Learning to Hate Ice Cream
To impress upon our intern that making a magazine isn’t all meticulous makeovers and exceptional eating, we tasked him with covering one of the unhealthiest footraces around from the inside, partly for the learning experience, but mostly for the spectacle. What follows is an excerpt from his training log.
GOAL: Uncle Dave’s Ice Cream Jog ‘n Hog, July 17
Felt shockingly good for the first time out. Planned to run a mile along the canal and ended up doing closer to two. I think I could have gone even further, but I figured it was better to play it safe.
Woke in the middle of the night with a cramp in my left calf, and when I reached for it, I realized that pretty much my entire body, from the neck down, was revolting against me. I stayed there, still as I could, for, oh, the next 29, 30 hours or so.
Feeling close to normal—finally. Since this race is about slugging back a lot of ice cream as much as it is running, figured I’d ease myself back into training by walking to oWowCow for a cone. Form felt fluid and efficient.
Oh, God! Jogged to oWowCow this time—after a good, long warm-up. Rewarded myself with a cup of Honey Lavender, because it sounded light. A block into my run back, it sat up in my stomach like a baby. And then I hit the bridge. And then the ice cream hit the bridge. The silver lining: Made it back to the office in personal best-time after fleeing the scene of the crime.
This binging-and-running thing is harder than I anticipated. So, one thing at a time. Headed over to Shady Brook and picked up some pints to practice on—Salty Caramel, Tiramisu, Wilbur’s Cake Batter, Dulce de Leche.
Was not aware that ice cream hangovers existed. Still managed to get a run in on the canal, albeit a short one. Felt—and looked, I’m sure of it—like a cow walking quickly on its hind legs, udders bobbing around.
Couple of good runs in a row. And by good, I mean, I didn’t vomit before, during or after. Also: I managed to maintain a pace and poise that couldn’t be confused with a fat kid protecting his hoagie from an angry wasp.
Today was not the day to start incorporating ice cream back into my runs. After three months of rain, it was sunny and 90. Positively, the ice cream was pretty damn refreshing. I couldn’t eat it fast enough. Negatively, a gang of bees, attracted by my sticky face and hands, forced my pace on the run back. Karma for the fat-kid metaphor.
Three weeks into my training and I’ve put on six pounds. I’d like to say it’s muscle. So, let’s say it’s muscle.
Seven pounds. I’m nursing a sore hamstring.
Scrolled through the galleries of last year’s Jog ‘n Hog. Half the runners look like they’re having the time of their lives. The others look like they want to be anywhere else doing anything else.
Legs are feeling sound again, or, at least, less like I just stepped out of some Ramsay Bolton torture device. Attempted my first, full-on Jog ‘n Hog practice run—5K, with a break for a pint at the midway turnaround. Would have been more realistic if I hadn’t carried the pint with me, it hadn’t melted and a gaggle of ducks hadn’t intimidated me into handing over all but the first gulp. They, however, fled afterward without any trouble. New mantra: Be the duck.
Photo courtesy Uncle Dave’s Ice Cream Jog ‘n Hog