Asphalt Is Still My Bitch
Two months to the day. That must be a sitewide record.
Yes, I again ran until I hurt, this time in the hilly hills of midtown Nashville, Tennessee. There, under weather conditions that were frankly too warm, I pounded pavement from Centennial Park to LP Field, home of the Tennessee Titans. I finished nearly six full minutes off my Little Rock time, and I'm happy enough with that. Nashville's course is harder (at least in the first half — I have yet to tackle the endless hill of Little Rock's second half) due to the hills and the heat, and but for the last two miles, I felt like a million bucks the whole way.
I also managed to finish precisely fifteen minutes behind NFL running back Eddie George, a feat that gives me no small amount of pride (and therefore one that I cannot refrain from telling people about). George goes on in that article to describe running a half marathon as "really difficult," even harder than playing an NFL game, and decided to be a big girl and not go for the full marathon next year. I am going for the full next year, therefore I could kick Eddie George's ass. Q.E.D.
And yes, the ladies (and gents) turned out to look at my ass (that should jump down to "Impersonation of a Tool" -- hit refresh if it doesn't). Whoever wrote that clearly spends too long thinking about the furry glory of my posterior, not that I can blame him/her. But on the subject of butts, I will say that finding an attractive one in front of you to focus on is a good way to take your mind off the pain at mile ten. Here is what I look like when I do that:
I was roundly mocked the next day when my calves locked up and I stomped around stiff-legged like the bastard son of Boris Karloff and Forrest Gump. It was worth it, though, if for no other reason than that it made my pregnant wife shut her whining up and pamper me for a couple of days, in accordance with God's Holy Plan. I also saw fellow sufferers around town, using an identification scheme I call And You Shall Know Us by the Severity of Our Limping. I found it encouraging, as if I'd joined a secret society. We should have handshakes and stuff.
Now I'm pretty well recovered and easing back into my mileage, and I hope to be back up to fifteen or twenty miles a week before too terribly long. I have a second finisher's medal and now begin the long and arduous climb up to 26.2. I'm tentatively planning to make it by Memphis in December, but if not, there's always Little Rock next year. I won't feel like a man until I conquer that goddamn hill.
Yes, I again ran until I hurt, this time in the hilly hills of midtown Nashville, Tennessee. There, under weather conditions that were frankly too warm, I pounded pavement from Centennial Park to LP Field, home of the Tennessee Titans. I finished nearly six full minutes off my Little Rock time, and I'm happy enough with that. Nashville's course is harder (at least in the first half — I have yet to tackle the endless hill of Little Rock's second half) due to the hills and the heat, and but for the last two miles, I felt like a million bucks the whole way.
I also managed to finish precisely fifteen minutes behind NFL running back Eddie George, a feat that gives me no small amount of pride (and therefore one that I cannot refrain from telling people about). George goes on in that article to describe running a half marathon as "really difficult," even harder than playing an NFL game, and decided to be a big girl and not go for the full marathon next year. I am going for the full next year, therefore I could kick Eddie George's ass. Q.E.D.
And yes, the ladies (and gents) turned out to look at my ass (that should jump down to "Impersonation of a Tool" -- hit refresh if it doesn't). Whoever wrote that clearly spends too long thinking about the furry glory of my posterior, not that I can blame him/her. But on the subject of butts, I will say that finding an attractive one in front of you to focus on is a good way to take your mind off the pain at mile ten. Here is what I look like when I do that:
I was roundly mocked the next day when my calves locked up and I stomped around stiff-legged like the bastard son of Boris Karloff and Forrest Gump. It was worth it, though, if for no other reason than that it made my pregnant wife shut her whining up and pamper me for a couple of days, in accordance with God's Holy Plan. I also saw fellow sufferers around town, using an identification scheme I call And You Shall Know Us by the Severity of Our Limping. I found it encouraging, as if I'd joined a secret society. We should have handshakes and stuff.
Now I'm pretty well recovered and easing back into my mileage, and I hope to be back up to fifteen or twenty miles a week before too terribly long. I have a second finisher's medal and now begin the long and arduous climb up to 26.2. I'm tentatively planning to make it by Memphis in December, but if not, there's always Little Rock next year. I won't feel like a man until I conquer that goddamn hill.
posted by middleclasstool at 8:34 AM
4 Comments:
¿ WHOO AM BIZARRO TOOL
Hmm. A bizarro world tool. I wonder what that would mean.
I mean in Bizarro world, Superman is evil. Bizarro world is the oppositve of everything in this world, right?
What would the characteristics, nefarious and otherwise, of the Bizarro world tool be?
Who indeed?
Super-organized, memory like a steel trap, morbidly obese, and married to a mean, ugly bitch.
You forgot the small penis, the non-retreating hairline, the lack of a totally sweet murse, and possession of the awesomest super powers ever.
Come to think of it, fuck that other stuff. I'll even take morbid obesity if it comes with the super powers.
(I also like that, other than my weight, she picked the negative stuff to comment on. That's my wife, folks, supportive as a threadbare pair of crotchless boxer shorts.)
Post a Comment
<< Home