Wednesday, August 15, 2012

A Runner's Nod to Palahniuk


            So, you let the waiting ensue. You’ve applied for Grad school. You’ve gotten engaged. You’re life is literally about to start. But, there is always a “but.” Grad school (if you get in of course) is six months away. The wedding is now less than four (holy the hell did that get here so fast?), and you’re still working your college job with no confirmable end in sight. What do you do? You consider your options. What do you do if you don’t get in? What if you’re stuck working a chimp job until your forty? Then, you start to consider your past, and this is where you start to worry: the waiting ceases and the questions begin.

            This is what they sound like: If I had double majored in English, would I still be working at this Mecca of a Latte Machine? Would I be asked by people if these donuts were made fresh this morning? You wouldn’t be forced to quell the little voice inside your head that told you to respond “Yes and if you come back tomorrow I’ll be sure to throw you into the scorching Krispie Kreme conveyer belt we keep in the 10 x 10 foot back room we have!” You ponder: if you can do anything with an English degree, why can you do nothing with a Theatre degree? They’re not that far apart from one another. If you had majored in Religion would you have started one of your own by now? Why are you forced to wait another three months before you hear back from Admissions? You guarantee yourself that no one else could have applied before you. You ask some more. If hell exists can I just go there now while I wait for these people to stop dragging their frickin’ feet all damn day? You’d wonder why your boss’s boss drags his damn feet all the time, informing you in November that after the holidays you’ll get promoted, and then when that passes he tells you February. Then you look at your watch and it says that it’s already the 19th day of the 2nd month, so don’t hold your breath on that one either.

            This is when the tartan oval comes into play. Not familiar with this medieval torture device are you? Well, let’s put it this way: the Spanish Inquisition would have preferred this to the Iron Maiden. But this is no ordinary form of suffering. This is self-prescribed gut wrenching interval work, my friends. 8 sexy lanes of pure misery set against the backdrop of empty stadium seating that teases of the roars of the crowd come May! Twelve 400s, sixteen 300s, 8 by 800 meters. One mile under 5, followed by 2 twelves, 2 eights, and 2 fours. To hell with questions now! Your mind has no time for such things; it is trying to figure out the best way to get oxygen to your limbs because the normal way isn’t working. Questions be damned! You have a 400 to run under 70 followed by a 50 meter turn and burn. Who gives a crap about grad school!?!

            Then your mind gets in on the game. You can’t do this anymore it says. You haven’t caught your breath from the last calf splitting interval. This is when you start to talk back. You no longer ignore your mind like you have been your body. These are my legs not yours you scream so get used to it! Tomorrow you get a nice long 14 miler of recovery run. Let me have my time with this red oval. I’ll scratch my own name into it with the pounding of long spikes towards the depths of hell. Satan himself will go wide-eyed when he feels the heat coming off these teardrop thighs. You have no time for your insolent mind’s petty remarks.

            The smell of track season is in the air. The cool Panhandle Winter trying to hold onto you, but you already begin to feel the warmth of Spring on your shoulders. You know there is a PR waiting for you come the summer; you don’t put a time to it yet. It’s not ready, but you feel it nonetheless. This one will be worth waiting for, because it doesn’t require you to wait on someone else. This is your time, your sweat. This is your tartan oval. This is your 80-mile week.

            The wait is for the sedentary and their pedestrian motor vehicles.

            Questions be damned.
             

No comments:

Post a Comment