About 20 miles south we circled around Raleigh, home of the #14 ranked Wolfpack football team before exiting to top off our tank at a Sheets (clearly Mayor’s preferred fueling station). Our pre-race meal was at Sub-Way where we ran into a few Tuna competitors. We quickly sized up team Skid-Marx as a future kill (we beat them by nearly 2 hours), ate our food and headed to the Four Oaks Civitan fields that looked like an holding lot with multitudes of white Ford Transit vans waiting for assignment. We found some shade to rest our bodies for the upcoming challenges. This is where Freight and Mayor broke out the Air Lounger ($29.99 at Amazon). This invention is an air hammock that inflates like you were pulling a kite. As Mayor settled into his that just so happened to be the color pink, our juvenile humor quickly observed it looked like Mayor was resting in a big vagina. As we laughed at the joke, a female walked by and said “that is so cute, I’d love to have one of those…where can I get one?” We connected more to the question than what was intended, increasing the intensity of our belly laughs, Freight quickly responded “Amazon – you can buy anything Amazon.” It was going to be one of those trips where plenty of humor would be needed to distract our minds from task at hand.
We exchanged greetings once Red Wolf arrived and cheered as Stroganoff made the exchange with Qeche, who took off at an envious pace. We stuffed the pink vagina into its case and loaded our van for the next exchange zone. We passed Qishe as he sped toward his first target ambling along a lonely highway prompting Mayor’s observation “it must be hell to be dead and not even know it…” True as it was, that poor sap was the first kill among the many by our relay leader.
The Fury would maintain the same batting order for each of our three segments with Quiche, Freight, Def Leppard, Outhouse, Short Sale and Dolph. It would be easy to bore you with round by round highlights and lowlights of the team’s various travels on foot. For those that have competed in this event, you know the drill but for those who have not, I’ll do my best to add some color. Def Leppard was the beneficiary of a late change in the race order, shortening his first run to 1.67 miles, daunting for some but not for our respected cat. Def tore out like the guy ahead stole his Harley. Once he caught that guy, he killed three more. DL joked that it would have been nice for us to offer him water and a gel at the one mile mark to get him through.
After Outhouse brought the baton about 5 miles, it was my first turn of 4.3 miles. I had been forewarned of the adrenaline that surges into your body as you take off in front of the small crowd which feels a bit like “Q-Power” leading the PAX. I can attest to that truth as my legs churned and my heart-rate climbed into the upper 160’s limiting my breaths to gasps. Walking was not an option as it was earlier in the summer as I built my stamina to gradually exceed five miles before I would allow myself a slower break. What I learned on those training runs is the adage that it truly is mind over matter. My legs will run as long as I tell them to. The same thing applies to an F3 workout when we’re grinding through our most hated exercise – keep pushing the rock as Bandit often says. My team pulled to the side of the road and offered a water bottle to combat the warm humid air. I had yet to train for running and drinking and this attempt quickly failed, chunking the water bottle to the turf and re-focused my mind toward the remaining distance, happily tagging Dolph for the final leg of nearly 7 miles – a walk in the park for him. It was at that point after only one segment that I considered my exploratory effort into this running akin to a University of Kentucky freshman: one and done. Whoopee offered some advice to slow down and find my pace.
Upon the exchange with Van 1, team Fury headed for dinner where there were limited options on a Friday night in Eastern NC, settling on Ribeye’s in Mt. Olive, NC. We settled in the upstairs bar joining another Tuna team in the Rotary room. A hired DJ shuffled through an entertaining playlist quietly in the background prompting the conclusion it must be a slow night in Mt Olive. Outhouse was the only one to actually order the ribeye to which the kitchen completely missed the order, eventually getting his plate as the others were nearly finished. I think it was comped – you’ll have to ask him. We then traveled to Pink Hill Elementary School for as much rest as we could find before Qweeshe had to run his second leg around midnight. This is difficult to explain in this cult of overnight relay races. While there were a few tents and a few hammocks (Enos), the best description I can attempt to provide is to imagine a field of homeless people in expensive sleeping bags scattered over the ground, kind of surreal. As a rookie, I had a sleeping bag but nothing to separate my gear from the wet grass. While the two blow-up vaginas were once again employed, Def Leppard and I opted for the not quite long enough bench seats of the van. If you’ve ever attempted to sleep on an airplane, where deep in the recess of your mind, you know there is only a two hour window to rest; you never truly get past much more than 15 to 20 minute increments of “sleep” to which Def and I seemed to alternate listening to each other snore, twist and turn. Shortly before mid-night Van 1 arrived literally waking the make-shift neighborhood when backing in front of our vehicle with the commercial beeps activated by the reverse gear. Uggg – time to move – no rest for the weary.
At this juncture of the race additional participants competing in the 70 mile portion of the event had entered the course. These poor souls became quick targets as our lead runner Keeeshe picked off 14 kills of his 7.5 mile stroll. The weather had dropped into the 40’s removing the barriers of heat and humidity we faced in the earlier legs. Perfect running weather I was told by the veterans. Under a clear and starry night, we plowed through our intervals and only Def Leppard reported being chased by a barking dog. I imagine for the locals, they’d be better off out of town with the steady stream of lighted runners keeping the various guard dogs barking, doing their jobs to warn of passing strangers in the night. Our shift concluded around 4:30 am and we headed to Midway United Methodist Church in Stella, NC, prompting Def Leppard to request “I need one of them vaginas to sleep in.”
The team was able to grab a few hours of rest amid various contorted positions and chilling outdoor temperatures. There were few breakfast options at this early time of the morning. Against better judgment a McDonalds was found in what we thought was a reasonable distance away. This time it was my turn to have an order botched where in the eastern part of our state a “plain steak biscuit” clearly means add ham, egg, onions, and cheese. “WTF?” – If they only knew the turd that had been crowning in my ass the past two hours…it was difficult to get one down and keep the other in. But hey – this is the Tuna and we must overcome obstacles.
With the sun slowly climbing and shortly after 8 am, the final team exchange was completed and Fury took over with Qeeeshe once again speeding down the road. Freight sported his F3 Speed for Need tank top and his blade sunglasses. We all agreed he looked much faster in this attire. He had 5 miles ahead of him, including the bridge to Emerald Isle. Upon completing his fastest times of the weekend Freight confided “that bridge looked a lot flatter on paper…” In reality, the new bridge had a 250 foot peak over the Intercoastal Waterway that was not made very clear in any of the race documentation. Now we know. Leppard ran a quick 3 miles handing off to Outhouse that had his longest run of the event at a little more than 7 miles. The good news it was flat while the bad news is the day had warmed significantly and there was little shade along the straightaway. I was lucky that my final segment was only 3 miles, my shortest one and with all of the team running their best times, I was determined not to detract from the team’s success. The first half mile was great, a near sprint. I was getting the hang of this running I thought and then my legs turned to mush. The image of Scooby-Doo’s four legs rotating in a circular fashion while standing still flashed through my mind. All I could do was keep pushing. I saw a figure ahead moving slowly – could it be one more kill? I set my target and pressed onward until arriving and passing a Tuna competitor “Pow-Pow!” and then a lady stepped onto the sidewalk, tying balloons on a sign – I passed her and thought ‘did I just killed a civilian?’ But when you’re spraying bullets – there are bound to be some casualties – “Pow-Pow.” I made the final exchange for Dolph to finish our race with a little more than 5 miles to go. I wiped off the sweat with baby wipes and powder to hide the stench from my weary body, changing into clean clothes and joining the members of Van 1 on the Atlantic Beach Boardwalk where the finish line was set. Our two groups mingled and exchanged stories watching with anticipation for the final member of our team. We finally caught a glimpse of a shirtless Dolph had speeding into view. Mayor had correctly guessed he would be topless which could have been due to the heat or the fact we were at the beach, then again there were a number of ladies present. Someone suggested the GasHouse team should join him but that idea was thankfully buried. Dolph rounded the corner and we followed, crossing the finish line just over 28 hours, good enough for 10th place among the 90 entrants.
When you live in a van with six other guys for literally 30 hours, it can do nothing but allow you to get better acquainted – this much is true and I surmise why reality tv shows have remained popular. There isn’t enough time or space to list all the things shared among the Fury. As it is sometimes said “you’ve got to show to know.” There were plenty of laughs, more than could be counted. I made a few notes and a few quotes are listed below:
- All women hate the word “moist” (try it on your M and see)
- “Son, you’ve got to get a pedicure – it feels great. After that, get your legs waxed.” (if you guessed Dolph said that, you’d be correct and then go play the lottery)
- “Success is a dish best served cold.”
- “Cajun filet biscuits were a big contributor to the making of Fat Ricky.”
- “We’re playing Hearts? I thought we were playing Spades?”
Moleskin
When your alarm sounds in the wee hours of the morning or your inner conscious suggests at some point it’s time to exercise, the easiest thing to do is tap the snooze. I know I’m guilty of that. The daily red pill (#DRP) can be sour or sweet at times but it always makes us better. Running was an obstacle I allowed to cast fear and doubt. Did participating in the Tuna conquer those challenges? Not entirely, but training and competing certainly provided the ammunition to reduce my inhibitions allowing me to participate for Team GasHouse. Like a workout, the team pulled together and got each other through the challenges. Quiche was the QIC for this event and did a great job to organize and plan the overall logistics and communicate to the team. Once in the van, he was focused and determined in his pursuits to lead the team. He got us off to a fast start of each of Van 2’s legs, traveling 24 miles in all and earning the most kills of our team. Along our journey, Freight mentioned a lesson he heard from OBT discussing the different types of F3 members. The top-left box of the chart were the “Gorge Runners” aka thrill seekers where guys will blindly join the cause looking for the thrills – this is where our Nantan lives. He lives and speaks from F3 as he proudly transformed from a Sad Clown to the leader he is today. I also learned of Freight’s game face as he prepared for each of his legs, improving his splits each time out. (I think he secretly is a runner – but don’t tell him). I knew Def Leppard was an experienced runner. He might be in the Respect category but he gets it done and age is nothing but a number. He may perform merkins in a CDD form but he runs with ferocity, attacking the course with high intensity. Outhouse is a three-tour veteran of the relay races and steady contributor to whatever leg was assigned. I still remember one of my first workouts at Martha’s where he made us carry rocks (one of his favorite things). At F3 workouts, he maintains a quiet persona, a man of few words but get a few cocktails in him and the floor becomes open, but be forewarned his dry humor has some bite to it. We all see Dolph as one of the fittest among our region. Flipping tires, lifting blocks, and most assuredly executing the burpee. Many Saturday’s he has been challenged on the return to the Schiele parking lot for a ‘sprint to the finish’ to which unofficially he may be undefeated. He covered 18 miles for our team and never complained despite battling a sore calf muscle. But more than strength, he supplies a positive and encouraging attitude. In this relay event, more important than the fastest runner is the van driver. These men are the core of the event to ensure timely arrival and Team Fury was fortunate to have a veteran with Mayor in the captain’s chair. Though his political career is coming to a temporary hiatus, it was clear to see why it may someday resume at higher levels as he warmly greeted the volunteers at each exchange zone. He could have easily sat in the warm van but instead he was at the road to inspire confidence for the next man up and congratulate the man that just handed the baton. The opportunity to lock arms with the men of Fury as well as our brothers in Van 1 far exceeded my expectations when I registered for this event.
Epilogue – Saturday, October 21st 2:45 am – State Highway 41 Trenton, NC
(If you’re still with me on this long diatribe – hang on as I speed toward the finish)
I set off on my second leg with 4.3 miles ahead on a lonely two-lane highway. I’ve completed Shaun T’s Insanity but this is truly insane. In my life, would I ever predict I would be running along a highway in the early hours of a cold morning? The short answer is never – but F3 has broadened my fitness journey beyond following a dvd in my garage. The First F is not always what brings me out of the fartsack – I know I need it, but worst case, I can get that on my own. In my view it’s the Second F that is the secret to this organization’s success. To have met so many great guys, pulling for and supporting each other through workouts and more importantly life – this was why I did this event. Sure, my willingness to run increased but each time I wanted to walk or slow down, I thought about my team waiting at the finish. As my legs churned along the road I adhered to Whoopee’s advice “start slow.” I also listened to Quiche – “make sure you look at the stars.” Large exhales of my breath reflected off my headlamp and floated above. I paced off a runner 20 yards ahead, holding back the urge to pass until my running app announced the first mile was behind me. I hastened my pace until I was alone and then my thought’s gravitated toward the Third F as I studied the heaven above that felt more like running under the dome of a planetarium but this was the real. Perfectly clear to allow the stars and moon to glow providing a calm that allowed a peaceful and prayerful exchange intermittently for the next half hour, thanking God for many things in my life. This memorable moment couldn’t have been experienced without F3.
With the 2017 Tuna 200 completed I have been asked – ‘would (will) you do it again?’ Quite literally I’m raising my arm – try not to twist too hard. Thanks to Quiche, Sargento, Stroganoff, Monk, Defib, Whoopee and especially Madoff (my accountability partner) for the emotional push prior to the event. Thanks to the members of GasHouse in both Vans 1 and 2 for the memory of a lifetime.
Short Sale