The temperature rose steadily as I ran.
It was weird. Maybe this was expectable given the forecast.
I really wanted to break my fluky mile time where I achieved a 9:36 mile for the first time since 2011. I didn’t quite make it, but it was good enough to let me know that the 9:36 wasn’t a fluke. I think I am only ten pounds away from consistently running sub ten minute miles.
I know it doesn’t sound that impressive to most of my sumptuous, tasty readers, but like James Brown said: ‘I’ve got to get up and do my thing, let me count it off. Can I count it off?’
So at any rate, my one-mile time was one of my best in years. The two-mile time was pretty good and the three-mile was solid.
The constant uphill grade from the half-mile mark past the Universities and the flower show all the way to about the 2.20 mark was pretty vulgar. On the flat, I would have broken my best recent 5k time of 34:50, but remember that I’m shooting for 33:00 5k by July and a 30:00 by September.
Around the third mile, the trail went under the bridge. I should have paid attention, but there she was again right in the middle of the trail: the 20 year-old punker-model-writer chick.
She looked more insane than usual, now with bright green hair. She was wearing the tightest possible spandex. Her cameltoe was so extreme that I had to turn away.
“Hello Mr. Botendaddy. I knew I’d find you here again.”
“Well, you did find me. But by the way, one thing I wanted to tell you, if you don’t run with changes in elevation you will never improve your 5k time in an actual race. I’d rather have faster times, but I need to build strength on the uphills. They’ve been killing me, probably a product of my fatness.”
“Shut the f%$# up!” she screamed as she ran effortlessly beside me. “Do you know how tired I am of your constant claptrap? You remind me of my shitty Dad and my even shittier stepfather.I don’t need advice, I need affection and lots of it.”
I tried to focus on the trail, but it was no use.
Oh delectable Botendaddy, I need your disgusting, green-glowing, rotting, ethereal corpse undulating on top of my quivering, pure flesh. I need to be utterly defiled. I need to punish myself. It’s like sacrificing myself to the devil. The devil of hideous corpulent, hideous, talentless-third-rate-New York-literary critic, ugliness.
“I’m not sure that this is a good idea. You are young you need someone your own age. Some good-looking young man from a good family.”
I was certain she wasn’t listening. I could see her face begin twist in youthful female urban-punk writer-angst.
“Don’t lecture me… you shitty, decrepit creeper. I want you to steal my very soul and utterly destroy my self-respect so I can rise again like a Phoenix from the ashes, purified by filth and fire. Now when we are done running, you will come to my apartment and make love to me.”
“Are you quite insane? Have you sought help? Your maniacal raving reminds me that only by reducing body-fat, can you even think about other ways of improving your running. Once you remove the inefficiency, only then can you focus on other issues, like flexibility, strength, change of pace.”
“Your stupid advice makes me want to vomit. Obviously you are speaking to people like yourself from your wonderful, beautiful audience. I have an urge to stab you in the head with a pitchfork, you deformed, vulgar, sweaty, red-hot, super-sexy, monstrous, bad-science-fiction-movie-monster freak.
I pretended to cross the road. She crossed, evading the heavy traffic while I stealthily remained on the other side, saving my four-mile time in the UnderArmour™ MapMyRun™ app.
Peace Be The Botendaddy