Running against traffic at night time. The headlights are blinding, like a spotlight following on the stage that is the sidewalk. In my bright, highly visible shirt I can’t help but hope that the motorists see me and take note. You know, so they don’t hit me.
Then, as I reach down, I kind of hope that I become invisible, for I am doing something that is the antithesis of the graceful runner depicted on the cover of magazines, in advertisements, and in stock images everywhere. I am picking the shorts out of my crotch.
As the run intensifies, heading ever further up a steep hill, the only thing outweighing the burning in my chest is the burning of my thighs. To help me push the pace and take my mind off the cardiac discomfort, I begin to count the steps I will take until the next inevitable time I will have to pick the shorts out of my crotch. I experiment–longer strides, more creep up, shorter strides, a little less. Either way, 30 steps in and I gotta get them out.
“Fucking shorts,” I mutter out loud as I try to cowboy run so the shorts unbunch.