Wine-a-thon (1/2)

Is an alcoholic signing up to run a marathon and finding out the race is on the grounds of an old distillery an example of irony?

If so, then what is it called when I commit myself to run a half marathon sponsored by a winery in Virginia’s beautiful Loudon County?

It is called AWESOME!

When I invite my neighbor and her husband (already a proven Ironman!) to join our team– Save the Grapes!–she laughs for a full two minutes before responding that I have picked the “perfect half marathon” for me.  And I realize that she is right!  Everything is just that much more palatable when a little (or A LOT) of wine is added to the, um, fun.  Even the, um, fun of 13.1 miles…

For those of you who have read Broken Hallelujah: notes from a marriage, this is no surprise when I remind you how much the main female protagonist, Lauren–like me–LIKES (caps=emphasis:) her wine.  And sometimes Lauren, like me, forgets to quit while she is ahead…of the drunk curve:  “In the midst of all this chumminess, my uncooperative brain crosses the great divide from fun, flirtatious drunk to just plain uncommunicative, desperately trying not to pass out drunk.  I have to go to the bathroom.  I need some water.  Eric is oblivious to my predicament, not having heard the tell-tale “click” which has apparently obliterated all cognitive function.  The rest of the night is, as they say, “a blur.”  Random images of people and events keep popping into my head like Jack-in-the-Box surprises……. While I can’t positively remember having paid the babysitter, I do remember having sex… which I can only hope was with Eric.”  Taking this paragraph, from BH’s “Pornography,” as a life lesson, I definitively decide to forgo the wine stop advertised as available at the half marathon’s halfway point.  Similarly, when my laughing neighbor suggests that perhaps I would be happier simply pulling my hamstring (wink-wink), so that I could embrace all the host winery’s offerings early on, I realize how committed I actually am to completing this run.  I decide, unequivocally, that I will SAVE THE GRAPES for AFTER the race!

Recognizing, of course, the potential irony if all my race day proclamations prove to be for naught and that which is imbibed the night BEFORE is still in my system as I stand runner ready on the starting line…

I will keep you posted:)

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