That's the sound of bcdc running through the park and loving every loping stride.
I've actually been trying to curb my enthusiasm, knowing that if I go every night on the long 30-45 min runs I love doing then I'd probably strain or wrench something crucial; so I'm going every other night instead. Twinges, you see. I get all skittish like a thoroughbred race horse (or, ahem, like a nag passing the knacker's yard) on the nights I don't go. That Hungry Ghost
, he warned me this would happen.
I'm still going for duration rather than speed, but a day will come when I will, repeat will, overtake someone rather than being constantly overtaken by college kids with impossibly
langourous springs in their steps.
I had a nice Mencius moment
a few days ago: I was pondering what it would be like to actually overtake rather than be overtaken, and a butterfly fluttered by.
My body has sustained some serious and permanent damage over the years though, which no amount of running is ever going to cure. It's a very very good thing that I've knocked 25 years of smoking and shitty food on the head and I feel immeasurably better for it, but it sure as hell ain't no surprise that it feels like everything's only working at 60% at best. Like an old bike left in the rain, lent to fat uncles and promptly forgotten, never properly oiled and with a few siezed bearings here and there, I ain't ever gonna win the Tour de France.
But hey, if it weren't for the depth of the debauchery I'd never know the joy of the purity, eh? Yeah. Etiquette
Drive on the right drive on the right drive on the right. One in five of these bastards are lawyers
and you don't want to get sued. Drive on the right drive on the right drive on the right.
At any given time between say 5:30 and sundown -- 8:30-ish these days in DC -- there has to be a hundred or so people running along the same path by the creek/ 4-lane highway. Everyone's SOOOOO frickin' SERIOUS about it. There's no deliberate acknowledgement of each other what -- so -- ever.
I buck the trend and and say 'hey' to people in passing sometimes, people I've seen more or less every time I go out. No response. That said, I deliberately choose the preening poseurs in their conspicous consumer prime to say 'hey' to. Being a 6' 4" lumbering bald giraffe soaked in sweat with flourescent running shoes
and a distinctive shrillness to my gasps, they'd have to be ultra 'in-the-zone' not to recognise me too. Heh heh. I think I'm supposed to shriek 'Wow! Look everyone, perfection!' or possibly just spontaneously ejaculate when they prance into view. "Auto-flirt" is a DC thang, I think, people in a constant state of pheromone[?sp] waft.
I shouldn't mock -- I'm guilty of vanity too: six-pack challenge, etc.
Wotserface wont know what's hit her.
[I can't upload pictures: the Opera monkeys say so, so it must be true. Ho hum.]