He’s there again, running along next to me.
In my mind, he’s a little green guy. Sort of like the spirit that tags along with Ed in a shaman episode of “Northern Exposure.” Tiny legs, long hair, miniature Hokas. Hopefully they’re cheaper in small sizes.
I set out for another 10, but he’s not feeling it. He yawns and points out that our legs are feeling dead. Not enough sleep. Not enough coffee. Not enough.
I reason with him. Just one 10-minute mile and then we’ll coast. He won’t budge. It’s just a silly run, he says. It should be your day off anyhow, and you have to work. Screw it. Let’s phone it in.
In the end, that’s what we do. I rumble along in the Rodeo Clown Shoes, running because I have to. The second two miles are just pretend running — walking the hills and pondering what it must be like to be Fiona Apple on tour and busted at the Sierra Blanca checkpoint for being a star. Do they know nothing about Fiona? She NEEDS that pot, people!
And so we compromise, as we so often do. An OK run with a little green guy. My legs will recover, my sleep will return, I will endure Friday night football and retire with Fiona and a glass of wine.
Life is not so bad. And not so bad is pretty good.
See you tomorrow, little green guy. Think about a 10 maybe, OK?
3 miles, bbl, noon (84-65, 149)
11:05, 13:13, 13:18