Oh, Caaaaarleton, our alma maaaaaaaaaaater, we haaaail the maize and bluuuuue... (Image from http://www.carleton.edu).
ON LOCATION! — In Minnesota/Iowa this week!
WEATHER: Big, hot sky. No clouds. No shade. The usual Iowa-in-summer.
MILES THIS WEEK: 16
WHERE TO: Heaven (which is to say, “Northfield, Minnesota“), then home, which is arguably even better.
My dear readers, I apologize for being remiss in posting. It’s been a week full of travel and incoherentness, and as a result — a week of very little running. I began writing this post from the library on my college campus, as I took a break from my 5-year college reunion festivities. Rest was a necessity, given the exhaustion I had from partaking in three truly taxing activities:
2) Giving the “here’s-what-I-do-now-and-what-about-YOU?” speech
3) Raucous laughter.
…the raucous laughter being the result of the cadre of women with whom I associated in college, all of whom miraculously stopped their world-domination plans to come back to school for 4 days. Hanging-out-time with these women is truly exhausting because of the competitive nature of our conversations, in which we all try to (a) out-loud and (b) out-dirty each other. As I sat in the library drafting this post, in fact, The Bear began G-chatting me. She sent the following messages:
And while this does not capture the full depth of the filthy discourse in which we ladies generally partake, it at least gives you a measure of the maturity level.
And as it turned out, running became a prominent part of the weekend after all, and not just because of my midday detox jogs through town. No, I might add that one highlight of the 2010 Carleton College Reunion was the Class of 1985’s Saturday-night dance party getting streaked. I have absolutely no idea what kind of beautiful, ballsy, uninhibited pervs would do such a thing, but when I find out, I will by all means let you know.
Anyway, the whole thing required a lengthy Sunday-night sleep as well as a lengthy Monday-morning running-and-stomach-discomfort-fest to get out of the system. And yet I am pretty sure that I am still slightly sore from dancing and laughing so hard, which I think we can agree is the mark of a weekend well-spent.
Today I am back in Iowa, and my jog this morning was full of the hallmarks of an Iowa run: no shade or clouds, for one, and a pervasive hot-ness that is sort of surprising. Which is generally bad, but it intensifies the also-pervasive smell of soil, which if you don’t understand, you just won’t understand (if you understand…). But there are new aspect this time around as well…for instance, a nearby road construction project has increased the traffic on my family’s road from 1 car per day (usually ours) to a veritable gridlock of 7 or 8 per day…all of whom drove by me as I shirtlessly tromped down the gravel road. All also seemed to be filled to the brim with small screaming children, who either gave me the thumbs-up or a laughing fit as they kicked up gravel all over my sweaty body. Fortunately, as I wiped the sweat-and-dust-paste from my body, I had a few new wind-turbine colonies in the distance to contemplate.
More disturbingly, however, I was not greeted by a snuffling, hyper pack of swine as I ran up onto the yard. This is because my father is perpetually fidgeting over the decision of whether or not to continue raising animals. I’m not sure what he thinks he will do with his time, but my guess is taht he will move a few buildings. Since all his daughters have left home, the man has taken to rearranging buildings the way that the rest of us rearrange furniture. Except, of course, massive forklifts, bulldozers, tractor trailers, and cement mixers generally don’t come into play when I’m moving an ottoman. My dad, on the other hand, gets to hang out with a large group of men and go “BRRRRRMMMMMMM” while they slide a garage from the south side of the house to the southWEST side.
The point of this story is that every time I come home I get a pretty good idea of where I get my sort of obsessive squirrelliness. So when Dad asks, “How can you run so much?” I can generally answer “How can you buy 75 pigs on a whim and then move the machine shed 20 feet?” And he will say, “Ah, touche.” Or, more realistically, “Aaaagh, don’t be a smartass.”
Furthermore, Mom eats peanut butter with a spoon (and also a healthy sense of gusto). Another “where-is-that-from” question solved.
That’s all I got.