Thoughts on sporty sporting:
Baltimore hosted 4 races: Marathon, half-marathon, 5k and 100 meter dash. Ideally, I would have signed up for the sprint but turned out you had to below the Scrappy-Doo height of 3 feet. Missing it by 2 inches and had to settle for the second least debilitating distance of 3.2 miles. Even more ideally, the race administrators would have unleashed the dashing 500 children toward the finish line at the same time as the real marathoners were coming into the same final stretch. It would have made for better chaos watching if the 8 marathon contenders were scrapping their palms open as they tripped over a mess of confused 5 year olds. Seeing the top heavy babies do that to themselves wasn’t much fun.
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After the race we were treated to a dynamite combination of Gator-aid, funnel cake and Middle Distance Runner. Outside of their name I can’t find any connection between their varied rock n roll musical stylings and the gathered racing community. Perhaps that’s why they were asked to play at 9am on a cold Saturday morning after the 5k’s completion. A full marathon wouldn’t qualify them as Middle Distance anything.
Our fandom and the other racers disinterest meant that we were the only 3 people anywhere near the stage listening to them. You might think that is an attempt at a humorous over-statement but if the band ever releases the crowd shots from the video they appeared to be shooting you’ll see I’m playing it straight. There’ll be a stage, us, 30 yards of empty parking lot, the sound mixer, 30 more yards of empty parking lot and the race finishing/bloody nipple-band-aid disposal area. But they rocked like there were at least twice as many people bobbing their heads in an approving “don’t stop the rock” manner.
It was also probably the band’s only show where they’ve been interrupted mid-set so a missing child announcement could be read over the PA. I am happy to report that Daniela was reunited with her father at the police security tent. Grandmother Nanny was there too.
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I jammed my finger playing football on Sunday morning. While it didn’t bother me during the rest of the day it swelled up something fierce overnight. It now looks like my regular sized hand except my middle finger resembles something like what I’d imagine George Wendt’s fingers look like.
Confirmed.
All fear the George Wendt’s finger! I'd snap but it hurts.
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Blonde Girl Fight will happen.
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Just like tiny peppercorn trebuchet happened. That dude’s retina never knew what hit it.
Alright G. The rest of the weekend’s yours.
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