Virginia Beach Half Marathon

Once upon a time, the Chesapeake Bay Sisters, who don't get out at all, ever away much, decided to try a new half marathon not to train for, otherwise known as the Shamrock in Virginia Beach.

In spite of the fact that the eldest recently turned 50, neither sister acted as though she were a day past 10  15 18 years old the entire weekend.

Please ignore the wad of chewing gum in the upper right corner of CBW's mouth.
Thank you.

The 50-year-old sister  is  always the responsible one  was responsible for signing them up for this Morning of Misery--that, again, neither had trained for.  As such, she took a few liberties when the website requested nicknames for the bib, which must be carefully pinned to every runner to ensure proper timing.  Those bib names are a quick at-a-glance identification for the roadside supporters and children dutifully handing out water and Gatorade at the stations every mile or so.

Imagine my glee when, at practically every water station, someone yelled,
"Great job, Aunt Esther!"
(Our family has an obsession with Sanford and Son.)

In spite of everything, including the fact that the 50-year-old's longest run since November was six miles on Valentine's Day in igloo-compatible temperatures at the New Kent Winery, and the younger sister only ran two or three times since the year 2011 then--in spite of all that lack of training, we didn't do that terribly.

At least not for us.

Our worst time ever for completing 13.1 miles is 2 hours and 45 minutes.  Our best is about 2 hours and 15 minutes.  We landed squarely in the middle this time at 2 hours 27 minutes.

But never mind all this talk about running.

The sisters only suffer through the tortuous, pre-sunrise exercise for the post-race endorphins and beer.

Baby Sis and the Atlantic Ocean.  And keg beer. It's about 10:30 a.m. here.
But we've completed 13.1 miles! 

In races past, the sisters felt slightly stymied by the post-race rules and regulations about free beer, specifically the quantity allowed.  Usually there's a limit of some sort, imposed by the very responsible race director, who has no idea that certain very tall, very un-average sisters may, for example, be able to not train for 13.1 miles of exercise and consume more (of everything) than your average person.

The point is, really, Aunt Esther Baby Sis  hates to be told what she can and cannot do, whether it's related to beer, parking, driving, operating someone else's vehicle that later ended up exploding in the streets of Richmond, playing a basketball game, playing any game of any type, breathing, working, living as a U.S. citizen, regulations of any kind, or anything resembling a need to do what one is being told to do by someone else.  At all.

For example.

In this particular race, each bib--or race number that says, for example, Aunt Esther, even if your name is really Baby Sis--has four places that the beer givers cross off each time a beer is handed out.

Baby Sis was not happy with being told how many beers she could have, particularly by her race bib or by a bib crosser offer.  She scoured the post-race festivities trying to talk other people into giving her their bib.  When I suggested it was just easier to simply purchase the beer and handed her two that I did purchase,  she acted like I'd just handed her a bag full of treason poison.

It's all about pushing the limits with Baby Sis.

And then it happened.

Then.

It happened.

As we were sitting just outside the tent on the sand with all the Happy Marathoners, basking in the sun, enjoying the last of our free beer and even a few that were purchased--much to Baby Sister's chagrin about having to choke down purchased vs. free beer--a gust of very strong wind hit the back side of a Clearly Uninterested in Drinking Four Free Beers Marathoner who wasn't clutching her number.

The wind caught the bib just so that it went way up in the air and landed almost directly in front of where the sisters were sitting in the sand.

The bib, boasting four unclaimed beers, was snatched up by an innocent bystander who attempted to locate its rightful owner.  At least one of the sisters--not the older one---saw this as a sign from above.

The sisters enjoyed four more free beers courtesy of Patty, bless her sweet beerless heart.

A good time was had by all.

Except, perhaps, poor Patty.

The End.