Isn’t it funny how running colors your outlook on life? We were at our favorite bar/fish and chips/concert place today and this sticker had appeared on the window.
Of course my first thought was of the unfortunate demise of Justin BeeBee in Arizona (his barfing there on Saturday apparently was a good luck mojo for the Cardinals, who won there the next day in OT. I’m thinking new team mascot.)
But then I thought about all the runs I’ve barfed in. I have thrown up in the finish chutes of 5ks, in the family meeting areas of marathons, on the side of the track in 24-hour runs and pretty much everywhere I’ve ever put a running shoe.
Once at the Whiskey Row Marathon in Arizona, I was in desperate need to part ways with the Gatorade in my system. I was three feet away from a large trash barrel in the town square when a homeless guy beat me to it. He poked around for what seemed like hours looking for aluminum cans before finally moving on and allowing me to do my business. I have always wondered what it would have been like for him if I had gotten there first. I don’t think recycled cans are worth it.) Lordy, I enjoy a good round of projectile vomiting. I’m guessing the sticker on the window was put there for shock value. In my case, it brought only a contented sigh and a lot of warm and fuzzy memories.
Nice outing today on the track. The Soccer Boys were out for entertainment purposes, and I accidentally started the same time as Garrison Keillor. What more could you ask for in one hour? Maybe little less Minneapolis Opera. And a little more vomit. Oh, well.
4 miles, track, 4 p.m. (82-66, 148!! yay!)
14:25, 14:31, 14:38, 14:36