Running Log by Dr. Trudgie McStubsforlegs

Image.2 mi: Going down a hill. Must kill early LOOKHOWFASTICANRUN enthusiasm. Attempt to visualize myself at mile 4 with distended gut and sweat dripping from elbows. Mostly effective.

.8 mi: Wonder how long it would take me, at current speed, to run a marathon. Stop calculating distance when I reach the “Enough time to watch two full feature-length films including previews and credits” point. NOTE TO SELF: Do not allow self to think about running 26 miles before self hits the one mile mark.

1 mi: Check time. Sob quietly. I am still not fast enough to earn the National Fitness Award certificate at the middle school awards ceremony. Damn you, middle school gym class memories. DAMN YOU!

1.1 mi: Stop sobbing – takes up too much breath.

1.3 mi: Think about article that claimed runners should breathe through their noses when they run. Seems my nostrils aren’t big enough for required air intake. NOTE TO SELF: Google cost of nostril-widening surgery.

1.5 mi: Ponder the horse-to-person ratio in my town. Feel depressed about my lack of horse. Of course nobody brought us jello when we moved in.

“Which jello mold should we make for the new neighbors, honey?”

“The horse one, of course!”

“But they don’t have a horse!”

“But that’s the only jello mold we have!”

“They really don’t have a horse?”

“No!”

“Well then they’re no neighbors of mine. Let’s key their cars tonight.”

1.8 mi: Oh, good. A hill. Just what I always wanted.

2.0 mi: Oh, that’s a nice, modest house, I think to myself before noticing the horses in the back yard.

2.1 mi: Oh, hi, Swinging Ponytail Girl! You seem nice. Let’s wave at each other. There. Yes, we’re both sweaty and miserable, aren’t we? Yes. Yes we are. I’m only smiling this broadly because my upper lip is stuck to my teeth. I see from your grimace that you are also unable to breathe through your nose. Enjoy going downhill. You’ll be going uphill soon enough.

2.5 mi: CRAMP CRAMP CRAMP OW OW OW MY INTESTINES ARE PETRIFYING BREATHE BREATHE BREATHE STAB STOMACH WITH FINGERS okay crisis averted

2.6 mi: YESSSS I love this song. I will now proceed to air-drum and lip-sync shamelessly.

2.7 mi: Yeah, what’s up, Guy in Subarau? Wait, you don’t like my air-drumming? Take this air-cymbal crash! YEAH! Ha. You wish you were listening to this song and trudging up a hill, don’t you? Yeah. Yeah you do. No, you can’t share my other earbud. That’s not very hygienic, Guy in Subaru.

2.9 mi: I’d really like a Subaru. Without a Guy in it.

2.95 mi: Unless the Guy was Daniel Craig.

3.0 mi: Hey, Super Wiry Guy on Bicycle! Yeah, you waved at me. We’re friends, aren’t we? Yeah. You and me, two buds sweatin’ it out on a Sunday. Yeah, fitness! Woo!

3.2 mi: This must be what death feels like.

3.3 mi: Ponder turning my thoughts into a writing log blog post.

3.4 mi: But would I mention in the writing log that I came up with the idea while I was running?

3.5 mi: Confirm. Begin mentally drafting log blog. What a good idea! Now people will finally like me!

3.55 mi: Oh. Oh no. That is not a lady on a horse coming down a driveway. And taking a right. Excellent. Now I’m on a collision course with a horse. Green Township, I quit you.

3.6 mi: Lady on Horse and I both go to opposite side of road on the same time. Lady on Horse sees it and moves back to other side of the road. Horse and I make eye contact. Awww-kward, we mouth to each other.

3.7 mi: Lady on Horse smiles and says she would have moved out of my way. Horse and I exchange winks. I’m still not sure why.

Never mind, Green Township. We cool.

3.9 mi: Wait, Swingy Ponytail Girl? You’re … here … how? What route…?

4.0 mi: Decide Swingy Ponytail Girl is the Jersey Devil. Immediately regret smiling at her. Her smile probably cost me my firstborn. But what if I never have a firstborn? Will she take a cat, instead?

4.2 mi: Come to terms with the fact that if the Jersey Devil ever comes to collect debt, I will have to have a baby to avoid losing a cat.

4.3 mi: Runner’s high! AIR DRUM! FIST PUMP! HIGH KNEES!

4.45 mi: Song over. Runner’s depression. Suddenly wish I was wearing all black and eating Hagan-Daaz.

4.5 mi: Oh, gosh. Oh, this hill. Okay, I can do this. Slow and steady wins the ice cream sundae.

4.6 mi: HOT FUDGE!

4.65 mi: WHIPPED CREAM!

4.7 mi: CHERRY!

4.75: TWO CHERRIES!

4.78 mi: HOLY GOD THIS SHOULD BE ILLEGAL

4.8 mi: I’M PRETTY SURE MY SPLEEN JUST IMPLODED

4.83 mi: CALL FOR HELP

4.84 – 4.9mi: Engage Blackout Mode, in which pain is replaced by a black and white 8mm film of seven sleepy cats in inner tubes gliding casually across a still, lily-studded pond.

5.0 mi: Oh, Robotic Lady Voice Telling Me My Run Is Over, you are my most favoritest voice in the whole wide world.

5.5 mi: Oh, Husband Holding Water Glass at The End of the Driveway, you are my most favoritest husband in the whole wide world.

5.6 mi: Trip up the winder stairs while gloating about my 5 mile run, face-planting on the hardwood floor and viciously bruising both shins on the top stair. FITNESS!

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