I was at the indoor track.
It was seven degrees outside.
I’ve run in colder, I just didn’t want to.
I went up to the track where a stream of middle school aged kids kept walking in groups on lane one.
Rule: If you aren’t running, STAY THE F@&K OFF OF LANE ONE! It’s common f@&king courtesy for f@&k’s sake.
Rule 2: When driving during rush hour during Christmas shopping season: NO LEFT TURN!
“You are boring when you rant.” Said the Punker model writer chick.
She was hotter than ever, even in her silly spandex running suit.
“How do you keep track of laps on a 220 yard track with no sight line?”
“It’s easy, 1. Turn around and run the other way every eight laps. 2. Every four laps do a left foot pace count, then start again. 3. Watch the clock, you should only be slightly slower each lap.”
I wondered what happened to the PMWC. She disappeared for a while.
“I was mostly studying, yon Botendaddy. I know I haven’t been to the writer’s workshop for a while. I went to see Chabon. He’s a genius, he’s like… really seeing beyond.”
I suddenly felt ill.
“Are we talking about the same Chabon? Really? He’s like the Billy Joel of literature. Pretentious drivel.”
“What about the literary bowel movement you consume? Who the f&$k are you? You are the Donald Jehosaphat Trump of New York Literary critics. You prefer Groff. Pretentious enough? Ooh I’m from upstate, I’m so much more authentic than you young PMWC. F&@k you Botendaddy. Mr. Murray Hill 37th and Lex wannabe rural faux Americana imbecile.”
9:05 for the first mile, 19:57 for the third 31:16 something for the third then a terrible fall off for mile four. It took thirteen minutes. A total power outage and massive knee pain.
“There are artists and there are critics. So whatever makes you happy, you self-satisfied ooh I’m so Manhattan hipster twat.”
The fifth mile was a disaster as we dodged kids and sexy young muscle jocks and super-hot crossfit chicks.
“Don’t stare at those girls when you’re with me. Not ever. Or I’ll cut your heart out like an Azteca sacrifice. I swear to god. Now let’s go to the locker room and f&$k. I need it. You owe me, you hideous, decrepit Frankenstein-Crypt-Keeper.”
Peace be the Botendaddy