I Do Sports, Therefore I Am an Athlete

The Holyoke, MA St. Patrick's Day Road Race is a tradition like no other. It's an event thrown by a fine Irishy-rooted city that combines athleticism and alcohol the likes of which even golfers have never seen. What started as a small, local 10k has grown to impressive numbers. Aside from attracting drunks all the way from the eastern part of the state, the race has drawn elite runners from all over the world. This is what people tell me, anyway, because I'm never anywhere near enough or fast enough to see them.

Fellow "athlete"

It's a race I've run every year except for the years that I haven't, and it's the hardest 6.2 miles I've ever run. The first half is set at various degrees of incline, followed by a mile and a half of downhill relief that really only F's you in the A when you realize that you have to finish out the race uphill. You can't even enjoy the beer stops.

Mile 3 takes a turn up a hill towards Holyoke Community College. It's a hill which, if running were a collegiate requirement, would render this school more elite than Harvard. I hit a personal low point on this hill, nearly punching out a man who was passing me while pushing his baby stroller. What a dick. The course designers must have decided on a course so vile that no one would ever want to run it ever, ever again.

But here I am, sitting in the pre-dawn light, ready to torture myself for another year. Maybe it's because I like to feel healthy. Maybe it's because the beer tastes better after a grueling physical challenge.  Or maybe it's because I eventually want to prove my high school coach wrong: turns out I can run faster than a pregnant woman, sir. Regardless, the whole point is that I have chosen to finish out the day making my fellow Irishmen and fellow Massholes proud: in drenchéd, alcoholic pleasure.

Here's to solving all the world's problems by 2pm. Sláinte!

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