Oh my holy hell, y’all, I have a stock tip for you. Ibuprofen. Yes, sales of ibuprofen are going to go through the roof within the next few months. When I’m lying on the apartment floor after a run, Mr. Dingo thinks I’m practicing my visualization — you know, “seeing” myself completing the marathon, imagining having a great workout, all that New Age mumbo jumbo that scientist begrudgingly admit is important in helping us achieve our goals. So far, my visualization has included picturing myself getting off the floor and going into the kitchen for a beer. What usually happens is that I end up begging Mr. Dingo for some ibuprofen with a beer chaser.
What, you think that beer is not an appropriate workout beverage? I should be swilling Gatorade perhaps? You forget, my friends, that I will be running this marathon in Florence. Beer is just the first step in my post-marathon training. I need to be able to hold my liquor when I go out for the celebratory binge meal after the race. I would hate to embarrass you, my fellow countrymen, by falling face first into my plate of pasta after only one cask bottle glass of wine. So, in order to prepare for the post-race festivities, I am chewing ibuprofen and chugging beer. Why beer? Because, really, who drinks wine at 7:30 in the morning!? What, do you think I am an alcoholic?
My training plan is great. Before actually training for distance, the training manual I’m using prepares your body and your mind for the rigorous workout to come. Visualization and gradual increases in running time are on my agenda for the next few weeks before training for distance and speed. Right now, I’m running for five minutes and walking “briskly” for five minutes. I think briskly means slightly faster than a zombie lurch but slower than the mad dash during the Pamploma Running with the Bulls. Next week I jog for ten and walk briskly for five. You see the pattern here? This is the training plan that Wheaties used and now look at her — she’s competing in the Ironman in October. While I am immensely proud of her, the only Ironman I wanna do is Robert Downey, Jr.
Anyway, I’ve discovered that ibuprofen is my friend. I’ve already gone through a bottle and have sometimes wondered if it would ease my aches and pains faster if I ground it up first and snorted it through a dollar bill. Side note: I read that 80% of all paper currency in the US contains trace amounts of cocaine. Think about that the next time you are going through airport security and one of those friendly looking drug sniffing dogs comes your way
As I’m lying on the floor visualizing the ibuprofen levitating from the medicine cabinet into my hand, Mr. Dingo thinks I’m meditating. But I’m not. I’ve found religion. Yes, those “visualization” moments on my floor are actually prayers. I’m bargaining with God.
Me: God, if you just let me move my legs, I promise I’ll stop making fun of the woman who runs in high heeled sneakers. But I can’t promise that I won’t stare.
Me: Just a toe, God. If I could just move my right big toe, I’ll stop cursing the stroller mom who thinks it’s okay to talk on her cell phone while pushing her damn double stroller in the running lane taking up the entire path so that I have to go into the grass to go around her.
Me: Okay, since you’re God, you know that I’m lying. I won’t stop cursing her, but I will stop cursing in that fake under my breath way that’s loud enough for her to hear it.
Me: I got nothin’ else.
So, marathon training is going well. I’m actually enjoying it. To tell you the truth, I never thought I could run for five seconds and now I’m zooming along at the speed of erosion for five minutes at a time. I freakin’ rock!
(Get it? Erosion? Rock? Oh come on! That was funny!)