Posts Tagged ‘S.’

The Boyfriend Analogy


Clever.

WEATHER: 20 degrees and sunny.

MILES: 16

MILES THIS WEEK: 16

MILES THIS MONTH: 73.5

WHERE TO: From Iwo Jima Memorial, across Key Bridge, over to the Rock Creek Park trail, and up through the park until our watches said it had been a bit over an hour.  And then back to Iwo Jima.

MOOD: Cold

ADDITIONAL NOTES:

Long run with S. today, up Rock Creek Parkway and back.  I had been considering a large bowl of oatmeal for brunch, with maybe a bowl of fruit on the side.  So naturally we went to Ray’s Hell Burger.  Having been eating quasi-vegetarian-ly for a while, and having not eaten red meat in at least 4 months, I was unsure.  Until I had a few bites, followed by a full-on mouthgasm, and had to lie down.

One topic on which S. and I talked today is the challenge of not showing off as a marathoner.  It’s a tough line to walk.  One tries not to bring it up, but then again — well, OK.  It takes up a lot of time.  It’s a daily companion.  It’s like a boyfriend.  So.  Imagine going through your life without telling anyone about your significant other because every time you did, you felt as if you were saying, “Ooh!  Look at me!  I’m dating So-and-so!  Lalala!”

But then someone at, say, happy hour brings up running and you just can’t help but get excited — “Oh, really?  Where do you run?  What races have you done?  ISN’TRUNNINGAMAZING??!?!!!?” you say, with a sort of creepy and disarming enthusiasm at having FOUND A KINDRED SPIRIT!  Maybe he’ll talk chafing with you!

But oh, now you’ve done it.  Because after rattling off all his achievements, large and small, then Mr. Happy Hour says,

“What races have you done?”

Now here you have a problem.  Do you say, “Oh, just a few here and there…” and hope Happy Hour leaves it there?  Or do you go for honesty?

Well, let’s assume you’re honest.

“Oh, I’ve done a few marathons.”  (Which, using my analogy, is the equivalent of saying, “Not only do I have a boyfriend, he’s HOT.  And LITERATE.”)

“Oh, which ones?”

“Twin Cities, Marine Corps, Grandma’s…” (“…and he’s employed…”)

“Neat!”

“Boston…” (“…employed as a BRAIN SURGEON…”)

See, now Happy Hour is not so sure he’s happy he walked into this situation, but you’ve both gone down a path you can’t get off of, because once you tell someone you’ve run Boston, they HAVE to ask, “Ummm…how fast do you run?”

And so you respond by sort of muttering your qualifying time. (“Did I say ‘brain surgeon’?  Because I meant ‘brain surgeon AND a model AND an Italian chef AND the DC Fire Department’s resident HOTTIE…'”)

Happy Hour cocks his head, now clearly thinking you’re such a tool for having told him about your mad running skillz (boyfriend), and now he feels inadequate, and, to be honest, you feel kind of dirty, too, but someone is asking about your BOYFRIEND, for Chrissakes, and what are you supposed to do, just sort of shrug and say, “Meh, he’s OK”???  NO!  What did we learn in Girl Scouts?  HONESTY, kids!

“And how many have you run?”

And then you tell him your number.  (“Also, my boyfriend farts rainbows and knows where SEVEN HIDDEN G-SPOTS ARE.”)

Happy Hour, unable to take it, punches you in the face.  You slump to the floor, rubbing your jaw, a little stunned, but generally thinking, “Meh.  I probably deserved that.”

————-

I think we can all learn a valuable lesson from this little parable: lie.  LIE. The next time someone asks me if I’m a runner, I’m going to go in the complete opposite direction.

“Ummm…I don’t have legs…”

I think this will work well.

Everybody’s Got a Complex…


WEATHER: 29 degrees F, flippin’ windy.

MILES: 15ish

MILES THIS WEEK: 15

MILES THIS MONTH: 15

MILES THIS YEAR: 15

MOOD: Pleased.

TYPE OF RUN: Long run with S., including a pissing contest with fellow towpath occupants the last 2-3 miles.

ADDITIONAL NOTES:

Today’s run at first promised to be rough.  Standing by the Iwo Jima memorial at 9:30 this morning, feeling the negative-50-bazillion-degree wind cutting through my 3 shirts and extra-thick tights, waiting for S. to show up and swearing to beat him senseless with anything at my disposal (namely, my SmartTrip card, $20, and a mocha-flavored energy gel) if he were again late, I felt sluggish, tired, kind of chunky, irritated, and hungry.  This is a sensation that sports doctors refer to as “feeling like ASS.”

S. and I met at Boston last year, the night before the race, at a pasta restaurant where we were both carbo-loading.  As he was alone, my friend Sarah and I invited him to eat with us.  And thus we became running partners.  Since then we’ve done long runs together, on and off, all 10-ish (give or take) of them enjoyable.  Though I realized today that perhaps he doesn’t quite “get” my unique(ly lame) sense of humor.  This became apparent at the start of our run, as we crossed the Key Bridge and the 40-mph gusts of wind repeatedly bonked me into him whenever I broke concentration.

“THE WIND IS FROM THE NORTHWEST, I THINK!” he yells, pointing forward and to the left.

“REALLY?  HOW CAN YOU TELL?” I scream.

He turns to me, a thin strand of spit frozen to the left side of his face, a perplexed look in his eyes.

“…BECAUSE IT’S HITTING THE LEFT SIDE OF MY FACE!”

Ah.  He didn’t get the subtleties of my joke.

You have much to learn, S.

One of S.’s unique features is that he runs his training runs at my pace — a minute per mile slower than his — insisting all the while that I’m going faster than he can go…and then he gets to a starting line and turns into a freaking Kenyan.  So for the first half of today’s run I was half-stepping ahead of him most of the time.

Then, at mile 9 or so, three 30ish guys in tights, shorts, running gloves, non-cotton race shirts — fellow runner-runners — passed by us at a water fountain stop.  The rest of our run was done at blazing speed.

“…are you trying to catch those dudes?” I asked him.

“…uh…yeah,” he said sheepishly, nevertheless ratcheting the pace up another notch.

And as my lungs bled and my ass muscles tore, I formulated a theory about runners — every single one has a sort of complex.

“WE’RE FASTER THAN THEM!” screamed S.

“No…you…are,” I heaved.

“WE BOTH ARE!  WE HAVE A TAILWIND!”

“Dude.  So do they.”

“GOOD POINT!” he said, with a Doppler effect as he sprinted away.

S. later admitted that he refuses to let people he KNOWS are slower to pass him…though I still fail to see how he thinks he “knows” who is slower or faster than him (0r me).  Anyhow.  This seems to be a guy thing, a sort of runner’s equivalent of territory-marking.  Many a morning run through Georgetown has been made more interesting by some 40-something dude  deciding to hound this young chick who ran past him.  It’s kind of fun to toy with these people…to slow down and let them surge past, then to flat-tire them for a full half mile, muttering filthy things about their mothers, and capping it all off by blowing a gnarly wad of spit and mucous on them as I blow past.

Haha.  Just kidding.  Though what I usually do is let them push by me, wait for a hill, then sprint past, up the hill, for effect.  Particularly persistent old suckers might need a few lessons, of course, tailing me, surging ahead, and dropping back several times.

“Listen, Male-Pattern-Baldness.  I’m not going to tell you again,” say my bodacious gams, awash in spandex, as I recede into the distance.  “THIS IS MY HOUSE!”, I consider screaming.  Though it’s not.  I live in Howard U. territory.  So come on up to the ‘hood and try it again, you WASPy S.O.B.

Sucker.

Anyway, I don’t mean to imply that S. is of this level of toolishness (and definitely not of my level).  He just hates to be passed.  Likewise, I refuse to drag down a fellow runner.  If my training partner wants to go at a 5-minute-per-mile pace, then by God I’ll hold that pace as long as I can (roughly 8 seconds).

Regardless, the run was what I needed to shake off my egg-nog-induced post-Christmas I-can’t-run-anymore funk.  The day was rounded out by delicious brunchy goodness with S. and then an afternoon with my friend, Haley, who helped me lose my Costco virginity.  110 servings of oatmeal?  A half-gallon of salsa?  A bale of cotton-balls?  Don’t mind if I do…

On to thesis work!  <face-keyboard>

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