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| Post-40K indulgences: Cold can of Heineken and Rolling Good Times on TV. |
This evening, as I indulged in the silky
delight of Baileys with a hint of coffee, I pondered superficially
about the odd relationship between drinking (not of water, kiddo) and
running long distance.
That the current alcoholic influence
isn't potent enough to sway my better judgement should indeed qualify
me to question if there has ever been a valid reason to connect both
activities together.
But it's may well be absurdity at its
best or worst, where grounds for the argument simply do not exist.
Like asking a
middle-class German if he would skip a free-for-all chance of racing
a Porsche 918 down a country road even though he will never have that
exorbitant capital to actually own it.
What? Verpiss dich!
German curse words aside,
please allow me to distract with a little history concerning the
intermingling of war life and alcohol in distant pasts. Seemingly
numerous are the occasionally comic accounts of soldiers in the
American Civil War, lustfully sourcing for precious drops of beer.
Even at an earlier time, ale was made a daily ration's beverage for
Yanks at the front line.
More famously were the
fearsome warriors of ancient Scandinavia, the Vikings, and their
religious veneration for beer-drinking. It is a practice so deeply
sacred that kingdoms could risk imminent revolutions for, literally
speaking, stopping the flow.
Now, it seems in our
near-pacifist states of modern life, in a moderately peaceful world
saved for some troubled spots in Africa and the Mid East as well as
the gay rights debate in the US, there wasn't a form of warrior
culture showered in the pungent aromas of lagers.
However, as I slowly
discovered in my running life, athletic friends, especially those in
the hardcore ultramarathoning community, have a more specific craving
for beers. Like recently, a Facebook photo purportedly showing a few
guilty acquaintances socialising over Heineken and Carlsberg after a
trail running session. A church friend, who happened to be an avid
cyclist, confided to me that he kept a water bottle of beer attached
to his road bike.
Justifying such
shenanigans should call into acceptance of long distance running as a
spartan resistance against sedentary lifestyles. Out there, foot
soldiers of a sporty breed are striving against thought demons of
complacency and pointless excuses, sometimes under the devilish heat
of the noonday sun or in the drowsy hours of the late night.
Done with these physically
and mentally exhausting exploits, we are dreadfully spent. We have
tussled vigourously against the Great Cardio Beast and prevailed.
With that feel-good outcome, we are in need of cold beer like a
post-coitus man reaching out for a stick of Marlboro.
So one Sunday
evening, after a warm afternoon spend in a 40K run, I settled myself
on a comfy armchair, clamped my palm around an ice-cold mug of
Heineken and tuned to the recently revived Rolling
Good Times on Channel 5. Yes, some
headaches abounded with the occasional half-ass renditions of classic
song hits, but as the intake progressed, inhibitions dipped. When the
mind eases with ample drinking and silly entertainment, even
hours-long viewing of Adam Sandler flicks can be made bearable.
By drinking for that
induced light-headed relaxation, we are offered a pleasure that aids
us in relinquishing our right to worry about next day's affairs.
These few pints we deserve for valiantly honoring our commitment to
burn off excess calories in the previous hours.
Many would attest to
the smoothing ecstasy of ethanol therapy, particularly in the wake of
hard periods which cause strained calves, restless hearts and
scorched skins.
Long-distance
warriors don’t have it easy in life, after all.
Training sessions
are interspersed throughout a week of activities devoted to work,
family and other mandatory affairs. To get ourselves going, whether
it would be straight from the office or after house chores are
completed for the night, calls for stubborn initiative and profound
convictions, especially in the tightest of times.
The hectic weekdays
would soon be followed by Saturdays and Sundays, a scarcity of our
Sabbaths further sacrificed for healthy purgatories on the road and
rocky grounds. We choose to suffer deliberately for our dreams and
goals (in fact, the longer it is, the better), but more importantly,
for the upkeep of our temples.
Then it winds back
to Monday again and the cycle repeats.
Hence, be kind to
oneself and celebrate like Vikings. For performing your penance at
its most excruciating, give yourself a toast.
Drink profusely for
thanksgiving to Heaven, for its benediction of the oh-so-ecstatic,
the elixir of life.
It will anyway be
hours before you hit the desk in the morning.
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