I don’t have mile by mile memories like I usually do. It’s all sort of one giant emotional dump.
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running
Maybe it was the polyester.
I've never understood this particular line of carnival barker and must say, the man about a half mile up the road who was holding a "John 3:16" sign and yelling in happy, non-confrontational tone, "God is good!" had a much better marketing plan.
Maybe I was cool at some point, who knows? But I've hit the "Irrationally upset that those people are late on their HOAs dues" phase. WE DON'T DO FREE RIDES HERE.
I contemplated kicking him in the Nathan Sack.
And even though I’m far from what many folks would consider a “good” runner, I’m a consistent one.
The drama was what happened not long after we finished our run, so it’s more of a classic tale of a white person having to insert herself into the narrative.
“You train for endurance,” he responded, “you don’t train for speed.”
Mile Three: A ginger held open the door to the porta-john for me. They do have souls.
My jog is someone's run and my run is someone's walk. And that's okay.
A band begins to play, "I walk along the avenue" as I down a water and side belch. I take another cup, swish, and spit as he sings, "I never met a girl like you..."
Never before had the ritual involved guilt.