A Turkey(less) Trot at Coney Island

A month after our triumphs at the Bay Ridge 5K, we took the long train ride out to Coney Island to try our luck on the boardwalk for the 6^th Annual Turkey Trot 5K (the entry fee to which benefited no charity or benevolent cause.) Though closed for the season, Coney Island still offered surf, sand, and Nathan’s Famous Hot Dogs. And, of course, the opportunity to punish ourselves for three miles along a windy wooden walkway populated by curious and obstructive onlookers. 

Picking up our number bibs and hoodies (featuring a jogging turkey!), we noticed that even though about ten times as many runners were here than in Bay Ridge, two of them had run with us before. New York’s a small town, especially in the road race circuit. Registration secured, I stretched and Tim prepped his equipment, while Mandy picked up a shell from the beach (as well as a shoe-ful of sand.)

Tim tightens his laces to prevent a "Schettler boner" *

 
Suddenly, our friend Helly appeared—then promptly ran off in search of an ATM for her registration fee. She returned just in time for the start. (Was she now part hummingbird, or had she chugged an energy drink?)



This race brought to you by Monster Energy!



Apparently, I felt like I had myself a can or two, and sprinted out of the start with the leader of the field. What the hell did I think I was doing? Let’s just say the return leg of the out-and-back trek to the end of the boardwalk at Brighton Beach was not as pleasant as the first. Being a “turkey trot,” the prize for finishing in the top three men and women finishers was, of course, a frozen turkey—and I had even half-seriously joked about getting my hands on a bird. Unfortunately, I finished just outside the turkey … or so I thought. But Helly, Tim, and Mandy finished well—and, dare I say, even enjoyed themselves.

Amongst the finish-hoopla, several large submarine sandwiches appeared in an adjacent pavilion. We had neglected to join the hungry masses until just the last few slices remained.

What, no sandwich?

We lingered on the boardwalk admiring the scenery and the last finishers, while noshing and taking stock of our morning: Sweatshirt—check. 5K run—check. Sandwich—check (kinda). Beer? We were promised post-race beer, and just as we almost called it a day, Helly noticed a keg roll in.

So, at least we could rehydrate with a fine “triple-hopped” brew.

 
And just as our runner’s high turned tipsy, Mandy dashed off to the beach.

Mandy and the Atlantic

As suddenly as this occurred, there appeared—in lieu of another big sandwich—a gigantic loaf of bread.

 
Evidently, I have no qualms when it comes to devouring free, post-race sustenance (unless it’s Muscle Milk.)

Helly and I proudly display our post-race carbs

Then things got surreal.

I merely handed my hunk of bread to Tim, and ran off to the restroom (the second-scariest public bathroom in the city—the first being the facilities in the Coney Island subway station.) When I returned, I realized I had missed an incredibly dramatic ordeal aka. a shit-show. The organizers waited until nearly everyone (including me) had left to announce the winners of the six turkeys. Apparently, my name was called as the third place finisher. I was not present to dispute this fact, but my family (though perplexed by my disappearance) rose to the occasion. Tim attempted to claim the turkey on my behalf (“It was in my hand!” he would later exclaim.) But the organizers refused to hand off the bird to an apparent “stranger,” so they awarded it to the next placed finisher, who just so happened to be salivating nearby. Moments later I jogged up to my distraught and fuming aunt and uncle, who filled me in on the details of the denial. And even though I didn’t deserve a turkey, Mandy—riled up by such an injustice—got me an apology from the organizers.

As we strode away from the boardwalk, the stage of a drama as good as any I could write, Tim summed up the experience: “I hate people; I hate races.” Out of context, this could be considered an incredible offensive and xenophobic slur from some curmudgeonly misanthrope. But Tim is not a bigot; instead, he rightly observed that maybe we had all gone a race too far.  

*"Schettler boner" (n.): to inadvertantly lose one's shoe at the beginning of a race.