"You have to be fucking kidding me!"

I ran for 58 minutes one town over in Louisville today -- well, 61 after a couple of surprisingly snappy strides -- after helping a friend who lives there square away some wireless printer/firewall/network issues. I was tired; I've been allocating my energies to an unusual variety of vocational and other projects since coming back from Massachusetts, and my after-work-hours life hasn't been at all relaxing. In addition to feeling the weight of my days, I was also sore -- my legs just felt beat up, the bones and gristle more than the muscles, that kind of deep moaning that feels more flu-like than exercise-induced. I just felt ancient and worn out. It didn't help that much of the run was on concrete paths and sidewalks, that I don't care for the the new shoes I was wearing, and that I could feel my infamous left ankle complaining just a tiny bit. I didn't push, but still felt beat regardless of how much I kept easing off the gas.

OK. You get it. Annoying day, crappy run. I could have said as much and moved on, or just not said it and waited for a nice workout to say anything at all,

Anyway, I measured the loop I did using the Milermeter site. Bad, bad mistake. I figured it would be at least X miles, but instead it was Y, with Y < X by such a startling amount that I had to re-measure to see if I'd missed a street or something. Nope. I was so immediately, disproportionately infuriated that I almost jabbed a hole in my laptop screen with the back end of a spoon. Instead, I barked "You have to be fucking kidding me!" in a very Tiger Woods-like way, right here in the back of Whole Foods, where people could swivel my way, scowl, and perhaps judge me as inferior to most others they had come into contact with over time. In return, I gave them a piercing, threatening stink-eye. (Actually, I don't think anyone cared. Or found me reminiscent of Tiger.)

I was left thinking that, in all seriousness, if this becomes at all representative of my daily jogs -- and I admit that there's no reason to think that it will -- I'm going to quit and find a hobby that doesn't both piss me off and force me to do more laundry and take more showers than I otherwise would. I could start by spending more time volunteering or working on my equally piss-poor novel. Yeah, I used to say I was quitting at least once a week and never did, but at this point I've had a sufficient number of extended layoffs that I know I could manage it, especially if I start eating marijuana. And speaking of drugs, I just remembered I'm on one that can cause serious myalgia in the 24 to 48 or so hours after it's administered -- as a shot in the ass. I received mine yesterday afternoon. I won't say what it is because at least one of you morons is surely intrepid and motivated enough to figure it out, and if I'm going to waste all this time writing this crap, I'm going to cast forth some de facto assignments to keep you people busy wasting time as well.

What if I do quit running -- and not just "training," but the easy daily constitutionals that comprise the bulk of my mileage and enjoyment of moving about in this monotonous way? And in the bargain, quit paying attention to elite road and track racing, the local fun fast chicks, even my own nephew? Today is hardly the first time the idea's come to mind in recent months despite my having missed only one day of running since about January 15. It's hard to find completely new sources of entertainment at age 45. I can practically hear myself getting older by the day and turning into your archetypal cranky old man instead of just an everyday profane lout.

When I run with others, I ponder the fact that no one in the group is considering the fact that they are quite possibly part of the very last run of Kevin Beck's life. Not too much hubris there. Shit-fire.

Perhaps this was not the best time to start a running blog again. On the other hand: perfect.