8 on the 8th

I joined Nancy’s virtual race and did 8 miles on the…7th. It still counts. Look it up. Nancy’s been running these virtual races for over a year now. If you haven’t joined, what’s your problem? Maybe you really are the jerk all the rest of us think you are (but don’t tell you.)

This lined up perfectly with the 8 miles I had on my Detroit Marathon training schedule!

The plan: 8 limbo miles.
The pace: The first 5 miles averaging 6:50 with the last 3 around 6:40.
The running goal: Beat 54:00
The non-running goal: Compose a respectable Shakespearean sonnet featuring Carrot Top.

Really, once the legs get in motion, the brain starts unraveling like a ball of yarn rolling off sleeping grandma’s lap. I get no further than ‘I doth look on thee orange top...’ and I’m already thinking of other things. Alas, the sonnet will never finish!

Instead, I’m back to imagining tanks. And things blowing up. Like usual. Pretty soon, I descend to my normal running stupor fantasy: A dinner party featuring Chuck Norris, Steven Seagal, Bruce Lee, Aquaman, and Robert Goulet. Sharp knives. Shifty eyes. Nasty attitudes. It’s always Goulet that makes the first move. The fool. I dispatch him with a kick to the throat. He staggers back and slowly chokes away in the corner on his own Adam’s apple. What’s he doing at a fight with guys like Bruce Lee and me (resident ninja) anyway?

Aquaman holds his own against Seagal. I tire of their slapfest and drop a net on them. Aquaman flops around on the floor beneath the net. Seagal’s pony tail is caught. They’re immobilized.

Chuck, Bruce, and I are in a bit of a Mexican standoff. The junior varsity has been dispatched. Time for the big boys to tussle. Bruce shrieks and jumps in the air between Chuck and I, legs extended outward, for a double kick to finish us both. It’s risky. And a poor plan. Chuck and I grab each leg and wrench upwards breaking them at the hips. He can now be used as an end table.

As usual, it’s down to Chuck Norris and I. We circle the room growling each with a broken table leg from the overturned dinner table held out. Mine has a nail on the end with a bit of turkey stuck to it. It doesn’t distract Chuck. He’s a pro’s pro.

I lunge going for the impalement. Chuck swings his table leg. I notice – out of the corner of my eye – what appears to be Dick Beardsley jumping through the window with a cutlass clenched between his teeth….

And I’m done. Eight miles in the books.

8.0 miles
53:49 time
6:44 pace

Chuck and I will do battle another day. Another time. Forever.

Thanks to Marathon Mama (recent post) and someone else, sorry couldn’t remember who, that placed a Chuck Norris reference in my comments for the Dinner Party/Chuck Norris thought.

_________________________________

Stop by and visit Runner's Lounge as they interviewed a very, VERY interesting fellow for open mic Friday. And sign up to be a lounger if you haven't done so already. It's fast, free, fun, and formative (think "informative" but this word kind of blew the cool alliteration I had going.) You can link to me in the lounge and we can be creepy internet friends together.

_________________________________

SLASH, the autobiography, is complete! It didn't take nearly as long as Don Quixote. Of course, had Don Quixote mainlined Oxycontin HIS book might have been a bit more interesting. Who's fault is that? For a drug fueled, sex riddled, rock story, it's pretty interesting. If you are not in to those kinds of things, stay away. It's probably best that you don't know how his entire band got crabs anyway. It scores a solid A- for rocker autobiography.

Portnoy's Complaint, by Philip Roth, is also complete! This was way more funny and risque than I thought it would be. In fact, thirty pages in, I remember thinking: If folks ever start banning books again, this has to be near the top of the list. Portnoy! What a messed up perv. It scores a B. You tire of the non-stop stream of neuroses though after awhile.

I'm in the market for the next read.