The year was 1984. I had just finished up the annual high school 2 mile run. For me it was a 2 hr walk/jog to watch girl's asses sway. One mile down the dirt road into the woods and back again. For the track coach and his minions, it was a chance to show why they were tops in the state. At the time I hated track. I knew little about it, but I hated the notion of running in circles. Someone mentioned cross country. In my feeble mind I thought they meant running through the woods. Hell, I thought, I have been running cross country all my life! It made sense at the time.
It must be mentioned at this point, that the coach and I had a history. You see he was also the wrestling coach. One of my best friends made the state finals every year, and I was one of his favorite training partners. Thanks to years of getting stretched several times a week, not only could I wrestle, I was pretty good. It would appear, however, that scoop slamming and spiking coache's WWF wanna be superstar into the mat does not garner the favor one would expect. Needless to say, he was not a fan. So, come cross country time, I was flatly rejected. Literally, I never took the first step. Not being one to let a good vendetta pass by, I began running in earnest. The original plan was set for 1985's run, but there was an exceptionally nice gathering of asses that year. So, the date was pushed forward.
Welcome to 1986. At this point I have been running six miles per day for two years. Thirty minutes per day is a small price to pay for retribution. My legs looked like a one of those Kenyan's, long and slender. I would never beat you over fifty yards, but I would run you down eventually. The race took longer than I wanted, because I had to follow a second coach down to the turn around. So, the first mile was well below my normal pace, and all the cross country minions were there with me. About one hundred yards before the turn around I bid coach #2 adieu and broke out in a sprint. I just tucked my head and watched the dirt road passing under my feet. No time for ass watching, I had a mission to complete.
Three quarters dead I came in across the line and crashed in what to this day is the coolest patch of grass I had ever encountered. I looked up at coach and asked my time and he accused me of cheating. If I could have moved my arms, I would have nut punched him right there. After a few minutes I got my breath back and his minions started to appear and crowd my patch of grass. I sat for what felt like forever before coach #2 shows up to confirm I did indeed make the run. Fuck head never did tell me my time, but fuck him I whipped all his minion's asses!
The point of recounting this long visit with the past is to explain the following statement: Holy hell I am out of shape! Turning 46 and not being depressed enough I decide to visit the gym. Sadly they have 0 free weights, dumbbells top out at 50lbs, and the machines don't go above 150lbs, so lifting something ridiculously heavy and feeding my macho was out of the question. Enter the treadmill. There was this button that said '5k.' Why not said the wide man. I used to run twice that!
Off goes the fat man on a 3 mile run. It took the better part of 1/2 hr to complete it and I am pretty certain I died at the 2 mile mark. I was soaked in sweat and breath was at a burning premium. At the 3 mile mark, forget the tank, the whole fn world was empty. So much for feeding macho. It looks like the fat man's running days are done. | 
