I ran last night.
Humidity was intense, it was cool around 70 degrees.
I had three shirts, two I hung over a jersey barrier so I could run past them every two miles and change shirts, due to the massive humidity. I sweat like Jim Bibby TM.
There were many other midnight runners from two other units. I hang a light around my neck so people won’t crash into me on the dark road by the airfield.
I now have 303.4 miles for the year.
To the sophisticated superior-feeling ‘true runner’ Pre-Fontaine, runner’s high, wannabes this doesn’t seem like much mileage, so they say:
Ooh look at me! I’m so thin and prissy! I run 60 miles a week! Ooh I’m the grand diva, I’m so superior to you, you fat *sexy* slob!
Oh yeah you freak! Try doing this weighing 242 at 46 years old after you’ve broken, at various times, your fibula, tibia, heel bone, pelvis, ball and socket joint and had spinal surgery on what’s left of your back? Yeah come with me and carry 140 pounds of crap in 122 degree heat.
Then they say:
Ooh I can’t do that! I have to sip my skim milk, sugar-free, soy latte! I’m a prissy little weakling. You wouldn’t *punish me*… would you, you big brute?