Runs Like A Slug

I decided to go to the track this morning and run. I don't normally run - it's very dull and painfull - but I do want to develop a certain level of cardio-vascular fitness to go with the ability to lift heavy weights, and nothing about my eating habits over the last week has done anything to improve my health. Having said that, this running thing is most assuredly NOT a New Year's Resolution. The way I see it you either decide you want to do something or you don't; the date ain't going to make any difference.

Anyway, running is a miserable way to spend time and all the weight lifting doesn't help. Most of the runners I know are skinny people who bounce along effortlessly and gracefully while I drag my giant carcass behind. This kind of display is best not done in front of neighbors and people who ever have to look at you with a straight face, so I dragged my carcass down to the track, where I could enjoy the company of other slug-like creatures desperately seeking a healthier lifestyle.

Well, let me tell you, it was fucking cold this morning. I knew the temperature was well below freezing before I went out, but I had not figured on the extra chill from the unusually strong winter winds. It was a wonderful bright morning, made more peaceful by the legions of hangover sufferers still in bed, and the only sound was that of the wind attempting to pull light poles out of the ground. I stepped out of my truck and my jacket nearly blew away. In an instant my testicles retreated inwards like startled puppies and I pulled on my hat while muttering unpleasant words. About ten yards from the truck I decided to go back for gloves, figuring that the risk of looking like a pussy was one I was willing to take in order to ensure that I would keep my fingers. (The list of things you cannot do without fingers is long indeed, and includes tying your shoes, wiping your arse and playing with breasts, none of which I was planning to give up in 2008.)

So I staggered around the track for about half an hour. The other slugs quickly left, possibly because of the cold, but more likely to avoid the risk that they would be the one required to resuscitate me if I collapsed. After about twenty minutes I could feel my fingers again, and my heart rate monitor eventually kicked in and informed me that against all odds I was not dead yet. I made it back to the truck and pulled the door closed to shut out the wind. The sudden silence and relative warmth were good, but my testes were in no mood to trust that I was not about to throw them out in the cold again.

Now back home, I feel that special righteousness that comes from doing extra exercise, and which ususally leads to bonus food consumption. Fortunately all the turkey has been eaten but there's still half a Christmas cake and some Cadbury's biscuits. At this rate I'll be the fastest fat wanker on the track by Easter.


Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison