I’ve been passed by speed walkers, you know…

Rode out to Manyhunks for weekly din-din with the bro and sis-in-law, who reminded me that I signed up to run a 5K next week. Ooops… forgot about that…

 

And here I sit, running shoes next to me. They stare at me, taunting me, daring me to put them on and attempt to do the one thing my body is less than prepared to do:
 
Run.

 

Very fast.

 

Oh, it’s not like I don’t exercise on a regular basis. Although I’ve recently embraced the so-called French diet (a bit too enthusiastically, I fear — it’s unlikely I’d find any French person who’d recommend chocolate croissant, cappuccino and yummy Trader Joe’s Dublin cheese for breakfast. I should probably get the book and find out what the deal is really about… ) the one element of the plan I definitely do not adhere to is the alleged French aversion to exercise.

 

I love my bike more than any man I’ve ever dated. I belong to a gym, and I actually go there (and not just to pick up the current schedule and bolt). Due to a summer filled with jaunts on two wheels and the poverty created by the endless thirst of an alcoholic hanger-on, I put my membership on hold for two months, but I headed back as soon as the cash was debited from the account, thus reminding myself that spinning is really dull on Mondays. To compensate, I imagined my dream sitch: Imax’ed Alpe d’Huez video spinning class. (Think about it, no matter how slow you’re really pedaling, it’d be like riding next to Lance (or Ivan or Jan, depending on your preference…))

 

But this 5K is another beast entirely: I haven’t been running in nearly a month, and back in the day I’d wake up hung-over, toss on the sneaks and plod my way to a 30-ish minute end. These days, waking up and not falling over as I attempt to put on my bunny slippers while simultaneously shielding my eyes from whatever light manages to make its way through my heavily fortified blinds and feeling my way down the stairs to the coffee is a major accomplishment.

 

Oh well, it’s for a good cause, and it’s only 3-point-something miles. Worse comes to worse I fake a cramp, fall over, melodramatically roll about, and then get up and limp to the finish, thus making myself look like a real champ for overcoming the odds of spasmic-muscles “for the cause”! Muwahaahaahah!!!!!

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