Early morning mind regurgitations
December 23, 2001 ~ 2:51 p.m.
It�s no wonder I so often find myself drifting off into a trance-like la-la land whenever I run. If my protesting joints aren�t enough to make me wish for massive loads of serotonin, the colder-than-you-ever-imagined-Hell-would-be-once-it-freezes-over temperatures are. Gee, thanks for stopping by, Winter, good to see you again. Feel free to leave now. Please.
Anyhow, when you drag yourself across six or seven miles� worth of city streets and country sticks alike, you are confronted with the reality that you need to develop even the remotest of interesting thoughts inside your cranium, or pal, you just ain�t gonna make it. The bursting blood blisters on my feet stain my sneakers, my black athletic tights are streaked with the white of wind-driven road salt, the people at bus stops try to hop on me for a ride rather than wait any longer for their late buses, but that can�t keep my mind from operating. I think ... or did I leave my mind back at the apartment before I stepped out into this insanity known as The World Outside My Front Door? No mind, so never mind.I�ll illustrate this point�you can think pleasant thoughts to take your mind off the physical agony of appeasing the God of Fitness to help get you past it. You know, worthwhile observations such as: Will the wife really and truly kill me if I don�t get her a Christmas present? Is that Foxy Loxy just up ahead, and what did he do with Goosey Loosey? Is that the smell of diesel fumes, the algae-choked pond I�m running past, or am I just in bad need of an enema? You get the drift. Instead, I didn�t pursue any of these intellectual pursuits this morning. I thought about ... running.It�s official, I�m a nutcase. Cuckoo, ding dong, cuckoo, ding dongY�see, folks, I�ve been running a long time, since the age of fourteen. I have a Dial soap commercial to thank for that. The advertisement began with a clip of a guy running under the orange sky of dawn, and it looked like such a beautiful way to begin the morning, at least to the impressionable pubescent lad that I was, so I took up running. We�ll just overlook that fact that my first morning run was under the auspices of a threatening leaden grey sky. I decided I liked it. Of course, I had resilient young legs back then. These days, my 30-inch inseam beauties cry, We�re muscular enough. What more do you want from us? We demand retirement! No dice, me little pins, but your request will be sent to the circular file, never to be seen again. Like your friendly neighborhood politician, I simply don�t give a shit, but I�ll nod my head and pretend to listen all the same.It wasn�t long until I figured I was cut out for the rigors of cross-country. My high school team was Division II, but we often encountered competition from the cr�me de la cr�me: Division I. After meets in which we tore apart Division III teams and held close grudge matches against teams in our own division, we would travel to Lowell or Lawrence to take on the Division I guys. One word: Gulp. Didn�t matter one bit whether it was Lowell or Lawrence, we knew a meet against either team was an automatic loss for us. These top-seeded teams always consisted of small guys from the local projects whose little legs provided them with a rate of speed so astonishing, it would leave Superman open-mouthed. We hated those annoying little buggers, but also feared them. They were tough.At the end of one particular race against Lowell in my senior year, I came in third place. Our coach would conduct a roll call at the end of every race, and, much like every other race against Lowell he had witnessed in his fifteen years of coaching, he never expected to have one of his own runners come forward with a number lower than 10th place. It was always the little guys from Division I who claimed the top spots. I still remember the look of shock on coach�s face when he called �number three,� and I stepped forward.�Holy sh ... kid, you deserve something for this. I don�t know what, but you do.��Well, coach, I did rather like the look of the MVP trophy you gave Griffin last year.�Coach was a nice guy, but he didn�t like to be told. �Hit the showers, kid!� he barked.At the end of the day, I boarded the school bus home. The football jocks would throw the pigskin around the bus the whole trip home, but on this particular day, I decided I�d had enough of that childish tomfoolery, and I intercepted a pass and refused to give the ball back. The thought of being turned inside out by these hulking giants didn�t seem to occur to me, but luckily, one of them recognized me. �Hey, it�s the kid who came in third place against Lowell!� It turns out the football team had stopped practice to watch the end of the race. They�d seen everything. Furthermore, the football team had its own troubles with their Lowell counterparts. One 6-foot, 2-inch goon stepped forward, leaned in close to me and announced with sulfuric breath, �You may be a long-haired geek, but you did the school proud today!� Well, I was just so touched, I gave him back his football.Ah, those were the days. The school bus was a madhouse during the mornings as well. We had a bus driver named Rocky, who was a good sport and took our heckling in stride. He gave back as good as he got. We used to sing him a song. It went like this: We love you, Rocky Oh, yes we do We love you, Rocky No-one like you You are an asshole That�s true Oh, Rocky FUCK YOU!You always knew what Rocky would do next, and he never disappointed. He would wink roguishly at us in the rear-view mirror, kiss his middle finger and extend it, and announce, �Kiss my ass!�We would roar with laughter, Led Zeppelin would be playing at a volume loud enough to shake the bus off its tires, and marijuana would hang in the air like a fine mist. Those guys were true bad-asses, and I�m proud to say I found my way into their clique. Yet, here�s the thing�I remained a geek at heart. I maintained a grade point average equal to a B+ and went on to college. Now, the rest of those guys are probably asking on a daily basis, �you want fries with that?� or �check your oil?�This is what I thought about as I avoided ice patches and erratic drivers on my trot through suburban London this morning. Next time, I will think more seriously about ways to save the world. But it�s just a little tough on my brain. What little of it I�ve got left, that is.Oh, yes, before I forget. I did end up winning the MVP trophy that year.� M.E.M.
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Copyright � 2001-2007 by M.E. Manning. All material is written by me, unless explicitly stated otherwise by use of footnotes or bylines. Do not copy or redistribute without my permission.
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