No chickens were harmed in the making of this blog post.
(I wish I could say the same about your esteemed author.)
What was I thinking?
I paid thirty bucks for the privilege to get up at first light and then drive an hour, just to join a mob trying to catch a 170 pound chicken.
And what masochists insist in calling these self-inflicted maltreatments, “fun runs?”
But, there was a $100 bounty offered to the first runner who could catch the clucker.
Apparently, it has never been done, so I was starting to wonder if there was either a running ringer in there, or possibly it was some super-duper, steroid-strengthened freak fowl.
Given my propensity to start these runs slowly…and then taper off, I got way back by the “12+ min/mi” pace sign.
If I’ve done my math correctly, my one mile per hour pace is a 12+ min\mi pace—with emphasis on the “+”—right?
When it was all over but the shoutin’ (mostly me yelling that I hurt all over) the chicken, once again, eluded capture, so it was veggie burgers all around.
With a side of Advil, if you please.
Fun run, my ass. (Yeah, that hurt, too.)