“Darwin award. Some people drop dead during long runs for two reasons: 1. Bad genetics, 2. Not in shape to run.” Said the Stalker.
I ran very hard, but I was slowing down dramatically. What is going on? I’m low BMI?!?
“By the way I am a Darwin. I’m not kidding.
My mom was a Darwin, her mom was a Darwin and her dad was a Darwin from Manchester, England. We may not be related to THE Darwin, but it’s kind of cool.”
The stalker was wearing sweats. I was wearing sweats. It was cold and humid.
“9:24, what the heck is wrong with you, Botendaddy? You’ve been running for 42 months straight and you still suck.”
20:53 for two miles, it was basically uphill from 0.92 all the way to 2.08, but still pathetic.
“Stalker, here is a list:
1. Not getting enough sleep.
2. Forgot to take baby aspirin, but our readers should never take aspirin without consulting a licensed, esteemed physician.
3. Oxygen uptake is bad. I’ve fallen into the habit of not running at least the first two miles at or near my max heart rate, i.e., I’m dogging it.
4. Winter clothes, sweats, the extra few pounds can actually slow you down.
5. Knee pain. Started around 0.75, never stopped.
6. Pavement to trail and back to pavement, shock of hitting pavement is stressful.”
32:16 for three miles on the uphill cobblestone.
“You forgot the enormous, sweaty, rancid, yeasty, urine-soaked, adult, Franken-diaper. I bet that slows you down. It’s so attractive.”
We were back on the surface streets running through the Frick-Laughlin Technical University Krampus.
“Is anyone worse than Chabon? I mean his work is jejeune and derivative. It is pretentious literary bowel movement. Ooh I’m so urbane and sophisticated, look at me!” I said, trying to distract her.
Four miles. I won’t even tell you the time.
“So Chabon is some kind of name to sound French and not Jewish, kind of like Darwin? Sounds English. What was your family’s real name before the Beloved Lord Protector, the esteemed Cromwell let them back into England from Stüttgärt? Schlomoschtein-Bagel-Boim-Boom-Tschak-Berger-Cohain? You don’t really like Chabon, do you?” The Stalker asked, seemingly annoyed.
“No I don’t.” I replied.
“What if I do like him? You prefer Groff and I consider her pretentious in her silly word-smithery.” Barked the Stalker.
“She is a literary genius and she comes from Cooperstown, the greatest town in America, you vapid, shit-covered twit!”
“It’s so hot when you degrade me. Let’s go to the locker room and show me your giant:
Peace be the Botendaddy