I hate blogger. This is the third goddamn time I've written this post while the other two were mysteriously lost to some digital limbo, awaiting prayers along with a million other dead sinners. I'm starting to feel like the Mitch Hedbeg joke where he was trying to tell his friend something and his friend couldn't hear him. Finally Mitch hears himself yelling "That tree is far away." In other words, I have nothing terribly interesting to say but I'm spending a lot of freaking time and volume trying to say it.
OK. Purged. Take 3.
I made my sister shoot milk out her nose a couple weeks ago, which was particularly funny because it was the first time I'd seen her drink moo juice in about a decade. It's like I had been saving a really good anecdote until she decided "hey, I want some milk," and them BAMMO! I tell her I cracked the baseboard on my treadmill and she shot milk out the nostrils.
The parallel of her brother having a "fat accident" while trying to stay in shape a little bit sunk her battleship, I think. So I've been running outside for about two weeks. Usually I try not to run outside, as the elements have a way of really messing with you. If I've found out anything over my jogging career, now entering its third year, it's that your head is about 60 percent of it. If you can convince your head you're not in pain or just simply distract your brain for long enough, you'll finish your run with a minimum of stoppage.
Outside, there's no distracting your head. The concrete is hard the wind is often cold and biting and when you're running against it, forget about jamming the signal from your brain screaming "You're Running Against The Wind." You have to sort of resign to it. On the treadmill (the one my fat ass broke), I was up to 3 and a half miles, no stoppage, every day with very few exceptions. The past few weeks I make it two miles and it's like slogging up Mount Doom. Every hill is a mountain, every pebble a boulder.
But that's not the worst of it. When I'm in my basement on the treadmill, I'm isolated and I take pains to try to isolate myself. Nobody sees me, which is fine. When I run around the lake two blocks from my house (7 times at a half-mile a pop), I have to lock eyes with an average of 15 people per run. I know it's an average of 15 people because I've averaged it. That's the sort of thing your head does when trying to jam the multitude of PAIN signals your brain throws at you ever half second.
You've got walkers and people fishing and those who are walking to get somewhere. Then you have the odd people just hanging out, waiting for something. They're creepy. Then you've got the people who watch you, usually kids. Today I had a kid crane his neck every time I came by and follow my with his head every time I passed him. I would have kicked his ass if my legs weren't made of strawberry Jell-O at that point.
But it's no fun because whether you want to admit it or not, you're being judged. Do you look like a jogger? Why are you walking if you came here to run? What's with the purple shirt? Why are you running in a circle? Are you trolling for gay sex or just unimaginative.
The answer is I'm desperately pining for my treadmill and my warm basement and Futurama on the TV as I run. I'm sick of duck poop and ducks, for that matter. I'm sick of fat kids and kids on bicycles who can't really ride them and crash the f*** into you. I want to run, by myself, in the dark if possible.
If you've listened to me bitch for this long, you deserve a treat. Go here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8NdSL2NUoWk
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