filthy sweaty potty mouth

I thought I ran 7 miles yesterday. Today I learned my block-math was off; I only ran 6. This is terribly disappointing. This is terribly disappointing ESPECIALLY considering what a hard 6 it was. I don't really understand why running never actually gets easier. I go farther, but it never feels very pleasant, if I'm being honest. I am not a zen-ful runner. I don't have wise thoughts as I glide along a cement paradise. I am a snorting, heaving, crashing-through-the-forest runner who thinks long lists of swear words while I try not to fall down in traffic.

I got really mad around (what I now know was...) mile 5, because my side cramped, and I felt dehydrated. My guts don't work correctly (They have holes.), so I don't absorb all the things I'm supposed to absorb. My body depletes. I shot several violent f-bombs into the neighborhood, cursed my dumb, hole-y guts for being giant pieces of worthless crap. Ridiculed myself for running. Called myself a lot of mean names. It was not a very kind moment. I've always had a bit of a temper -- especially when it comes to me falling short of my own expectations.

I swore for at least 3 blocks down Madison about how sick of my stupid guts I am, and I wish everything would just work like it's supposed to, and why is running never easy? It was a really nice pity party. I'm sorry I didn't invite you. Next time.

But around Lynner Street I realized my body works just fine. I know my guts; their holes are nothing new. I know what works and what doesn't. I know how to over-hydrate and over supplement to compensate all the stuff I lose. And... I know the quickest way to reverse every good thing I do. Then I make choices....say...an entire bottle of wine on Friday night and a whole bunch of potato chips.

So around Lynner Street, I realized my body just responds to how I treat it. It's given me a very clear set of directions with a very clear list of consequences should I not follow the directions. It is an absolute perfect system. I make a choice, and it responds in consistent, finely tuned, logical accordance.

Later on Euclid, I thought about how when other people have tough runs I say, "Hey, but goodjobwaytogoniceefforttwothumbsupforgettingoutthereanddoingitandkeeptryingandyou're-terrific!" And I mean it. But when I suck, I get pissy and swear a lot. What a double standard. I should write myself a letter of apology, send some flowers, and stop being such a jerk.

And also, to the people who live on Madison between MLK and Lower Beaver, sorry about the filthy, sweaty, potty-mouth.