Update! 22 May 2016
I was just informed that I medaled in the race!
First medal since 2008!
I am like awesome!!!
I was finally alone.
No Park Ranger.
No Punker-Model-Writer Chick.
There was a steady, cold downpour.
52 Degrees and raining.
Tough for the sunshine and heat people.
Awesome for us cold-loving, northern, mountain people… Awesome!
We started out on a circular track once used for horse racing.
I had a very quick start and then faded after about 300 yards.
Something was wrong, like a total power outage.
Probably the diet.
Truth be told, stay under your calorie count…but DO NOT NEGLECT:
- Some Carbs
- Some Protein
- Some Sugars
Or you body ain’t gonna’ like it.
Note: Always see a licensed physician or dietician before starting any exercise or diet program.
i.e., people with Crohn’s disease have to eat differently than people recovering from cancer, etc.
At any rate, my first mile was good, but not great.
It was under ten, but not like the 8:48 I blasted out in Ohio a few weeks ago.
The problem? It’s simple.. It’s the bodyweight, stupid!
Even now, after having lost 40 pounds, and looking lean, I am still ‘skinnyfat’ at they say on the ‘Voat’ extreme-hate site.
That means that you look good in clothes, but not *naked*.
I’m much thinner, but it’s still not a good enough running weight.
I need to lose 15 pounds to get out of BMI ‘Obese’ and down to overweight, which is 229# if you are a 6’2″ male.
By the way, according to the BMI chart, I am overweight at 200# even. I would look like a matchstick man at 200, well, whatever.
So just as the first mile ended in the flat, it went sharply uphill, then sharply uphill, then sharply uphill to the top of the ridge line at precisely the two-mile mark.
My only goal was just to keep running. I was thinking about how I need to build uphill power for next Year’s brutal Punxsutawney Groundhog Jog.
I did pick up the pace on the third mile, but about the first quarter-mile of it was uphill again.
It was not one of my better times.
The race was well-organized.
Beautiful 100% cotton-Yes! the feel of cotton, the fabric of our lives, race shirts. (I hate nasty, clammy, plasticky, creepy, synthetics against my skin)
So I finished much worse than I thought I would.
The uphill second mile crushed my time.
But, once again, for the second race in a row, I was third in my age class!
After the end of the race. I sat in the Agricultural hall where they once kept livestock. I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was the punk-model-writer chick!
‘You thought you got rid of me didn’t you, you disgusting old fatty. I was easily ten minutes ahead of your slobbering, rain-soaked mass of corpulent, macabre death.’
‘You know after you deflowered me and stole my soul, I tried to get it on with a couple of different guys ‘my age’ ooh, I’m the Botendaddy, I’m so wise, find someone your own age.’ She said in a sing-song mocking tone.
‘It didn’t work out. They were totally self-involved, one was a punker dude, the other a hipster dude. It was boring and disappointing. They were only into themselves. And they lacked both skills and may I say Essential Masculine Attributes?’
‘I’m sorry about that, but I’m sure you’ll find the right guy.’
I could see her sweaty, rain-soaked face getting red.
‘Ooh, the right guy? Well, let me tell you something Mr. old, decrepit wrong guy. You utterly defiled my person in every manner possible. I had to shower three times to feel clean again, to wipe off your hideous, undead stench and clean out your horrific slime from my poor contaminated person. How could I possibly be satisfied with these young, boring guys after what you did to me?’
I tried to distract her or at least calm her building feminine rage.
‘Well it’s good to get out and meet new people.’
She stood up, hands on hips and leaned into my face, talking through clenched teeth.
‘First of all, when you made love to me, it was like giving birth to a baby elephant. I’m not sure how I survived your onslaught. I didn’t even think it was physiologically possible. I’m glad you didn’t permanently damage anything other than losing my feminine dignity and any semblance of self-respect. I have to sneak past my own mirror when I think that I let you…touch…me. You did things to me that I had to go to the library to research. I couldn’t even find these demented ‘practices’ on the internet. I had to read the Kama Sutra and other ancient books of long-lost Erotica just to understand what horrific evil things you were doing to my sacred person.’
‘Look, kid, you’re only twenty, you have a whole life of running ahead of you. Here’s what I recommend:
- Run more hills, steeper hills, longer hills when in training to get strong for hills in the race.
- Keep losing weight, or in your case, stay lean.’
She looked across the hall but then she put her finger in my face.
‘So… I heard the librarian finally dumped you and went back to D.C. She was so needy, so pathetic. She’s a dirty, slutty, filthy, pig of a wh@re. I get so mad to think that you touched her. Ooh Botendaddy, I’m so rich. I’m from an important family, I’m so hard-bodied, I’m so pretty, I’m so smart, I’m older and better than that stupid, inexperienced, naïve college chick, Ooh look at me! I’m so pure, Ooh Botendaddy you defiled me! I’m so innocent!… stupid, lying, tramp. Boy, did she play you.’
She said, making fun of the librarian’s weird Washington quasi-southern, J. Edgar Hoover-like accent, but she was raging so loudly and profanely, that I had to remind her that there were kids and families present.
Look at me, yon Botendaddy, look at my pretty face! Look at my f&^%ing face!’
She shrieked, pressing her face against mine and talking directly into my ear.
I was a fashion model, with epic potential,…in Manhattan. I was all over the internet. I did magazine covers. I did two music videos as the hot model chick. I had choices, I wanted to be a writer, so I needed a writer’s school – Pitt, where all the great macabre genre writers come from. Ooh! sorry I didn’t go to Georgetown, like the librarian, with all the other soulless politico dullards. Look at this body, d#mn you! You want to see my perfect f*&^ing hips again, you corpulent swamp-monster, you sickening glowing-green, science-fiction double-feature creature?’
She tried to violently pull her pants down in front of everyone to show me her perfect hips. I pretended to hug her, but I was really just trying to keep her dignity and avoid an unfortunate police incident.
‘You aren’t on drugs or some other form of medication, are you?’
I meant either LSD or psychotropics, of course.
‘Oh shut up, you ass. Drugs…true artists don’t need drugs. Librarian, really, I’m from an important New York family too. Not shitty Washingtonians. My family came over with Petr Stuyvesant. Years before that ‘Mayflower’ harlot’s family did. And money? Don’t even ask. We’ve had money since 1609. That dirty, stinky twat! I hate her! I am filled with a boundless rage. Thank god you didn’t impregnate her, she would give birth to Rosemary’s demon-baby anyway.’
She dropped her usual fake punk way of talking and now sounded a lot like an upper-crust, Upper East Side, Katherine Hepburn-type, exclusive New York City prep-school manner of speaking. It was clear to me now, that the punker-model-writer chick was either a spoiled, rotten brat or completely insane, within the strictest meaning of the DSM-V.
An elderly lady walked by:
‘Your great-grand-daughter is so pretty sir, she looks just like a model!’
Instead of being shocked, I just did the Peter Krause™ ‘OK… Thank You…’
‘A woman my age has needs. These needs are almost uncontrollable. I am so aroused just from sitting here next to you, I just may have peed a little, OK, I just peed a lot, so that right now, we are going back to my van, and I don’t care how exhausted you are from this race. You are making love to me until I am exhausted! I repeat, until I am exhausted! This is not a request, I demand it! I yearn for you tragically! I love you against all reason! You disgusting, miserable, drooling, fat, demented Frankenstein! You sweat-soaked, malodorous, Yeti!’
Peace be the Botendaddy