[ed. note: In my continuing effort to make blogging more efficient, here is another entry that I tricked someone else into writing for me. This time I answered the riddle of a small trollish woman, and in return she had to write this post.]
My get-speedy-or-die trying race schedule for 2012/13 seems to be well intact at this point.
I have a kickass coach/slave driver/pace booty/sidekick (Danielle, DUH) to organize my agenda and tell me what to do and where to go.
I feel like I should be ready to kick ass and take names on the super speedy!
Bad news. We are about to start the journey down the long, cold, sad road into winter. Or, as I prefer to call it the start of my Jabba The Hut eating plan of excellence. I like nothing more than to than to dive face first into a vat of spinach and artichoke dip (diving equals excellent swimming training!) or perhaps running (speed training!) to the fridge to double fist a couple of Bud Lights.
Nothing would please me more than to spend the majority of the winter holed up in my burglar proof apartment doing just that. Alas, I feel that at the end of my winter long sloth fest when I reemerged sometime in April (or june, who’s really paying attention!) not only would I be bursting from my Ironman finishers jacket but I’d also be terribly slow.
For quite some time now I have been enjoying the view from the top. I love to brag about how I’m the speedy one in my group of friends. My lethal and deadly skills, sharp wit and scathing verbiage push me to the front of the pack with ease. I have tremendously enjoyed laying claim to the top dog prize in my hood, and up until this point have felt that I could maintain my amazing prowess despite my diet of pizza and grilled cheese.
I have recently lost my crown. Dethroned at the pinnacle of my career by a tiny speedy brat who on first glance appears to be a 10 year old boy stuck in a wild disarray of running attire. Upon eating her dust at Great Bay last year I realized that I was going to have to man up in a big way if I wanted to be on the top of the fast friends podium ever again…
My motivation to train like a BOSS this winter? FEAR!!! And FEAR HAS A NAMEEEEEE!!! (Andy! This is where you add a picture of me looking badass! Steal one from FB, NOT a bikini pic but something scary! Or, you can just leave this text in and people can imagine my scary race face… *sigh*)
[ed. note: This is what you were really looking for isn’t it. You’re welcome.]
Since everything in life is a competition I plan to become insanely fast as playing second fiddle to a barely 5 foot tall smart mouth girl is simply unacceptable.
I asked her about her training plan at one point and she advised me to sit about, eating all the cheesecake and drinking quite a bit of wine. I was able to see thru her scheme to turn me into a 300 pound fatty and I went back to my almost a vegan diet as quickly as I could, just to spite her. (and she went on to eat and drink her way to a BQ, how ridiculous!!!!)
I was hoping that she would vanish from our group of runners as swiftly as she had run in, leaving me to reclaim my thunder (ok, if somebody steals your thunder you can take it back. so hush) However, she has used her womanly wiles to infiltrate all my friends, even going as far as dating my brother (and refusing to divulge his training plan!!! the nerve!!)
There is nothing that motivates a man like shame. And having all my non-high school (which was well over 30 years ago) PR’S smashed by this little troublemaker is making me question my manhood.
I plan to steal her training plan for the winter, adding in ridiculous and questionable tasks like swimming endless laps (boring) riding my bike on a dumb trainer (retardo to the max) but most importantly, trying to run 100 miles a week across the frozen tundra. I feel that insanely high mileage will benefit me in every way and certainly not lead to injury (sidelining me for the season, effectively keeping me from challenging my most worthy opponent…) (and the “author” says.. “HEH HEH”)
So there you have it. Let’s recap, shall we?
-Must not continue to have my hat handed to me by little girls in pink socks
-Must run 100 miles a week
-Must eat ALL the cheesecake and drink ALL the wine! And/or ALL the Bud Light!
-Must take back my rightful place as the fast one in the group!!!!!
-ER or PR bitches!
(or, just curl up in bed, cry, and accept the cold hard fact of life which- is that it is HIGHLY unlikely that I’ll be allowed to be the fastest ever again. But I can swim, SO THERE!!)
[ed. note: Game. On.]