I had visions of running at least a 15 kilometer distance this morning.
But, by the time I was out the door, it was too late.
The heat and humidity had rolled in on little cat feet.
It was 84 degrees and the humidity was hanging over the trail like an evil fog. It had a tangible, physical sense to it. A vicious ugly grip on the very soul of the bold, muscular runner.
I stood behind the trail marker sign. And there she was! I hadn’t even started running yet. Blonde, pony tail, bare midriff, pale complexion. It was the stalker!
“How in the hell do you always find me? I wasn’t even going to run here today, but I couldn’t find a parking space at the other trail. There’s no way you could have known I was here…unless…you followed me…the entire way…from my mansion…”
She winked, then she threw her head back, swinging her cutesy ponytail.
“Ooh I wasn’t even going to run here today! Ooh I’m so important! I’m Mr. Botendaddy! I’m so cool and mysterious of unknown omni-sexual orientation. I slept in the upstairs apartment of your carriage house, you ass. I stole a key the last time I was there. I ate like everything in your stupid mini-fridge, I watched your cable, searched your internet, I may have peed in the bed during my sleep too, so arrest me, you g*d-damned freak.”
She said in a mocking, derisive, sing-song tone as I stretched and she adjusted her various timing apps and fitness devices.
“You are lucky that the Boten-Daughter didn’t come in there, she would have beaten the living sh!t out of you. Anyway, I was going to run 15 kilometers today, but no way. I know it’s hot, but I don’t understand why I haven’t improved more. Was the ‘Voat Fat People Hate Verified Sh!tlady’ right? Do I really need to weigh 192 at 6’2½” just to run well? I mean, WTF?”
I was still stretching as she adjusted her Fitbit™ and checked her MapMyRun™ App.
“Look, I don’t know about the Voat FPH lady. She’s a crazy, dirty, ugly whore. She’s a shitty writer too, unimaginative, derivative, tired drivel. She could die and eat festering, rotting sh!t for all I care. I’m the one who really loves you anyway. I don’t care how old and shitty you are. Plus, you not only look good now, you are in better shape than 85% of American males between the ages of 25-65. Yes, I spoke the hyphen, so sue me. Your tan, the six pack… Oh my god, looking at you, I just spontaneously orgasmed and peed on myself! Ah the smell of it!”
I couldn’t tell how much she peed, as she was wearing black spandex running shorts and she was already sweating uncontrollably. We started running.
First mile uphill 9:45. Actually quick for me on this trail segment.
Second mile still uphill, the heat crushed me in a feeble 21:00.
I turned around at the mouth of the train tunnel to avoid the GPS haywire results.
“I think that the heat is getting to me, kid.”
I said to the stalker after the two-mile mark.
Third mile, downhill was about 33:15, so-so.
Fourth mile downhill, but exposed to the sun time was also weak at about 46:35.
The pattern was clear: a full one-minute drop off each mile: 10-11-12-13.
“It’s just too much. No way I can do 15 kilometer today. I will never be ready for the ten miler.”
We were running down the hill under the massive interstate overpass. As we ran past the three mile mark she turned to me. She was running effortlessly of course.
“Idiot, you broke most of the rules for running in hot, humid weather:
- Never run after the sun comes up in super-hot weather.
- Drink copious amounts of water before you run.
- Carry water with you or pre-position a water bottle or two.
- Wear loose, light clothing – you’re sort of OK there.
- Run in the shade and on a trail, not in an urban area, rural is cooler – OK there too.
- Start slower, you started with a sprint, you idiot.
- Expect to run about 30 seconds slower each mile than usual.
- Tie your shoes first idiot, you lost like 30 seconds.
- Stop wearing a super-heated adult diaper in hot weather.”
I tried to make note of this, but she was already texting the rules to me.
“OK stalker-girl, got it, got it.”
“Listen Dearly Beloved Botendaddy, I’m tired of you making love to everyone in the Writer’s Workshop except me. You even fucked the 75 year old professor, who I hear is a nudist who shaves her fetid sn%tch. I also heard about what happened with the Park Ranger… you getting penetrated…again, for hours. I can almost…feel it… Be careful, I think he’s falling in love with you. People might begin to suspect that you like it. Now, as for you and me, let’s go back to my van and f&ck while we’re still sweaty. You owe me.”
Peace be the Botendaddy