A brief and harmless experiment-interlude
Just trying to fit in, pharmaco-athletically and factwise
To better appreciate the current track climate, early this afternoon, I smoked approximately one half-bale of Colorado weed, reputedly the most potent in the world, and embarked on an easy run immediately afterward.
There were no appreciable sensory or other consequences, other than a distressing shift in the quality of my nasal discharge. At first, I noticed a slight darkening of otherwise ordinary snot-rockets. Within moments, these missiles increased in both mass and frequency, and quickly threatened to both impede my progress and unnecessarily damage the shared creekpath underfoot and undernose. These gelatinous chunks of THC-rich biomass soon reached the size of marbles, then golf balls, then softballs. On one side, then the other, they smashed into the creekpath like bigass frogs and spread kaleidoscopic tentacles of greenish-black goop for all to see.
I was creating a roving hailstorm of horrifying slimeballs—and there are no good kinds.
My dog, who five minutes into the run I was surprised to see running alongside, attached to the leash in my hand also running alongside, was aghast at first. But she graciously accommodated these changes as well as curious alterations to the color of the sky and the band from the Mos Eisley cantina jamming, or maybe just warming up, in the southbound breakdown lane of the Foothills Parkway. They were covering some of the later work of Procul Harum.
I waited a while after I finished before writing this, which I did because I wanted to inspire others to be empathetic toward the penalized with an outsized display of my own empathy. I know others can relate, but not as well. And sharing is caring.
Topics I am procrastinating about by doing this kind of shit: My perspective on what I expect the impending Olympics to “mean” to a typical longtime track viewer, recalling especially my own first experience watching Olympic athletics on TV in 1984 along with everything since; more unforced and intentional errors by a running-media types who charmingly combine an unwillingness to acknowledge their mistakes with an inability to stop making them, and how this going unpunished underscores the sport’s wider irrelevance for the foreseeable future; a woman who ran a sub-five-minute mile forty years ago, gave birth this year, and did predictably uncommon things in between; and perhaps a humble, if completely un-self-conscious, story about how I, again, do up to all of this for others.