The End Is Near(er)

It's coming. Grab some beers and pickles and girly mags and get into the cellar.

WEATHER: Cold and windy and rainy and a little demoralizing.

MILES: 25?  Many of which involved stomach-clutching awfulness.

MILES THIS WEEK: 25?  Many of which involved stomach-clutching awfulness.

WHERE TO: Crescent Trail, Bethesda, Wisc Ave., back to the trailhead, down the Mall, several detours to several (CLOSED!  YOU BASTARDS!) restrooms, home.

MOOD: Foul.

TODAY’S RUNNING SONG: (Yes, I hate the video as much as you do, but the song puts me in coke-addled 2-minute-mile territory, I swear.)


So I’ve been in a foul mood (and not posting) for a while, largely because of a nasty bout with what I imagine to be tendinitis in my right foot/Achilles tendon.  And as loyal readers know, injuries — even minor ones — turn me into a drooling hellbitch who goes on Netflix-and-enchilada benders.  Granted, I can still run on it, but not without a bit of pain.  Hmph.  Today I found myself actually asking myself:

Whose pants are these in my apartment?

Jury’s still out on that.  Will keep you posted.

But then I also asked: “How long do I keep this up?”

The ultramarathon-ing, yes, but also the writing about it.  Though this blog has most certainly launched me into the stratosphere of running blogdom (<cough> I get 30 hits per year), where sponsors supply me with endless Gu packets, loose men, and flattering apparel (<cough> a salesman at Pacers once let me keep a dirty pair of “trying-shoes-on” socks, and even then only if I agreed to stop the creepy-hitting-on-him thing I was doing, which involved scootching forward on the shoe-trying-on bench and waving my newly shod foot in his direction and saying, “Would you want to lace me up?” in a voice that I imagined to be sexy but that I know understand to have mostly sounded phlegm-y), and where people turn to me for real solutions for real problems (“No, seriously.  Could you stop leering at our clerks?  Sincerely, Pacers.”).

So anyway, I’ve been slacking lately.  Partially because of injury, but partially because my GOD, you people.  I’m not a machine.  All of which brings me to my next point:

Like all good things, even this blog must come to an end.  So come the JFK 50 Miler, I think it will be time to shut ‘er down.  Which gives me about a month and a half to crank out PURE GOLD and blog about all those things I have thus far avoided:

  • Exactly what I think of all you people.
  • What I still don’t understand about how guys and all their <cough> equipment run together (I may have to seek outside assistance for this one) (Wait, no.  I think it will be funnier if I just sort of guess how it all…uh…happens.).
  • The problem of equitable distribution of wealth, and how it is an impossible, utopian dream.  How much boob-chafing really hurts.
  • An honest-to-God, not-tap-dancing-around-it discussion of GI problems and how clearly they signify that God hates all runners.
  • OK, guys, seriously — are there, like, harnesses and pulleys and pre-wrap and duct tape involved?
  • And given all that extra <cough> baggage on dudes, WHY aren’t women bitch-slapping men clean out of the water in every race ever?
  • Body image issues (Subtitle: “Would you say my legs look ‘phenomenal’ or ‘life-changing’?”)

Do YOU have ideas?  I am not surprised.

Let the glorious countdown begin!


One response to this post.

  1. Posted by AKL on October 3, 2011 at 9:08 pm

    On nooo! I’ll miss the blog!


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