…it was a 10K. The Hot Chocolate 10K , specifically. So named because they gave you hot chocolate at the end. And one pretty nifty sweatshirt, I might add.
See, this is kind of a thing I do. Register for races whenever I’m traveling somewhere. Or, like, continuing education courses (for those who aren’t aware, I’m a psychologist). Or something. Because my brain will simply not let me go on vacation.
I’ve tried, man. Like, to just go somewhere, for the sake of being somewhere other than where I live. I’m told normal human beings can take vacations. Nope. Drives me out of my freaking mind. Some might say that suggests an unhealthy relationship with my work. I would counter by saying that if you think my relationship with my work is unhealthy, that’s because you don’t know of my relationship with pizza.
Which doesn’t work, because everybody knows of my relationship with pizza.
Anyway. In order to wrap my brain around traveling, I kinda have to do this thing, where I invent another reason, other than travel for its own sake, to go somewhere. This usually involves some combination of professional stuff– finding a cool CEU to do, seeing a client who I usually see via video chat or phone consultation in person, or (usually “in addition to,”) running a race.
There ya go. Get to know the Doc. Can’t take vacation. I’m pretty sure this is why several long term relationships ended, actually.
Wow. That’s a depressing note to hit on a cute little blog about pizza. Anything else you’d like to share with the class, you workaholic freak?
What was I talking about? Right, Atlanta. Gotta be honest, the night before the Hot Chocolate Run was brutal. We’d cut our night of karting in Nowheresville South Carolina short because, frankly, it was getting late and I fucking hated the place. I swear, this go kart place was like something out of the Mel Gibson Mad Max movies. Fucking Thunderdome, and it was staffed by, like, remember those creatures with wheels for hands in “Return to Oz?” Those things. God, I hated that go-kart place.
So we cut our night short there because, I mean, life was just too short; and it was probably better that we did, because, even setting straight out from Gokart Track From Hell (did I mention I hated this place? Like, it was this little…fucking…warehouse with graffiti on the walls and the smell of testosterone and Clearasil hanging in the air), we were, like, pulling into Atlanta at some godawful hour in the morning. All we wanted to do was sleep, but we couldn’t sleep, because 1) the race packet I’d had a Craigslist gopher drop off for me earlier at the hotel had gone missing between drop off and our middle of the night arrival, and 2) the Maestro briefly thought he’d lost his “You Wouldn’t Understand, It’s An Amleto Thing” t-shitrt I’d given him for Christmas, and retraced his steps to the lobby looking for it, which is where he was about fifteen minutes later when I texted him that, actually, I’d found it on the floor of our room, where it was camouflaged by the dark carpeting.
It shall suffice to say: we were fuckin’ fried.
But. The race packet was located by the hotel staff (and, just by the by, even though I never met her face to face, I think I want to hire the Craigslist gopher as my personal assistant, because goddamn); I found the Maestro’s shirt; and then to bed it was, for a few fitful hours sleep, before it was time to wake up and run the goddamn Hot Chocolate 10K in the RAIN, I shit you not.
I won’t bore you with details of the race. I love running; I love running in places I’ve never been; and Atlanta, where I’d only been once before (to present at a psychology conference in 2010, a trip where I barely left the hotel room, because I was obsessively going over and over my presentations– don’t even call me a workaholic, jerks), is kinda charming. We ran through a college campus; we ran through a historic district; we ran past CNN. Atlanta produces Diet Coke and is the former home of World Championship Wrestling. And the hot Craigslist gopher. Nothing but good vibes in Atlanta.
The Maestro’s right, the pizza at that one place blew. It was, like, grocery store frozen pizza, but not even the good stuff. And the place itself had kind of a Chuck E. Cheese vibe. It was probably all the kids. I begged the Maestro to let us kart in the same race as the gaggle of tween girls that was in front of us, but he seemed to think it wouldn’t be a fair contest. Which was, of course, the fucking point, but oh well.
God, I hated that one place. (Not the Chuck E. Cheese place with the bad pizza and the tween girls, I’m back on the Thunderdome place the night before.) It was like something out of the Joel Schumacher Batman films. And yes, I say that with full awareness of all that connotes.
Don’t let the Maestro finish his story of the trip without giving his version of when we were stopped by the middle-of-nowhere Georgia sheriff’s deputy in middle-of-nowhere Georgia, he tells it better than I do, even though I was driving.
Hey, did you see we lost George “The Animal” Steele the other week? Just, what the hell. I’m going to put a picture of him here, because if it’s the only picture in this post, it’ll post to Facebook, and there’s too much Trump and NOT ENOUGH GEORGE “THE ANIMAL” STEELE ON FACEBOOK AT THIS SECOND. Word.