Last night I decided the conditions were right for me to go for a little run, which means there was no one in the neighborhood that was out and about, meaning there was no one to thrust a beer, cigar or any other legal implement of destruction in my hand. Who knows, maybe I was inspired by the Olympics. One other thing I should note is that I describe the run as "little." I almost used the adjective "quick", but truth be told there wasn't anything quick about it.
I decided to use the running method highlighted in the best selling book, "Born to Run" by Christopher McDougall which suggests that runners should run on the balls of their feet or their toes, especially when going long distances. Considering my mini marathon would take me on a trek in excess of two...yes two, miles I figured I'd employ the toe running thing. The reality of it is, if you ask anyone that I grew up with, they'd tell you that my brothers and I walked on our toes anyway, so no real risk.
I ran at a slow pace and pranced through the streets of Dover like a big over sized, bald gazelle, and my legs felt great, but I started to experience a little discomfort in my chest. The mild burning worried me for a second especially when I remembered that said author Christopher McDougall had died on a run, but I was quickly comforted by a more recent memory. This memory was of myself just minutes before my run, standing in front of an open refrigerator eating 3 or 4 slices of cheap bologna bathed in cheap yellow mustard. Was that mustard or retard?
I pressed on, and with no music to inspire or distract me I skipped closer to home. I ran down a side street and took a right just as an ice cream truck took a left onto my street. I ran into my neighborhood which was now occupied by friends and neighbors who watched what appeared to be yours truly chasing the Ice Cream man. The sad thing is no one thought this remarkable.
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