In a way, I feel like my writing about the Bourbon Chase so far hasn’t quite captured the spirit of the thing. It’s a weird experience, running and then driving and then maybe sleeping and then running more and being trapped in a van with people in rural Kentucky and there’s bourbon but you don’t really drink much and so on and so forth.
And while that last sentence did a lot to accurately convey the experience, I do have a few other funny, interesting, weird, or generally miscellaneous things I’d like to share.
Four of us arrived via plane fairly early on Thursday morning with some time to kill before we could check into our hotel. After coffee and playing in a park for a while, we did the only rational thing: Foot golf. Basically, golf with a soccer ball. There was a quasi-dedicated course (in that it had specific Folf holes, but they were on the regular course; I’m still not sure exactly how that worked.) It was a lot of fun; I had decent distance but bad direction on my drives, and atrocious putting. It should happen more often.
That was the first thing I saw upon entering the hotel room the night before the race: an issue of Playboy. But that requires a bit of explanation: The circle of friends and acquaintances and whatever I was that made up the team only produced a total of 10 people who were willing and able to do the race. Full teams are 12 people, so we went to the Bourbon Chase forums to find extra runners. We wound up getting one, and the Playboy was his.
Now, I’ve got nothing against Playboy, really. It’s a perfectly good soon-to-be-former source of pornography, and it is entirely possible to read it for the articles once you’ve plastered the walls. I’ve even attended a speech by Christie Hefner while she was CEO. (Sadly, the speech was dreadfully boring; she was the keynoter at my former employer’s annual conference, and I could have written her speech in my sleep.)
But it is an odd thing to leave lying on top of your suitcase to greet people you’ve never met before in a hotel room that you’ll be sharing. (Yes, I’m calling something odd. Mark the day.) And, I’m ashamed to admit, that did color our attitudes throughout the weekend. Before long we started assuming that our eleventh was a serial killer or four. He wasn’t; at least, not to us. But we’ve still got our suspicions. In any event, it’s some nice color for the report.
It didn’t happen too often, but there were a few times we got lost traveling in our big creepy white van from hand-off to hand-off. The van’s favorite time getting lost was when we found ourselves at a dead-end of a dirt road in the middle of Kentucky, being chased by a dachshund. It was adorable.
The dessert enchilada
There was a point at which this seemed like a really good idea. Surprisingly, I think it was before dark on the first day. Anyhow, don’t steal that idea.
The hand-off after (I think) leg 13 took place on the grounds of a Baptist church. With this collection of rainbow port-a-potties. I’m not sure if that’s a sign of progressiveness that the Baptist church has a gay pride section, or if it’s an insult that it’s where you poo. [These last two bits probably were stolen from Tahnee.]
Peeing while running
Apparently it’s possible to do, for the gentlemen at least, in a way that’s external to your pants. Matt claimed that it’s possible to discretely disemshortpants one’s pinot noir (or blanc), aim in a sideways and downwind manner, and relieve oneself without slowing. I declined to attempt it.
You know you’re in Kentucky when…
At the hotel the day after the race, I saw a girl, maybe 12 years old, in an American Pharaoh T-shirt. With a toy horse. Galloping. It’s good to have passion.
We had most of another day in Louisville before our flight home. Things done included a coffee shop where this happened:
Incidentally, at that coffee shop we ran into our Playboy-reading serial killer friend’s doppelganger. At least, we hope it was his doppelganger; he had the same build, same mustache, same sunglasses, and same man-bun. If it was the same guy, not talking to him would have been awkward.
At a street fair of some sort, this happened:
Tahnee, Theresa, and me getting the best possible photo of the World’s Largest Louisville Slugger. Which is made of not-ash, and therefore not a Louisville Slugger.