It was a beautiful morning for a run.
Sunny and cool, with a slight breeze. A mostly-flat route, with a potential hill-filled detour if I was feelin' cocky.
Perfect for letting my mind wander. Luckily it sent postcards from the road....
My old buddies the cows have stopped grazing to watch me. It really creeps me out when they stare like that. Wait a minute, they're turning... turning... and Holy Crap! They're out-sprinting me! Damn show offs.
Now they've stopped to wait for me. Have you ever heard a cow laugh?
Not cool, cows. It's a marathon-ish, not a sprint.
The farm dog has a better memory than the cows. He takes his own sweet time, meanders out to the edge of the driveway, sits down, yawns, scratches, takes out a Thermos of coffee, opens up the paper, shakes his head at the grain futures report, and gives a half-hearted “Woof” as I run by.
Then another “woof” just for good measure.
Not cool, dog. I'm running as fast as I can.
Smart-ass dogs suck.
Running downhill! Yay!
On a rutted, washed-out dirt road!
Dirt roads suck.
It's a long, slow decline with a short, steep incline. Steep like "climbing out of a ditch" steep. Like "where's the ladder" steep.
Morris Day launches into “The Bird” on my playlist (Honest. I couldn't make this up):
“Last call for alcohol/ If you ain't got what you want/You got to get the hell up outta here!”
Thanks for the boost, Morris!
Popping up over a hill rocks.
Finally get to leave the gravel roads behind.
I have to make a choice. Should I take the flat, shady trail, or the sunny, quarter-mile-long hill?
Hill it is.
The good thing about going uphill is that eventually you get to go down hill.
Forgot that this side-route has more hills. Lots more hills.
If I finish six miles, I can have a cup of coffee and half a monster-sized cinnamon roll.
Another freakin' hill?
Make that the whole cinnamon roll.
Cinnamon rolls rock.
I have a cramp in my ass. Who gets a cramp in their ass?
How can my ass cramp up when it feels like it's bouncing around back there like a basketball?
Wait a minute, it's only the left side that's cramping and bouncing. The right side feels... nothing.
Holy Crap! My ass cheeks have merged into one giant, lop-sided, crampy basketball.
Ass cramps suck.
The end is near.
Not near enough.
This run was too far.
It's taken too long.
I've outlasted my playlist and my iPod has switched to shuffle. It's like musical Russian roulette at this point.
And the winner is (I shit you not): Billy Joel's “I Don't Know Why I Go To Extremes.”
Me neither Mr. Joel. Me neither.
I DO know finishing a 7.5 mile run ROCKS!
I'ma hava cinnamon roll!
And a steak!
Take that you smart-ass cows.