My waist must be skinnier and my boobs must be pointier! POINTIER, I SAY!
MILES THIS WEEK: 25ish
WHERE TO: Nowhere.
TODAY’S RUNNING SONG: Bluegrass makes running better.
This ultra training thing is all a lot harder than I remember it being last year, and not just because my Achilles tendons have turned against me. Somewhere in the middle of my second long run of every weekend, I find myself questioning whether this is a hobby I truly enjoy…whether a benevolent and loving God truly exists…what my purpose in life is…all of which comes out in the form of water fountain rage, a phenomenon in which a tour bus full of thirsty tourists pulls up JUST AS I shuffle, dehydrated and nearly defeated, up to the Jefferson Memorial water fountain, and I run at the tourists, limbs flailing, threatening to slime them with my body’s generous coating of salt, sunblock, sweat, and dead gnats. “JFICIEU$I#(@UDHVJD!” they say, in their foreign languages, which I take to mean, “This woman truly should get to drink for 10 minutes as we watch, disgusted!” Which usually happens.
Drink up, Brownie. The Code Pink protesters are comin' and we wanna ogle us some bosoms.
WEATHER: Beautiful and warm.
MILES: Once again, 0, because apparently I only blog on days I don’t run.
MILES THIS WEEK: 13-14ish.
WHERE TO: The depths of Hell itself.
MOOD: <bangs head on table>
I apologize for the lag time between posts. We’re gonna get it right one of these days. This time, the excuse is that life vomited all over my shoes last week. I won’t go into details, so I’ll let you fill in the blanks (dead parakeet, I dumped one of my 9 hotties, dead wallaby, every student loan in the UNIVERSE (including those for which I did not sign up) came due, dead marmot, accidentally foffed (fart-coughed, DUHHH) during an important work meeting). So I had considered writing a post about how running can help you cope, how the cool air rushing about your limbs can help you shake off the malaise of even the most pitiful miserable existence as you jog up Massachusetts Ave. and clutch your hands to your chest and know that heartbreak is going to wash off your skin like oh shit no I can’t do it I’m trying to be serious but here it comes
Nope. Earnestness just isn’t gonna work. So today it’s once again time for:
KNOW YOUR WASHINGTON, DC WATER FOUNTAINS!
All hail the new blog overlords! (JK, you beautiful folks at TBD. You complete me.)
WEATHER: Flippin’ cold for DC — 17 degrees at running time.
MILES: 23 — first long run of 2011!
MILES THIS WEEK: Enough.
WHERE TO: Capital Crescent Trail, Rock Creek Park, hot shower.
Good news, sports fans! As part of my tireless effort to whore out your favorite blog, I have managed to get it occasionally picked up by Washington news website TBD.com. And while they don’t care about my constant blathering about my personal problems or persistent sexual innuendos, they do care about the posts in which I give you valuable and timely information about the DC running scene.
And wouldn’t you know it, I actually have a DC-based running thing to tell you about.
Water Fountain #1! I call this one "Enid."
WEATHER: Beautiful for a night run
MILES THIS WEEK: Bigger than a breadbox.
WHERE TO: Rock Creek Parkway, Van Ness, Tenleytown, Georgetown, etc.
MOOD: No longer sick! Blammo!
Tonight, I introduce to you all a new and exciting feature to assist you in your Washington, DC-and-surrounding-areas running endeavors:
KNOW YOUR WASHINGTON WATER FOUNTAINS
Sing it, sister.
WEATHER: Unseasonably warm!
MILES THIS WEEK: Shamefully few.
WHERE TO: Hangoverland.
MOOD: Much better than this morning.
Some people run to relieve stress. They are like the free and easy gazelles of the running world, prancing gaily across the savannah, leaving their cares and worries behind.
Some run for the privilege of eating every g.d. cheeseburger they please, thankyouverymuch. These are the Great Danes of the running world–the big strong capable-looking runners who look like they could probably beat your ass and then eat your entire head. But only after this next episode of Two-And-A-Half Men and some buffalo wings.
Some run once every few months, after they overindulge at Big Bruce’s Nacho Factory Sports Bar ‘n’ Grill and as a result feel “not-so-fresh.” These people are not really part of the running kingdom, but I guess we could classify them as tree sloths, as they only really get in gear when they see the MIGHTY HARPIE EAGLE swooping in for the ambush. “RAAAAAH!” screeches the eagle. “Huh?” says the sl- OH MY GOD DID YOU SEE THAT? GROSS!
One of the major duckface pioneers.
WEATHER: Meh. Dull and gray.
MILES THIS WEEK: 40? Maybe?
WHERE TO: Georgetown, to do ALL MY CHRISTMAS SHOPPING IN ONE GO. I FEEL ALIIIIIIVE.
MOOD: Consumerist and dirty.
So there I am, sitting at my desk at work, minding my own business, when suddenly on my screen there appears a gchat message from Mr. Cool himself. More specifically, it is a link.
“Tralala!” I said, clicking on the link in a happy-go-lucky, devil-may-care fashion as I took a much-needed respite from my day at work, sitting at my NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.
THE FEMALE BODY IS A BEAUTIFUL THING.
WEATHER: 45ish at running time, gradually warming to 53ish.
MILES THIS WEEK: Who even knows?
WHERE TO: Great Falls and back.
MOOD: Perhaps less embarrassed than I should be.
Today’s embarrassing-running-story is brought to you by…
- The Great Falls Visitor Center
- The C&O Towpath
- Target running shorts
- Stray tree branches
- The phrase, “Read to the end before you yell, ‘GROSS!’ and pledge to never read my blog again.”
- …because (as the title implies) IT’S NOT WHAT YOU THINK.
That is SO TRUE.
WEATHER: Gorgeous and autumnal, once again.
MILES THIS WEEK: 8.5
WHERE TO: Georgetown, around that general area, back.
My dear readers, I don’t ask you for much. I put up my posts and I hope you read them and derive some form of enjoyment. I occasionally nuzzle your neck at night when I’m feeling lonely. But now I ask you to sit there and nod understandingly as I explain to you that THE G.D. BOSTON MARATHON SOLD OUT IN ONE EFFING DAY AND EVEN THOUGH I DUTIFULLY LOGGED ON AT 9 A.M. THE SITE WAS DOWN AND BY THE TIME I GOT BACK ON THAT AFTERNOON IT WAS SOLD OUT, GODDAMMIT SO I WILL STOMP AROUND IN MY STRIPEY KNEE SOCKS AND YELL AND THROW MY BOWL OF FROZEN BROCCOLI AT THE WALL WHILE MY HOUSEMATES ROLL THEIR EYES AND WAIT FOR THE TANTRUM TO PASS HOLY FREAKING KNICKERBOCKERS WHY AM I YELLING.
So yeah. I'm promoting conspicuous consumption now. Deal with it.
WEATHER: A little hot, but really, conditions are perfect.
MILES THIS WEEK: 40
WHERE TO: Allllll over.
MOOD: The thrill of the mighty huntress.*
*…by which I mean I KILLED A MOUSE this morning. So yeah, this has nothing to do with running, but it does have to do with badassery, so I’m just gonna roll with it. See, the Irishwoman informed me last night, when the mouse scurried out from under the oven as I was baking cookies, that OH MY GOD THERE’S A MOUSE BY YOUR FOOT GET IT GET IT.
OK, sure, fine.
I get more hits when I include beautiful-man pics. Go figure.
MILES: Zero. POW!
MILES THIS WEEK: Many. Already.
WHERE TO: Nowhere.
I was at this party a few weekends ago at which a friend asked me if I listened to music while I run.
Now, let me digress for a second. Because I feel like every single runner I meet is either a Luddite purist or incapable of going on even a simple two-mile jog without having Tool drilling into his/her skull at volume level 14. No one is in-between. Which I don’t get. Because sometimes you need Enrique to move you along, and sometimes you just need to silently judge other runners in silence, you know?
“Not all the time,” I responded.
“Well, don’t you go CRAZY? What do you think about?” she asked.
Ironically, her question itself has made me go crazy, because now when I’m running all I can think about is, “Huh. What AM I thinking about?” and now my flow is totally gone. (Thanks a lot, party-friend-lady. Jerkface.) It’s like when you for whatever reason start thinking about breathing and suddenly realize that you can’t do it correctly anymore, and now maybe it won’t be voluntary anymore and you’ll have to think about breathing until the day you die. Holy s**t, that would suck, wouldn’t it?