I ran 9 miles today. 8 steady then a Tabata Protocol. (This particular link says the Tabata P sounds like “tantric sex” and I think that might be a bit much. But ask Gary Snyder [gee thanks, Jack K].) Anyway, I’ve been doing my research and I think this workout is actually valid, but I don’t believe research so just add the Tabata Protocol to the end of my old-school (meaning it takes a while and fucking hurts) workouts.
Some runner said lazy is when you say you are tired when you are not truly tired. So I suggest you just add this to your workouts. Sounds weird, but you can. You’re not really that tired. Come on. Just add this on the end, like an acorn.
Anyway, I feel exhausted now. Legs all window pane, volts behind my right ear. Pitch-fork handle in my back. Case of the yawns. But, amazingly, my hamstring felt OK today. Usually it is tight as Chilean desert twine, or is it wine? Can wine be tight?
(This guy at my house who cleans Spackle off robots for a living): “Dude, this wine be tight. I mean I am feeling it like Madonna.”
(This woman at my house who stacks oranges): “Way tight. I mean watching-an-American-win-the-French-Open tight.”
(Me, reclined. I am wearing slippers made from Velveeta cheese): “Yeh, it’s Chilean. Chile is the new Australia. Australia is the new silver and black. Silver and black is the new pink. So I mean this wine is pink.”
Speaking of RUNNING.
The Fresh Air Fund is still looking for runners and sponsors to join the Fresh Air Fund-Racers team for the NYC Half-Marathon on August 16.
Are you in shape?
Can you help?
Do you like pain the way barefoot likes a field of wheat?
Link here: RUN KINDA FAR.
I am heading to the backwoods. They don’t have computers. Everyone is a squirrel. Squirrels don’t give a damn about computers.
Ha, ha, very funny image (if you are age 4)! Idiot. God. I look at my reflection in the mirror and retch.
Aside: I asked my grandfather once how to clean a new gun (a new gun is packed in certain oils and has instructions about cleaning and maintenance and safety and so on before you actually use the gun) and my GF looked at me like I was fucking stupid, or like I just pulled a purple bullfrog out my ear, and he grabbed the gun and loaded it and walked out to the red brick front porch and shot it in the night, straight up at this big-ass silver dollar moon, and handed the gun back to me and said, “There-you-go.”
A photo of my uncle and me, dancing. I think this was a Depeche Mode day.
(we all want to form our own little religions, don’t we?)