Each year in St. Paul there is a ritual called the St. Paul Winter Carnival. It goes back to ancient times when a reporter from New York who was visiting St. Paul in January complained that there was nothing to do. Deeply hurt, the folks of St. Paul have developed a long laundry list of things to do at precisely the coldest time of the year.
The symbolism of the event is that the forces of evil, the vulcans, are pitted against the forces of the spring, or warm weather, and at the climax of the festival that occurs on Saturday--last Saturday--- the Vulcans are defeated. For decades these vulcans used to be dressed up as little devils and rode on old fire trucks, with their lips greased up with a dark colored grease, and then leapt off the fire trucks and kissed the ladies that were shopping in Downtown St. Paul. This was a source of excitement for almost a hundred years till some ladies dressed in Ann Taylor attire and sipping latte in their Hondas were deeply offended by the greasy kisses and sued the city. But---I digress.
On Saturday, with the winds putting the temp below zero, I ran the "Securian Frozen 5k Race" which begins the climactic final Saturday of the St. Paul Winter Carnival. Click on the post for all the details. I was proudly wearing my Blue Devil cap that sells at Prairie Threads for a mere $10, and set off from the start finish line by a starter guy dressed as a polar bear. Anyway, the race is an out and back course along the river along Shephard Road. While the times are not available, let me say that I was running just behind a middle aged runner who was running with a very large dog, The final 1/4 mile of the race is coming back up hill to the finish at 6th and Robert where the race officials are warm above in the cozy skyway and announce the finishers over loud speakers.
As I approached the last 1/4 mile I made a valiant effort to pull even with the man-dog running team, but because it was uphill I began very labored breathing. I noticed that the dog was using a similar breathing technique. In fact, it was hard to tell my breathing sound from the dog's. Just as we hit the final tape, I pulled up to inch the victory.
My brother, who was manning the digital camera for historical preservation purposes, took the instant replay shot. Just then overhead, the loudspeakers blared, " Now representing The Evansville Observer of Evansville, Wisconsin, is Richard Woulfe." Then there was loud applause. Then a quick silence. The fans appeared confused as to exactly who was the Observer, whether it was in fact me, or the large heavy breathing dog.
I promise next year to wear a very distinctive t-shirt that proclaims The Evansville Observer. After all, I'm just not any old dog, I am The Evansville Observer.
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