My friend S’z likes to run.
I do, too.
To the bathroom.
To the bar.
Home after work.
So I consider myself “a runner”.
S’z asked me if I ever ran a marathon before.
S’z: Kids, have you ever run a marathon before? You should.
Kids..: well, sort of….I ran to the bathroom once because I had a Hulk-sized case of the mud butts and I was in there for like, 45mins….that was a marathon for me, does that count?
(S’z rolls her eyes, walks away)
Turns out it doesn’t.
But she loves it, so much so she has an entire blog about running (you can check out the blog here) that she updates fairly regularly giving her best tips, insights and brags about running, though, if she has time to blog this much, I’m convinced she’s not running as often as she claims.
Anyway, all this talk about running made me think about the fact that I used to enjoy running. A lot.
I think, as a matter of fact, that most of us did when we were younger.
As a matter of fact, it dawned on me that you can trace your life as it revolves around the hobby of racing and running. Just look:
- 0 months-3yrs: only get runs in your diaper, bed, and Osh Kosh suspenders.
- 4yrs-8yrs: actually starts running. This is accomplished through a series of spontaneous races created by you and your friends. Time to go home? Race you to the house. Want to go play? Ok, race you to the playground once the flasher leaves.
- 8yrs-12yrs: racing usually consists of the Presidential Fitness test which is hilarious since none of the last 4-6 POTUS’s could out-push-up a paraplegic, and home to watch Saved By the Bell (“I’m so excited….I’m so excited….”–poor Jessie)
- 12yrs-18yrs: running–from cops. Longer if you’re black.
- 18yrs-25yrs: at this point you’re only racing in things like drinking beer cans first, Drunk Olympics, and
convincing the opposite sex to Smurf you before they’re sober. All longer if you’re a frat boy.
- 26yrs-Death: at some point along this timeline, the following such races happen: –you realize that your 18-25 racing has made you fat and undesirable and relatively unaccomplished, so you start jogging and doing marathons to feel better and get laid. –you’re married, which means you now race to the tune of “hurry up and get off me”, home first so you can get a few mins of peace and quiet, out the door before you’re asked to do a chore or something –a working stiff, you’re racing for the weekend, retirement or out before the company realizes you’ve been downloading porn 1/2 the time you’re employed there
I’m currently in the last bracket, racing to reclaim my more youthful days, and inevitably running towards the grave the entire time. Fun!
Anyway, running nowadays is just so laborious. I run, and when I do, I start strong, galloping like a schoolgirl before inevitably slowing to jogging like a big person who slowly comes up on their favorite candy store just as its closing. I try to run about 10-12 miles a week, and usually by day #2 of running, my run/jog slowly melds into one indistinct style of running that poorly combines the two and is therefore best called “rogging”. Once I start rogging, all the joy of running leaves my body.
I become bitter, resentful.
I go from digging my tunes on the iPod, to wanting to toss the fucking thing into the nearest hobo cup on the street.
I go from enjoying nodding and saying “hi” to the friendly, neighborly Philadelphians that I pass on the street, to
bitterly spitting out “Smurf you, and Smurf your whole Smurfing family you jive-walking, monkey-faced fatties”. One time rogging, instead of maneuvering around a woman walking towards me with her baby in a stroller, I stopped, picked up the baby, bit it on the arm and threw it into a hobo cup.
So needless to say, I’m hoping that Suzanne’s blog can help me with running.
“Help me, Suzie-Wan; you’re my only hope”.