Having A Bad Running Day? You Are Not Alone. My Experience Of Running In Las Vegas By Night.
I was in Las Vegas for a week in mid-November and spent most of the holiday either in the casinos or on the balcony of my hotel resort.
I had no interest in running. This was strictly downtime, at least that was the idea until the penultimate evening of the trip when I thought it’d be a swell idea to down $7 pitchers of Coors light in Bill’s Gambling Hall & Saloon like a mad man.
After much beer, I left the casino and hailed a taxi to Fremont Street. The taxi driver was pleasant enough until it came to paying him.
I grasped into my pockets in terror and found I only had $12, which was barely enough to pay for my fare.
The cabbie, by now furious at the sweating drunken paddy fumbling for change in his pockets, told me to ‘just get out of the fucking car.’ after I handed over the money without a tip.
Anyway I knew I was fucked.
Why? Well Fremont Street and the Vegas Strip is separated by around 3 miles of gangland. I had no money for a taxi back. My hotel was at the far end of the strip down by Hooters and the Luxor.
‘Fucking fuckity oh fucking fuck’ thought I.
Now I’ve never been a quick runner, but the thought of having my ass capped on a cold November evening in Vegas drove me forward.
Quite fucking quickly.
I ran past the Stratosphere and did not entertain a thought of fucking stopping. I accelerated even though my feet were killing me in Converse shoes.
I did not have my Garmin with me but I’m pretty sure I must have been running 8 minute miles until I reached Ceasar’s Palace.
The strain on my body was too much. I vomited Coor’s Light, pretzels and panic profusely all over the pavement.
No-one seemed to notice. Just a normal night in Vegas.
I continued jogging until I got to the hotel, relieved that I’d got through the experience alive, but annoyed that I didn’t get to spend any time in Fremont Street.