Those who are familiar with my work will notice an enduring theme in my race recaps: running and drinking. This pattern is not particularly noteworthy, because these are the two principal race-day activities in New Orleans, and they’re also my two favorite things in the world (with family coming in third). But it may surprise you to learn that I am deeply ambivalent about the annual Tchoupitoulas Barathon, an event that ruins these two activities by combining them. This is not a “hey, you got your chocolate in my peanut butter!” combination, but an unholy alliance of pain and bloat that strips away the recognizable features of humanity and replaces them with pure, animalistic debauchery. In fact, “animalistic” doesn’t do this justice, because animals have well-honed self-preservation instincts. We have free will, and in this case that isn’t really all that great a deal.

Before the chaos of 6 bars, 6 beers, and 6 miles, the competitors look less like athletes, and more like slightly fratty, severely underdressed cocktail party-goers. Bordeaux Street, just above Magazine, is that kegger from every bad college movie you’ve ever seen. At this point, I realize my sobriety is becoming a significant problem, and so I hawk a beer from a man perched on the tailgate of his truck wearing a massive dreadlock wig and a backpack that features Oscar the Grouch emerging from a trashcan.

I look out across the start line, checking off the elite competitors: Minihan, Gavin, Cater-Cyker, Bouckaert, Gohres, Street, Accardo. And it dawns on me that merely surviving this race will mean little to them. Despite the gimmicky nature of the race’s structure and rules, this is a prestigious event: a Wimbledon, a Kentucky Derby, or an Indy 500. To cast this race as a bar-crawl would undermine the intricate strategic planning that a successful barathon run requires. Though each competitor must run through the same bars, and must drink a beer at each drink station therein, the route between the bars is not pre-determined. Competitors routinely update their maps, and keep them closely guarded from their opponents, in order to preserve every possible advantage on race day. Magazine Street and Audubon Park Golf Course are off limits, which complicates matters further.

What I was about to witness, then, was a high-speed, drunken parade with no defined route; a Running of the Bulls, if each bull was fueled by nothing but booze and adrenaline. I tightened my grip on my camera and slowly backed out of the way.

One of my favorite moments in this race is the moment it starts. A field of several hundred runners goes almost deathly silent as they put beer in their faces as fast as possible. Their cups raised to the sky in unison, they seem to be taking part in an ancient ritual sponsored by Solo. And the crowd goes quiet too. A few cheers can be heard, but the vast majority of spectators simply stare dumbfounded at the Bulls, silently guessing the number of ounces left in the cups, waiting for the first runner to throw his empty cup to the asphalt and tear up Bordeaux as if running from a tidal wave. It takes somewhere in the neighborhood of 8 seconds for this to happen. It feels like 8 hours.

Richard Bouckaert starts running first, followed closely by several others. The entire crowd takes several minutes to pass the start line, as the back of the phalanx is composed of bar-crawlers who decided a $35 entry for 6 free beers was a pretty good deal, and who will be walking the entire route.  This is a race that begs for costumes, and I note the patriotic theme embraced by many of the entrants. Wonder Woman and Superman pass me several times, as does a man whose shirt reads “America: Running the World Since 1776”. At this moment, I find myself desperately hoping that America invented the barathon.

While the runners—and most other onlookers—head further Uptown, I decide to make my way to a less-traveled spot: Grit’s Bar on Lyons and Annunciation. My rationale for this is simple and selfish. I want my photographs to capture the agony of the sixth and final beer station, and I’d also like to avoid the crowds that gather at other points along the route. At first, this seems slightly idiotic. I find myself far-removed from the action, alone, holding a warm beer and a temporarily useless camera, while passersby regard me with bemusement and confusion. I want to tell them to stay, to witness the horrible grandeur for which I wait, but then I’d like to avoid the crowds, so I don’t.

The runners soon begin streaming into the beer station, which has been conveniently set up alongside the bar, in a protected back patio area with a gate to the street. Grit’s is on their game, as is Bouckaert, who trots in well ahead of his opponents. When it’s clear he’s put more than a minute between himself and second place, I know the result of this race is no longer in question.

But the event was nowhere near complete.

Consider, for a moment, Don Quintana, who drank two full beers at each stop, winning an informal championship that he himself created, a title he has held for several years now.

Consider Zach Cater-Cyker, who ran the race along with his fiancée, to whom he was to be married the following day.

Or consider the watermelon that was sacrificed by machete in an arcane ritual an hour after the race’s end, as assembled revelers sang to the seeded fruit.

Consider a race of this nature, and you’ll find yourself gazing at your wall for long periods of time, attempting to come up with some cohesive narrative, or some defining statement that sums up a night that defies logic at every turn. The collection of mental images that remains with me after the event is nothing but faces, faces turning the corner into the patio, and seeing a table full of glistening, brimming cups of beer. They aren’t happy to see this thing that they love, because they’re exhausted and already slightly drunk, and their stomachs are performing painful emergency maneuvers in order to prevent their bodies from an impending total meltdown.  But they see this beer, and they are compelled to love it, to embrace it, and to drink it in.

For more photos visit our facebook album here.

This is what we gather for: to love this race against our better judgment, to embrace it, and drink it in.

Eric Stuart, CCC race director stopping by the LRC…

For more on LRC run group visit our official run group page here.

The run group where all ages and abilities are welcome!

For more photos visit our facebook album:

LRC run Group 294

Receiving start instructions from our fearless leader..

The start!

2nd place in the men’s 1/2 – Ben Broussard

LRC’s Justin Bertheud

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Male Top 3 Half Marathon

Female Top 3 Half Marathon

Finish line medals!

Toby Hubbell, Nakia Cantu, and Cesar Torres

The Rice’s and Cesar.

For more photos check out our facebook album here.

Results:

Q50 ULTRAS

http://edge.raceresults360.com/rr360/race/fv6y4/#/results::13621943322680

1st place Max Miller

Nick Accardo, second in 15:33

Bryce Robinson

Johanna Grestchel, the women’s champion.

Julia Whitrock

For more photos visit our facebook album here.

Join us next week for Run Group #295 – the run group where all ages and abilities are welcome!

For Full Run Group Info: Click Here

SUNDAY, FEB. 24, NEW ORLEANS – Clear skies and a cool, dry starting temperature of 55 degrees yielded course records for Brit Mo Farah and Ethiopian Meseret Defar at the third edition of the New Orleans Rock ‘n’ Roll Half Marathon.

The men’s pack – stride for stride at mile two.

Though the day’s oft-predicted storms never materialized, Farah’s win was no Sunday stroll. The 5k/10k double Olympic champion at the London 2012 Games, Farah did not secure victory until the finish line by inching out Ethiopian Gebre Gebremariam 1:00:59 to 1:01:00. Sub-sixty minutes was a goal on the table, but the pair separated themselves from the rest of the pack early on and did not have as much psychological incentive to push the pace. The time is a British record for the distance, and broke Martin Lel’s course record of 1:01:70 from 2010. Lel, of Kenya, was fourth Sunday in 1:04:02. Fellow Kenyan countryman Cybrian Kotut was third in 1:02:48.

The top women similarly ran in a tight pack for much of the race, with Defar getting help with pacing duties from American Shalane Flanagan and Kenyan Mary Ngugi, as well as local master’s record-holder Kevin Castille. Defar averaged 5:09 miles to win in 1:07:25, a personal best time and new course record over Kiwi Kim Smith’s 1:07:11 from 2011. Flanagan was runner-up in a personal best time of 1:08:31, and Ngugi took third in 1:10:32.

A tight pack at two. The eventual winner Meseret Defar and American Shalane Flanagan (#302) among the mix

The top Louisiana finishers crossed the line almost simultaneously; Jonathan Thomas and Matthew Manning ran 1:10:22 and 1:10:33, respectively, for 15th and 16th. Sean Allerton, the top New Orleans finisher, could be seen in the early stages of the race pacing with Kara Goucher, the American record-holder in the half-marathon distance. Allerton, 19th male, ran 1:14:05. Goucher was the fifth female in 1:11:49.

New Orleans women represented well across the top of the half-marathon results, with Kimberly Mantle breaking into the top 10 with a 1:21:17 9th place effort. Michelle Hymel averaged 6:17 pace for a 1:22:22 11th place effort, with her former LSU Tigers teammates Megan Gohres and Kate Accardo right behind in 1:25:19 and 1:26:10, respectively, for 15th and 16th place.

In the marathon distance, Meyer Friedman of San Diego and Karen Lockyer of Baton Rouge took top honors with times of 2:28:43 and 2:52:33, respectively. Friedman, a Tulane graduate now based in San Diego, is a fixture at this event. Sunday’s win was his second consecutive and sixth overall win. Ian Carr was the top local finisher, hailing from Kenner with a time of 2:35:12 for fourth overall.

Lockyer, a native of New Zealand, earned her first win with her fourth try at the New Orleans event. Charlotte Everhardt of Metarie was about a minute behind in second place, with a 2:53:33 effort.

Mile 7 Photos:

Mo Farah and Gebre Gebremariam breaking away at mile 7.

Kevin Castille (American master’s record holder at the event / former LA native ) continues to rabbit Defar at at mile 7.

Shalane Flanagan gives chase.

Kara Goucher!! #303

Meyer Freidman (#1) King of the Marathon in New Orleans – en route to his 6th title int he event.

Full Results Here.

For more photos check out our albums below (2,000+):

Album 1Album 2  Album 3  Album 4  Album 5  Album 6  Album 7  Album 8  Album 9 

TEAM ORANGE PHOTOS:

For more info on run group including meeting times, course maps, etc click here .

Pierre Olivier, winner of the $500 Brooks Certificate.

LRC group runs every Monday and Wednesday starting from 4153 Canal St. All ages and abilities welcome..
For Full Run Group Info: Click Here

LRC group runs every Monday and Wednesday starting from 4153 Canal St.  All ages and abilities welcome..

For Full Run Group Info: <a href=”http://www.louisianarunning.com/run-group-2″>Click Here</A>

LRC group runs every Monday and Wednesday starting from 4153 Canal St.  All ages and abilities welcome..

For Full Run Group Info: Click Here

For more photos:

Top Finishers:

Complete Full Results

Complete Half Results

Time ticked and runners gathered in the takeoff-way as the prompt 6:29.99 was given.  Into the night they ran, or as “Pbst-Croy-Aaron” put it, swam.  With fog, mist, and temps that prompted the long sleeve/short sleeve debate, some quoted the run as being perfect conditions, while others said it was eerie.  Newbie Ashley King even went so far as to say it felt like she was running through a horror movie, with the fog-covered darkness.

At the conclusion of the run, LRC cooked and provided oatmeal/chocolate cookies with assistance from their neighbor Rouse Mc’bakery.  Robbie “Catman” Stevens showed off his substitute teacher sockings.  Alabama ranted of his national championing. and baby Ella art-ed.

Join us next week for Run Group #280 – the run group where all ages and abilities are welcome!

For Full Run Group Info: Click Here

The Jackson Day 9K is not a race, but an institution. If you didn’t believe that when you heard the zydeco version of “The Battle of New Orleans” blaring from the loudspeakers of the pace truck, you needed no more evidence than the sight of four-hundred shivering souls, their shoes already soaked before the starting gun, eager to dart off into freezing rain and high winds on an empty stretch of Wisner Boulevard. But the story of the 2013 Jackson Day Race, much like the Battle of New Orleans almost two centuries ago, does not start at the Spanish Fort.

For myself, and countless runners, the day began in the French Quarter, where participants got their first taste of the conditions they would face along the route. While waiting for the buses to transport them to the starting line near the lakefront, nervous racers huddled together along Decatur Street, mulling over the task ahead of them. Some greeted the cold front with smiles that seemed either defiantly stubborn or blissfully ignorant, while others looked as if they were about to reenact a battle against the British with live ammunition. Whether running or fighting, I would probably have put money on them, if civilized society didn’t frown upon gambling on road races*. And with the arrival of two heated (!!!) school buses, the obstinate masses shuffled off to wage war on mother nature.

Any hopes that the rain would dissipate farther North were quickly dashed when we disembarked at the corner of Robert E. Lee and Wisner. The grounds surrounding the makeshift registration tents were an unnavigable bog, and most runners dashed between the start line and the small shelter fifty meters away to retain some semblance of warmth. The War of 1812 reenactors, clad in kilts and toting authentic-looking muskets, began to unfurl the New Orleans Track Club banner. Runners assembled at the line, hands over hearts, staring into the damp mist in order to catch a glimpse of the flag at the start line. It was hard not to feel a little patriotic. No, it was hard not to feel a lot patriotic.

If the runners and racewalkers were tentative at the firing of the gun, they hid it well. The start unfolded as all great cross country races do, with a brisk sprint for position. The front pack contained the usual suspects—Nick Accardo, Sean Allerton, Ian Carr, Richard Bouckaert—while the massive peloton of competitors jockeyed for running lanes behind them.

By the two-mile mark, atop the bridge overlooking Pan-American Stadium, the crowds had thinned, and runners began to focus on the arduous task of hunting, one-by-one, the competitors just ahead. Their gazes fixed upon the pairs of shoulders in front of them, they faced the assaults of wind and rain with shrugging acceptance.

There is a unique pain that can only be felt in frigid, damp races. It begins in the toes, and creeps back, and then upward, until it consumes you. The pounding of pavement numbs the soles, and so the pain is not obvious until it begins to metastasize into the ankles, the knees, the hips, the chest. It is a general lack of sensation, accompanied by a sense of unresponsiveness in the tendons and ligaments, and punctuated by occasional surges of lactic acid throughout the entire lower body. By the final stretch, these surges become heartening, as they remind the runner that he or she is still moving, still living. As the leaders trotted down Orleans Avenue, separated from one another by dozens of yards, they bore the telltale grimaces and pained strides of those who remembered vividly what it once was to be warm.

The rain reached its zenith as the elite competitors began their descent upon the Quarter. Allerton (29:39) was first to the tape, followed by Nick Accardo (30:20) and Ian Carr (30:25), with Zachary Albright and Richard Bouckaert rounding out the top five. The women were led by Michelle Hymel (34:58) , who garnered her first Jackson Day victory in impressive style. Behind her were Celeste Dolan (36:33), Mary Erin Imwalle (37:04), before Kristie Buddenbaum and Eva Lustigova battled for 4^th and 5^th places. Allerton’s victory in the 106^th Jackson Day race was his third in the event, ranking him among the most successful runners in its history. Despite the conditions, both winning would prove to be the fastest since 2011.

Some races are celebrations, and others are death marches. We watch the sport hoping to see achievement; to witness deeply personal victories, and to share in the joys of those who achieve them. On some mornings, these victories are simpler, if less resounding: we revel in the simplicity of endurance. As I watched wave after wave of runners make the final turn on to Chartres Street, and saw their relief upon catching that saccharine-sweet glimpse of the finish line, I suddenly had all the proof I needed that the spirit of the Jackson Day Race was alive and well. They fought, they endured, and then they marched home, dreaming of next year’s battle.

* How, in Louisiana, is this not a thing?

For more photos: Album 1 Album 2

Some of those in surprised attendance were that of Jasie “Pillz” Gautreaux who stomped preconceived stereotypes of being afraid of the dark.  Drewsus Haroo – the Athens(GA) Half-Marathon Champ, Jacob “Hydro Thunder” also aliased as THE TODD, Cesar Torres of local race directing celebrity-dom and his marketing assistant Lucia Leggio. Ralph “rolling-less” Aucoin, Bachelor Party, Cat-Man, and Timmay the progeny sage of the “GodDaughter’s Father.”

“In the battle of blustery vs. determination, determination won in today’s run” -The Don

In the battle of course vs. doubling weekly mileage in a single run, doubling weekly mileage reined champion. (A frail and freezing, yet ever enthusiastic Cesar Torres, of the trail realm).

Join us for Run Group # 278.  The Run group where all ages and abilities are welcome!

As the sun came up runners began to show,  from the hometown heros in the Truxillo Clan, to Boston, Massachusetts, and everywhere in between.  The race went on and runners did individual battle with hills, mud, and the great Franklington water spill of 2012.  In some cases the park would fight back and send runners slipping for balance such as Dalton Fetters, who would luckily catch himself with his face – prompting the associated run wounds and bragging rights of a hardcore nature.

In the race for the Q50 title, it would be Nick Accardo in the men’s race who would  win the turf war over Mark of the Truxillos, and “Sister Kate” Accardo who would take the women’s.  Stay tuned for full results…

Recap in photos:

Nick Accardo, men’s 10 mile champ.

Mark Truxillo, second in the men’s 10 miler.

More Truxillos..

Kate Accardo, women’s 10 mile champ.

Dalton and his battle with the ground

 For more photos check out our facebook album from the race here.

For more on Q50 Races:

As the clock struck 6:29.99, the  runners departed and the great cookout of 2012 began yielding a feast of exotic dips, meat covered meat, fancy cheese paired with merlots in a box, and high living beer.

With the culmination of the run and the beginning of the feast, PC-XC did his part – assisting with tunes, serenading the orange-cladden in the latest and greatest from various up-to-decade cassette recordings.

The night was capped off with an awards ceremony recognizing the best of 2012.  Maryann Jordens garnished female run grouper of the year, while Ralph Aucoin, with a 98% popularity rating, took the title in the men’s field.  Chris Zetzmann received “best signature of 2012″ for his “roll” in the book of tabulatures.  Mike Ricca and Alana Rovira were socked with quickest hands, and Megan Gohres flipped out as she vanquished her foes on the LRC hill.

Thanks to all who came out last night. ..and especially mallow-man for his smore-ful provisions in the late-night campfire de driveway.

If we don’t see you all before, have a Merry Christmas!!

The
LRC

More Photos from #273Full LRC Run Group Info

I have this overarching theory of the Beer Mile: no one actually wins, but some lose slower than others. And there exists no greater testing ground for this hypothesis than a ramshackle, off-the-beaten-path dirt track in Metairie, where only the elephantine minivans of soccer moms dare venture. Make no mistake—this is the Madison Square Garden, nay, the Roman Coliseum of the Beer Mile. The 7th fastest time in the recorded history of the event was run here, by a man whose feats of intestinal fortitude are still uttered with adoration by the assembled, beverage-consuming masses.

For the uninitiated, a brief summary of the Beer Mile is in order. There are rules. Participants must provide four (4) beers, in cans, with alcohol-by-volume contents equal to—or exceeding—5.0. A beer is consumed prior to each lap of the mile. Those who vomit are forced to endure a penalty lap, but are spared the draconian torture of an extra beer prior to running it. Odds are, dear reader, you will boot, and you will probably do so multiple times. I truly loved writing that last sentence.

Andy Barton

While distance running is an instinctive habit of the human species, the Beer Mile is a refutation of all the self-preservation tactics that have been hardwired into us over centuries of evolution. The pain is profound, acute, and progressive. Your first will be quick and painless, a brief surge of adrenaline and alcohol followed by a slightly subpar 400 meter dash. By your fourth and final beverage, you will be a bloated stomach with arms and legs, a mere host for the unholy mass of booze fizzing and whirling within you. My first beer was down within fifteen seconds. My fourth took roughly two minutes.

What ends in ignominy begins in innocence. We arrived at Pontiff Track at approximately 6:45, 45 minutes after the stated even time, and 45 minutes before the actual commencement of proceedings. I was armed with a biking cap, a NOTC jersey, and six lukewarm NOLA Blondes (or, if you prefer, 72 ounces of concentrated evil hiding in my backpack). The track was teeming with seasoned alcoholics; about 50 people were lined up, chatting with one another, drinking their preemptive, yeast-based aperitifs. At this point, I made a fateful decision. I opened my bag, grabbed a beer, and followed suit. One would presume that a pre-Beer Mile beer unnecessarily bloats the athlete, using up valuable stomach space and digestive faculties prior to the main event. This, in my experience, was not the case—the detriment was more mental than physical. You see, I, like most freedom-loving Americans, don’t much care for warm beer. A good English stout at room temperature is probably fine, but we don’t generally have access to that, and a warm Budweiser is quite simply a poor substitute. And in order to keep one’s throat from constricting during the event, the beer must be kept warm. My distaste for non-cold alcoholic libations aside, the hops of the Blonde are more pronounced when experienced in a beer above 50 degrees. Again, that’s all well and fine, until you have to chug it like a 15-year old at your cousin’s wedding reception*. At this point, I knew I would be in for an uphill battle. An uphill battle against heavy artillery wielding a shovel.

I signed up for the second-to-slowest heat, estimating that it would take me between ten to twelve minutes to complete the event. As it turns out, this would be my most astute calculation of the evening, and would also ensure that I would have my ass handed to me by five people who totally effing low-balled their times.

The first heat (>12:00) commenced, and I watched other Beer Mile debutantes in horror. I saw things I cannot unsee, and the sounds of liquid hitting cinders will haunt my dreams in perpetuity. No one won. Humanity was lost. My heat was next.

As I stepped to the track, I felt a familiar emotion: the urge to begin. To hear the proverbial firing of the gun, and to be released from the horrible, grating panic of the run-up. The first beer went down with ease, and the following lap—slow though it was—gave me cause for optimism. Maybe I would just throw in an extra mile on top of the first? Oh, the hubris.

By the third beer, an interesting set of phenomena besets the Beer Miler. Your body has only just begun to process the alcohol of the drinks you have so wantonly consumed, and you begin to feel a slight buzz. Physically, you are in something akin to trauma. You feel alcohol everywhere: in your mouth, your throat, your stomach, your sweat. You want to drop to the track, assume the fetal position, and wait for sunrise. You burp your merry way around the track, and tuck in to your final, most untriumphant beer. By the time you finish, you cannot feel feelings any longer, only the pulsing gyrations of your beer baby.**

Suffice it to say, then, that I watched the expert Beer Milers in a state of unabashed awe. Witnessing a man run a decent quarter, and then polish off a beer within ten seconds is an experience without parallel. Watching him do it repeatedly? I’ll leave the superlatives to you. The winner, whose name I will omit for obvious reasons, clocked in just above seven minutes. He is a hero, a figure of renown whose deeds should be commemorated with a statue at Pontiff Track***. His colleagues followed swiftly behind him, and this horrid masochistic ritual finally reached its denouement. Miraculously, there were no deaths.

At some point, the lights above the track cut out, and a disgruntled security guard arrived on a four-wheeler to inform us that our presence was no longer desired on the premises. I looked in the distance, and saw the distinct glint of pitchforks illuminated by torchlight. The 2012 New Orleans Holiday Beer Mile had drawn to a close. Nobody won, but the losses were glorious.

*You didn’t do that? Really?

** Note for this paragraph – ‘Your’: ‘My’; ‘You’: ‘Me’
***Looking at you, Metairie.

Casualties of War

James Street – The Champ

Unofficial Official Results

Story in photos:

Women’s Mile 1 Megan Gohres 5:26 2 Kate Accardo 5:29 3 Angela Broad 5:44 4 Eva Lustigova 5:51 5 Caroline Smith 5:55

Men’s 5K 1 Joshua Sawe 16:25 2 Ian Carr 16:35 3 Ryan San Juan 18:29 4 Byron Adams 18:29 5 Robert Stevens, Jr. 18:47

Women’s 5K 1 Kate Accardo 19:33 2 Caroline Smith 20:32 3 Verifying results 4 Paige Callahan 22:01 5 Mikayla Sonneborn 22:01

Men’s 1 Mile Results
Women’s 1 Mile Results
Men’s 5K Results
Women’s 5K Results
Team Awards
Race Photos

The Elvis scooter brigade.

LRC’s Mike Fulton on trumpet

Kate Accardo & Megan Gohres sweeping the 5K/Mile!

This Guy

Women’s winners

Men’s winners