I don’t recall the last time I ran a 10k. Maybe south Los Angeles in 2008? It has been some time. Salt, everyone’s favorite senior travel couple, had signed up for a 10k race in Orlando (Kissimmee to be precise, and the Margaritaville Resort to be preciser). At last minute, I decided to register along with them. Perhaps this could be a good family activity thought I. My training over the last couple weeks for such an event entailed some stand up paddleboarding and a bit of swimming on Virgin Gorda, and walking up some steep hills on St Barths to buy french pastries. That’s what all the pros do when they train for the Olympics.
Packet pickup was the day prior and emotions got pretty raw when I (the one registering just one day before) was able to get my race shirt in the size that I ordered when those who had registered more than a month earlier (that’d be SALT) were stuck with sizes like XXXXL that they did not desire. With emotions running high, I ferried them away from the registration and to the bracelet station where IDs were verified so we could all have bracelets attached to our wrists to show we were eligible for alcohol post-race. Being held at Margaritaville, this was evidently very important. It did however seem ill-conceived to force us to start wearing the bracelets then and thus have to sleep with it on like some sort of drunken college student tossed from the club.
As the whimsical town of Celebration was nearby, we walked around its pathways to take in a bit of wildlife and nature. There were various birds, but we only spotted one gator. I feel like there used to be more in these waters, but having heard of such new construction like Alligator Alcatraz, I don’t blame them for wanting to find more welcoming locales where they can be themselves.
The Margaritaville 10k race was a bit of a disorganized mess. Having not run a 10k in over 15 years, I confidently presumed I could still routinely knock out at least 8 minute miles and lined up in the back of the first wave. The course went by such scenic locales as condos under construction, a long stretch of straight highway with nothing on either side, and finished next to a row of portapotties. It had it all. Margaritaville was also running a 5K and a half-marathon — each with a slightly different course, but this didn’t stop the volunteers from sending me in different conflicting directions at each sign.
Like many larger races, there were photographers on site. In the past, I have not had issue with giving the shakas (mostly in Hawaii), or even managing some semblance of a smile. I just couldn’t do it. And I’ll tell you why. A 10k race equates to about 6.2 miles. They had mile marker signs posted on the course so runners would have some idea of their progress. When I got to the one marked “5,” I adjusted my pace and mentally worked out how much distance I would have left. “I’ve run 5.5 now” I would think to myself. “Ok maybe only 400m left,” I would deduce. The problem was that the last “mile” lasted for almost 2. The race itself was not measured correctly and the mile markers were placed at the wrong spots. This isn’t great for planning one’s pace.
Nevertheless, your unshaven, unmotivated boy crossed the line in 45 minutes, a just sub-7 minute mile. I finished 15th overall out of 700 and got 2nd in my age group which netted me a Margaritaville-branded shot glass. It’s best I didn’t do much better. A few women were ahead of me, which put me uncomfortably close to being one of the top 3 overall male finishers. Their prize was a Margaritaville cruise. God help me. Can you imagine the clientele on a Margaritaville cruise? Oh, lawd. Both members of SALT crossed the line some time later — each winning their division and subsequently more shot glasses. I had already visited the beverage stand to retrieve my free post-race drink of a Landshark Lager, but found it a bit disgusting at 8am. I dumped the rest into a plant — which, at Margaritaville, thrive on this kind of “watering.” Jimmy Buffett may have famously sang about it being, “5 O’Clock Somewhere,” but he was really referring to international airport lounges and not about slamming down Landshark lagers after running a 10k. Beer for breakfast just doesn’t sit right.
After a brief nap, I gathered my belongings and bid farewell to SALT. I had to pick up Nicole at the Tampa airport after she had briefly jetted up to New Jersey. From there it was on to the Conadio on Isla del Sol, formerly known as Del Boca Vista. Updates from there to follow.
passports & pepto bismol 