“No one cares what you say, Botendaddy. It’s not that they don’t care about a fellow human being, it’s just that it’s the same repetitive crap. No one cares about your latest run. No one cares about your stupid lungs. No one cares about your latest race disaster.”
I was sitting in the club. It was the evil lady from the rival running team. She was in rare form. She sat across from me sipping her shitty Margarita.
“Everyone knows that no one cares, we just don’t need to be reminded of it all the time. You are a goddamned Dementor. You suck the joy out of everything. Do you even enjoy running or just shitting on other race teams? At any rate, if you are dumb enough to sit here I’m going to tell you my goals for the upcoming 28 July to 27 July workout year.”
She shifted uncomfortably in her seat giving me the corporate backstabbing woman death-stare.
“Go ahead you hideous, misshapen freak. Do your worst. You make me physically sick. You and your shitty ‘Race Team 2000’ you idiots are the lamest group of retards that I’ve ever seen. I hope you all get hit by a freight train.”
She now sucked harder on the Margarita.
“Oh my god, don’t you have a husband? A boyfriend? Family? Friends?”
Her eyes smoldered with hate.
“I pity you, you freakish Elephant Man, you nightmare from the dreams of little children, you carnival side show monster…”
She began to massage her own nipple right in front of me.
“Miss, you are touching yourself inappropriately…in public.”
She moved her hand down to my perfect, muscular, tanned thigh.
“OK no one gives a good goddamn what I do either. So I have nobody. So I drive people away. I hate people. They are too complicated. I haven’t been on a date in nine years. So what?”
“OK, I think you are ready:
1. 27:00 minute 5k by December 2016
2. 24:00 minute 5k by July 2017
3. 59:59 minute 10k by July 2017
4. Weight of 195 by November 2016
5. Waist size of 34 by November 2016
6. Return to my best bench press triple by December 2016
After that I don’t know. Is that too ambitious as it is?”
She looked out the window.
“It’s possible, but you may have to drop your weight down to 175. 24:00 is a tall order for a 5k. You’ve been running like shit. You’ve got a lot of work to do. Your 10k times, he’ll, I could walk it faster. You crippled freak. Chemical Ali’s burn pits destroyed your pathetic lungs. Those losers you run with have gotten you far, but not far enough. You might need a hard-bodied running coach. Like…me.”
I paid our bill. She followed me for a walk along the river. It was a mystical foggy day.
“You are right, evil running lady. On two counts. First no one cares. I don’t even care. Seriously, I don’t. Secondly, after all that goddamned work, exercise and weight loss I’m still the shittiest runner in every race. My best 5k is 29:27 which is atrocious. It’s not even top two-thirds. I have no idea what my real goals are. And you suck, totally. You are ignorant, mean-spirited, stupid. In other words, you are the perfect trainer. I have to get away from those clowns from the Writer’s Workshop, they are killing me.”
She stopped and squared to me. She was very pretty. Her body was spectacularly hard.
“So let’s shake on it, Botendaddy. We both need a change. Now come back to my apartment and make love to me until I shriek uncontrollably.”
Peace be the Botendaddy