Fast time of getting way too high
cardboard cutout cowboy
Still it seems
like it doesn’t mean a thing.
— blair howerton
And then, of course, there are those other nights.
A huge moon, or possibly a Chinese spy balloon, floats aimlessly over the gumbo 5k course. While much of the country shivers, it’s a 70 degree evening that beckons.
A solitary duck is up to fowl play. A bike decked in neon cruises by in a solitary parade. The frisbee golfers hurry to get in one last round before the last last glimmer of dusk fades.
The air is a mix of marijuana and cotton candy. Soccer players, The Singing Guy and his chihuahua, fast runners on a speed session.
And on the home stretch, a conjunto band is performing in the gazebo while kids dance around and old guys in their cowboy finery sip a beer.
I’m on the first day of my 3,000th try at a Formal Marathon Training Plan. But if it doesn’t work out, that’s OK.
I have this run.