Tuesday, October 14, 2014

A wise man might say that running with a throng of sweaty people for 13.1 miles, in the very city where Ebola first attained domestic notoriety, may not be the best idea. But the half-marathon still feels way off, tucked away in the heart of December, and I don’t even know if I’ll be doing the event proper. Distance running scientifically sucks, even before you introduce the specter of pandemic, and on top of it all, the Tsarnaev doucherockets basically did for races what Osama did for air travel, so there’s that.

Training began today, with a 2.5-mile run with the Professor, and I was in far better shape than when I slogged through a 5K back in April. For whatever reason, a lot of what Shine told me about running, way back in college, came to mind: how the ideal posture, she explained, called for a straight back, arms comfortably at my sides, and thumb and pointer lightly touching, as if I were holding a potato chip. There was still some foot pain, and I mainly jogged in silence–talking, for me at least, breaks my focus and breathing rhythm. This was day one, though, and I’m sure matters will change.

I have ample time to do such things, too, because I’ve hit a dry spell in online dating. Still doing the same routine, but there are moments when the entire apparatus feels like a Skinner box without any treats in it. I’m in the wilderness period, no doubt about it, and all I can do is take a workmanlike approach and plod forward. A few weeks ago, I told you a trickle would suffice. Now, it’s more a question of doing one rain dance after another, even when naught falls from the sky but dust.