The Jingle All The Way 10K Report Card (subtitle: The Difference Between 10Ks and Marathons) (subtitle: DJ eats her words) (subtitle: sort of) (subtitle: I still vow to make fun of 5Ks.)


Hey. I got an idea. Attach these to your shoes and run and try not to feel homicidal. Go on. Do it.

WEATHER: Chilly

MILES: None.  BOOM.

MILES THIS WEEK: Honestly, do you care?  Especially if I don’t?  Jerkface.

WHERE TO: Nowhere today, but yesterday…the Jingle All The Way 10K!

MOOD: Unnnnnngh. <shiver>

ADDITIONAL NOTES:

There are ruts, dear readers, and then there are Ruts.  Ruts with a capital R and 10-foot concrete walls on each side with no footholds to allow you to scramble out and scurry away.  Ruts created by having run the greatest race of your life and then having written happy fun blog posts about it and having fallen increasingly in love with hundreds of people, especially the residents of Hagerstown, Maryland, in the process.  And then realizing that your life no longer has purpose.  No goals.  No future plans.  <choking bourgeois sob> Ruts that can only be broken out of when you are at the Red Derby on your birthday a little over a week ago with your college friend Mr. Cool thrusting two tequila shots into your hands and also saying, “ARE YOU SO PUMPED FOR THE JINGLE ALL THE WAY 10K?”

Thus I was talked into it.  And so, finally putting to use two of my three fast-twitch muscle fibers (1 in each leg, the other residing in my brain, activated only when someone mentions the Flaming Lips, at which point that one fast-twitch fiber leaps into action, causing me to scream, “OVERRRRRRRRRRATED!  HOW MANY LIBERAL ARTS COLLEGES DID YOU ATTEND, ANYWAY, YOU PHILISTINE JACKWAGON?”), I ran the Jingle All the Way 10K yesterday, dragging Rusty to the starting line with me.

In its 6 years of existence, the Jingle All The Way 10K has become a tradition of sorts in DC, from what I understand.  This understanding, mind you, comes merely from the past week of my headphones being broken and having to actually listen to my fellow Metro riders talk.  And somehow, everyone within a 10-foot distance of me in the past week was talking about This Race and how Simply Awesome it would be.  I swear.

So I ran the race.  And now, dear readers, a race report card.

Course: A

A no-hills out-and-back on scenic Hains Point.  And the real fun of an out-and-back course is that on the way back, you get to scope out the…

Clientele: C+

…many of whom were festively dressed.  For example, there was that guy in the Santa suit, bringing up the rear, running the whole thing WHILE JUGGLING.  And while, yeah, no one likes a show-off, he still brings up the grade several notches.  And there were also several reindeer (hackneyed, but OK), a team of people in giant milk-carton, cookie, and Santa get-ups (you people are ballin’.  For the record.), and many women in slutted-up-Mrs.-Claus-with-running-tights costumes (I want to maim your faces in your sleep).

Speaking of stupid clientele in stupid costumes, a sidebar here: hey, you.  Yeah, you.  Super-intense, stringy 45-ish lady with red tinsel around her waist.  Lady who I passed and who subsequently PUSHED ME, yes, PUSHED me and said, “You’re not running straight!”  Remember when I said, “Sorry!!!” in the sweetest voice possible and then BURNED PAST YOU and NEVER SAW YOU AGAIN FOR THE REST OF THE RACE BECAUSE I AM A MACHINE?  Yeah, you remember that?

Just checking.

Facilities/Perks: B+

OK, so we arrived at the start line oh, maybe 8 minutes before the starting gun.  So we didn’t get to inspect the set-up too well beforehand.  But there was water, as well as bagels and fruit afterward.

Of course, there is also the problem of the bells.

Jesus, the bells.

See the race gets its name from the fact that they ingeeeeeniously give you each a bell to attach to a shoe so that you can have a constant, jingling reminder of the fact that WHY AM I RUNNING A 10K AT 7:30 A.M. WHEN I COULD BE SLEEPING OFF MY HOLIDAY HANGOVER?  Or eating Holiday Hash for breakfast?  Or Holiday Humping in a nice warm bed, or at least on a nice chilly-and-squeaky pull-out couch?

Anyway, B+ on the facilities.  No race will ever get the full thumbs-up from me until the per-capita-port-a-john rate is at a firm 1 or higher.

Weather: M

“M” standing for “Mother Nature decided to drop trou and piss all over Hains Point on Sunday morning.  And it was a 30-degree piss.  With wind involved.”

Convenience: C

True, it’s as scenic and traffic-free as you can get in DC, but it’s also a hell of a long way away from a Metro station.  Especially if Mother Nature is letting loose.  Leaving you to stumble home in the cold wet windy SHITWEATHER and curl up and want to DIE because you are both experiencing influenza-like chills and major stomach distress because you are not used to having to perform anything requiring speed, aside from racing into the shower in the morning as soon as your roommate and/or their bed companion is out because YOUR TIME IS PRECIOUS.

…because, you see…

Well, OK.  I have given a lot of shit over the last year on this blog to “fun runs” and really any short-distance race.  I hereby stand corrected, having forgotten what a 10K feels like in the four years since I last did one.  See, if the end of a marathon feels like someone took a meat tenderizer to every leg muscle you have and the end of a 50-miler feels like Kathy Bates took a sledgehammer to your legs, Misery-style, the end of a 10K feels like the race made you its prisonbitch and then filed down a toothbrush to a shiv and stabbed you both in the lungs and the quads.

Of course, that’s if you’re trying.  But then you might not be.  You might have tied your hair up into two cute little pigtail buns atop your head and have stayed up ALL NIGHT last night tie-dyeing your knee-socks with your girlfriends and wrapping your body in tinsel to cover your naughty bits so that you can WORK IT as you do a turkeytrot around Hains Point.  And, I mean, it takes all kinds, am I right?  You’re making the Washington, DC running community bigger and more vibrant!  And by running (shuffling) around the course, you’re only making the rest of us look/place comparatively better, anyway.  You, friend, with the full makeup and rockette get-up and giggling disposition…YOU are a budding runner!  Maybe someday you, too, will contribute to society and stop being an embarrassment to my particular sex and gender!

But for now I’m going to maim you in the face.  Come ‘ere, slowpoke.

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