It was really warm today. (for my part, I like the cold. Most people don’t)
77 degrees with the sun out. The horrible garish sun, stealing my very soul.
I ran three miles on the soft, anthracite track. It is surrounded by woods.
The GPS is exactly .08 miles from ground truth per mile.
That is atrocious. But seems to be quite typical. Do we really know ground truth? What is truth?
I am beginning to just record ground truth whenever I have a milepost, and I stick with the GPS if I don’t. Khufu only knows how any milepost was measured.
I’m not sure there is any way to calibrate a GPS, but it makes using such tools as MapMyRun a little less useful. You have to go in and edit mile splits, which is in the realm of OCD.
At any rate, my first mile was OK, but not great. But for the first time in a year or more, I didn’t feel like I was struggling. I have now lost 7.6 pounds, which is better than gaining pounds, but my first goal is to lose 15.4 pounds. (don’t ask why, it’s just one of my marker weights on the way down.)
I am still on the 2,050 calorie a day diet. Still not counting exercise calories against my daily allotment.
At any rate, I had noticed a weird old man walking on the track opposite my direction and a lady jogging on the track with my direction. She was very fast. She was impeccable dressed wearing the most expensive red running shorts, pink running shoes and a grey tank top. She was wearing no bra. She was trying to be incognito with her sexy, *red-hot* designer sunglasses. She must have started running well before me, but I didn’t notice her enter the track. At first she was lapping me, then she suddenly slowed down to keep to my pace.
“Hello Botendaddy. You fat f&ck. You miserable freak. You sh!tty devil. You awful genetic malfunction. I saw you staggering in the heat. Your hideous mountain of woolly-mammoth-like prehistoric flesh struggling against the forces of nature. Ah… the taste of it!”
I still didn’t recognize her. But her rapid-fire adjective-stoked, crude insults meant she could be only one of a few people.
“It’s me, you idiotic slope-fore-headed, drooling, malodorous, massive-delectable-adult-diaper-wearing, pre-historic Cro-Magnon.”
“Oh, Hi! You *hot*, crazy, creepy, psycho (apparently with nothing else to do) Librarian-girl. I haven’t seen you since you shrieked at me at the library the other day.”
“That was odd, you actually verbally expressed parentheses. Well, at any rate, you deserved my so-called shrieking. I became w3t when I saw you in the library. I am still madly, romantically, passionately in love with you.”
“I was glad to see you too!” I lied.
“I had a question for you. As you know, I suffer from stress incontinence from mild POP, postpartum urinary incontinence for almost 20 years and mild IBS. Unlike you, who have no sense of pride, women hate to wear freakish adult diapers, we would die from embarrassment if anyone knew. Someone told me that I shouldn’t drink liquids before I run to avoid any problem. What would you suggest, oh wise Botendaddy?”
“Well, I suggest you talk to a physician as soon as possible to deal with any medical issues. In the meantime, while you are exploring other treatments, you should wear some protection. But, I wonder, aren’t women used to wearing pads anyway for their monthly you-know-what? You could wear an incontinence pad. Also modern adult diapers are very discreet.”
“Yours aren’t. They are enormous and obvious. I am overwhelmed by the sight of them. I want to hit you with a huge wooden paddle over and over again.”
“By the way, I lied to you when I said that salad dressing is OK. You need a low cal dressing. I just got a celery and carrots pack today and the calorie count in the little dressing pack was 220. That’s like half a meal. So I tossed it.”
She looked over at me.
“Idiot. Why anyone would listen to you anyway is beyond me.”
“Well at any rate, wearing protection is better than giving up running. Why would anyone every give up running over something like this? No-one else in the world notices or cares. People all have their own worries. Or instead, why would you very publicly ‘go’ on yourself? Just wear protection in the meantime, while you consult with your licensed board-certified medical doctor. I haven’t run or worked out at any time in the last seven years without wearing massive protective undergarments.”
She flipped up her sunglasses to glare at me as we ran.
“Sometimes I run on a treadmill in my basement watching sh!tty reality TV and weeping uncontrollably while I think about how horrible you are, bloated critic-boy.”
I wagged my finger at her like she was a stupid, naughty girl.
“Don’t hide indoors on a treadmill either. Treadmills are hard on my knees anyway, but I can’t speak for anyone else.”
She gave me a disgusted look almost like she was going to gag. And she placed her hand on my undulating gluteus.
“Don’t your filthy diapers chafe after running a few miles?”
“I have never experienced any chafing, because as the plastic heats up, it gets softer, and it feels no more noticeable than underwear.”
She danced around the creepy old Lovecraftian man who was walking randomly into our path.
“Can’t you overheat? I can imagine the hideous, delectable, sickly-sweet, sweaty filth, generated by your dirty, smelly corpse.”
“Full-sized diapers can cause you to overheat until you get used to them, so I would never take advice from anyone who says to run a race without drinking lots of water beforehand whether you risk ‘going’ or not. It’s safer to hydrate, than to worry about embarrassment. Stroking out from the heat is more than embarrassing it’s dangerous. Never forsake water just because you may urinate uncontrollably in front of hundreds of jeering, mocking people while you are running.”
She swatted at a swarm of early spring gnats.
“What if you pee in them. Gross.”
“You keep running.”
“What if you make an enormous bowel movement in your giant sh%tty diaper, you big smelly freak.”
She shuddered and gagged.
“You find an outhouse on the route as soon as you can.”
“What’s the alternative?”
“There are also paper-like, underwear-style briefs. They may start to disintegrate a bit after many miles, maybe like if you were doing a half-marathon.”
“Wouldn’t people notice?”
“I tend to doubt it, if you are wearing running shorts like those. Maybe if it was cold and you were wearing spandex, but even then, I doubt it.”
I was trying to run faster, checking my time on the phone watching the quarter-mile line.
“Botendaddy, this discussion, is too intrusive, embarrassing and frankly creepily uncomfortable. The more you talk to me about this the more I feel humiliated and I want to squirm. Just because of your stupid lower-spinal injury and total lack of bodily control of any kind, why do I have to be in the same category of pathetic lower-life forms like you?”
“Thank you for your concern.”
She put her hand on my backside again, clutching my rotting gluteus in a completely inappropriate manner.
“By the way, I am getting Ever more turned on, the more you humiliate and embarrass me with this endless, intrusive, personal hypnotic cringe-worthy discussion. You are so much hotter than my ex-husband. He was boring and self-involved. Unlike you, he was very good-looking, well-built and successful. But he would not listen with such rapt attention to my embarrassing personal bodily issues. Come up to my van when you’ve recovered and make love to me, hard long and dirty. Be creative, use me as you desire. That is not a request. You started this you repugnant fatty, use that legendary skill to finish it!”
“I’m sorry about your ex-husband. I’m glad he was successful while I was walking through minefields, calming the nerves of combat engineers who just dug up mass graves, walking across shitty 122 degree deserts filled with psychotic terrorists, while carrying a hundred pounds of crap on my back while he was back here being a corporate big-wig in a 50th floor corner office, raking in fat, luscious loot. I’m so envious of him. I get weepy when I think of all my failures, you crazy, blue-blood library chick.”
I checked my time and we both stopped.
“Oh Botendaddy, I think I just ‘org@$#3d’ uncontrollably while you were lecturing me with your ridiculous Hollywood moving speech about how cool you are. Now you have to take of this. I mean now.”
We walked together off the track, as I contemplated my latest escape.
Fortunately, her hulking 18 year-old son (poor fellow, I hoped he hadn’t heard any of our conversation) walked up to the track to borrow money or some other late-teenage-like request and I was able to slip away, although her son did give me a hateful death stare as I walked past. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that his dear, erudite mother yearned for me tragically.
Peace be the Botendaddy