The big race through beer googles or how I 'Tipp'ed a few at the Shamrock:
Warning: This is a true life account of race day up on Tipp Hill, but also the names have been changed to protect the guilty.
It didn't seem like I was late. The Shamrock Run didn't start for another 15 minutes, but my phone was buzzing uncontrollably.
One call after another. First my photographer. Then my guide. And my photographer again. It was a vicious cycle and I just kept telling them I was outside the ice rink at Burnett Park and couldn't see them anywhere amongst the crowds of people. This, of course, was a lie. I was at the bottom of the hill and the streets were already closed to those of us traveling by car. Looked like I was about to take the last mile on foot--uphill.
By the time I got to the top, the race was just about to start. I was not here to race, but to report. I met my guide for the afternoon, but the photographer, M.R. "no captions" Hughes, was nowhere to be found. He sent what I made out to be an angry text message, calling me something that cannot be printed in public. But like any professional, he said I could expect the photos Monday morning, and at that time I could stick the captions...
My guide was a fine young lad named Glen Side. Homeowner, husband, father of two and all around nice guy. We cut through the neighborhood to the halfway point, Hamilton Hill, which Glen said was one of the most demanding stretches of the race. A straight shot downhill. And, from the looks of it, very tough on the body. Once the runners reached the bottom, they would start the climb back toward the finish line, a grueling two-mile stretch--the same one I had power walked just minutes earlier.