Trlog

Now that Tim has paved the way for us to make blog posts without pictures, I'm going for it, full steam. This post shall be full of nothing but what your mind makes of it. If I say, "biomechanical castle" or "wizard zeppelin", I expect to hear brains spinning at furious rates trying to think of what the hell that would look like.

I'm training for Grandma's Marathon currently, and although I have always liked distance running, in my youth I always had a more liberal notion of what qualified as "distance". Five K? Distance. One mile? Distance. Ten K? Good God, let's not get carried away here, Pheidippides. In high school, even the half-milers qualified as distance runners. C'mon, just because some of them were slow doesn't mean they're distance runners. And now, distance running is serious. By "now", of course, I mean "in my thirties." To people in their thirties, until you're running a half-marathon at LEAST, you might as well stay at home and play video games.

So I resisted it as long as I could, telling myself I had nothing to prove, but c'mon, let's get real here. Of course I have something to prove. You think anyone will believe I'm in shape unless I drag my ass 26.4 miles* and get the pictures to prove it? No. People in their thirties are cruel.

My friend Rocco is trying to get me to set my goal at 2 hours, 45 minutes. That's insane. I won't make it through 26 miles in that time unless I strap a rocket to each foot, a helmet to my head, boxing gloves on each hand, and then call a freakin' cab.**

Okay, thanks to Tim for allowing me the freedom not to post pictures. The End.

*That's one of those "evocative phrases" I spoke of in the first paragraph. Picture it, if you dare.

**Another one. "Gee, why is no one stopping for me?"