Now I’ve drunk a lot of wine and I’m feeling fine
Got to race some cat to bed
Oh, is there concrete all around or is it in my head?

— mr. david bowie

—

Theories abound on the secret to training for a multiday race on a loop course. Running a bunch (only as a last resort, of course), sleep deprivation practice, sodium and carb intake, blister preparation, incantations for the inevitable Hello Kitty demon that lurks on the back turn in the wee hours.

Today, I accidentally discovered what may be The Greatest Training Tool in the History of Mankind and Possibly Prehistoric Times If They Had Ultras Back Then And I’m Guessing They Did If They Were Being Chased by T-Rex. Oh, that Marc Bolan. He had a scary stare that turned all the young dudes into juvenile delinquent wrecks. But that’s a different post altogether.

Without further ado, the secret is:

Eating two hot dogs minutes before beginning your run.

I am no stranger to the occasional frankfurter along the course, whether as part of a buffet or a Rocky Horror Picture Show matinee. You’re trudging around the course, the folks at the food table give you the sad eyes that say do you know how hard we worked to make these, and you dutifully accept the little foil-wrapped beast with the same obligatory enthusiasm as Christmas fruitcake. Except for Gumbo’s fruitcake, which I like a lot and was actually a staple of last year’s six-day.

Then, a few laps later, you remember why you never see Walmsley downing them.

They tend to wreak havoc with your digestive tract, a cruel reminder of the “Never Try Anything in The Race That You Didn’t Try in Training” rule.

Which brings us to today. Mo came home from the pottery studio and needed to eat something so she would not get crabby and kill me. Not wanting to die, I joined her. And then we had another hot dog, because the Paula Poundstone Pop-Tart Rule must never be questioned. Yes, running has a lot of rules.

The hot dogs were swell, in a hot dog sort of way. Relishing the moment, I leaned back in my chair for an afternoon siesta, content to rub my belly and watch Reddington kill people for the next few hours, until Mo announced:

“Let’s go run.”

I am scared of Mo and wasn’t at all sure if she was past her Crabby and Kill Me stage, so off we went.

Mo, me and two hot dogs contentedly settling into their gastric airbnb.

I could make up some dramatic tale of how badly things went — stomach churning, tiny-handed dinosaurs and big-headed kitty dolls doing fartleks through my system, elderly walkers on the indoor track doing the Time Warp again.

But in reality, it went just fine. Maybe the movie adaptation will be more exciting.

Four miles at 16-minute pace, fueled entirely by a pre-race delicacy that would make Brent LeRoy proud.

Another hour of air-conditioned contentment on the indoor track as the great outdoors remain hot enough to cook a hot dog on the sidewalk. Another example of specificity in training. Yes, All The Young Dudes is on my 24-hour playlist.

Hey. I might be on to something. Maybe tomorrow will be an outdoor run/cookout.

I wonder if you can toast a Pop-Tart on the sidewalk …