Sumbitted over 6 years Ago
Day 03 - Write about the worst time you’ve ever put your foot in your mouth.
“Only 6 miles to go…” I sarcastically ruminate to myself.
“Almost halfway there,” Matt quickly mutters, in a mind-reading response. His hard work over the last several months was clearly evident in his consistent, driving pace. Not too fast, but with absolutely no breaks. Luckily at baseline, I’m a slightly more talented runner, so I’m not falling behind yet. Our synchronous, bouncing cadence is deeply misrepresentative of a shared attitude or unified mindset. His glass is way more than half full, and I must have spilled mine somewhere back by Royce Rd and Naper Blvd, because I’m feeling dehydrated.
The phrase “Don’t make promises when you’re happy...” should be altered to include “...or when you’re high on Batman: The Dark Knight Rises induced Adolescent Invincibility Syndrome.” If I was provided that sort of clear, direct warning, then maybe I would not have agreed to go on an 11 mile run early on a Saturday morning with absolutely no preparation, other than feeling completely pumped up the night before.
It was the perfect storm of feeling inferior about something (a frequent behavioral trend of mine in my early 20s) and allowing myself to get absolutely absorbed by the story of someone reattaining greatness. Christian Bale had his ass kicked, his back broken, and his freedom stolen, but after a bunch of soul searching and fairly short montage of pull ups and body weight training, he managed to reforge himself into the Bat God once again. As stupid as it sounds, that’s the exact sort simple motivation I needed at that moment. If it’s possible for a fictional superhero to overcome the odds and defeat adversity, then why not me, right?
So here I am, 5.20 miles into an 11 mile run, I haven’t trained in months, I weigh almost 200 pounds (minus the 15 I’m sure I’ve sweated out today), and I’m still not even halfway done. Am I a good friend or a bad friend, because at this point I’m definitely building up some sort of deep seeded, spiteful resentment toward Matt. He did ask me to help him train for his dumb marathon, so maybe it’s his fault. Yes, clearly it’s Matt’s fault… that bastard. Wait, no! That’s the spite again.
The current stretch of Royce Rd is actually really pretty under normal circumstances. Rows of trees on either side of a long, winding street - a deep lake and some farmland is visible too if you focus past the wall of pines on the south border of the road. All I can see right now is the concrete road 3 feet in front of me, whirring past, a blur of blacktop slapping the bottom of my feet. Concrete. Blacktop. Dark top. Dark Knight. I wonder how sensitive Bruce Wayne’s skin is to sun exposure... I’m retroactively deciding that sun screen would have been a good idea. So now my feet hurt, my legs hurt, I’m thirsty, and I’m going to be a Red Knight tomorrow.
Batman would run the rest of this damn loop without a breath of complaint, and that’s exactly what I intend to do. I check my cognitive map of this route for some much needed distraction.
Acquiring satellites… Graphing coordinates… Calculating Distance… 5.25 miles.
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