Holy Shit My Shoe
For the last several years I’ve kept close that were of a
smaller size in the hopes that I would be able to wear them again someday, this
included a dozen pairs of shoes. The
other day I was looking for a pair of black business casual shoes, when I put
on a pair that I hadn’t worn in years. I
noticed two big issues right away, first I had to tighten down the laces significantly
in order for the shoes to feel like they were snug on my feet, and second the
soles felt kind of strange on my feet.
The little bit of discomfort I experienced was a big enough
deal for me to change my shoes, especially because I needed the boost to my
confidence in knowing that I was wearing shoes that not too long ago would not
have fit on my feet, that’s right I was so obese I had fat feet.
For most of this day I walked around without much though,
but occasionally I would take a strange step where my right foot would want to
roll sideways, or I’d put pressure on my heel and it would feel like I was
stepping on something.
When I got home, I decided the issues were large enough that
I didn’t want to wear them anymore, so I took them off to put into a pile of
clothing I was planning on donating, when I noticed this:
I cracked the sole, there was so much downward pressure from
my fat body, that the shoe decided it wasn’t worth living and off’ed itself.
It made me thankful for how far I’ve come along, and was a
further realization that I don’t want to ever be that way again. The amount of pressure and stress I must have
been causing my joints and muscles is unfathomable.
The joke’s just write themselves…
Jingle All The Way 8K
It is no secret, running is stupid. As the only natural human defense mechanism,
it should only be used when running away from wild animals, or foreign invaders. Quite simply it is a meaningless act that is
even more meaningless when not escaping certain danger; it’s become the quintessential
form of masturbation.
Maybe’s the desire to stay lean, or constantly play with
myself, but I find myself running all the time, while hating myself for doing
it. Since my shoulder injury earlier
this year I’ve used CrossFit Endurance, and the programming that Tes has
provided as a way to stay in shape, lean out a bit, and stay on target when it
comes to my eating.
For me there is a great deal of synergy between my workouts,
and how I eat. The cleaner I eat, the
better I feel, the harder I workout, the more I improve. When my food intake does take a nose dive and
I start eating stuff like Cheesecake, or Emily’s Pumpkin Pie has somehow fixed
all the issues with Pumpkin Pie, I’d eat that shit only using my face to get
the pie into my mouth, I have one good workout and I’m back to normal. It’s like the scales of fatness get balanced with
a Metcon, or a series of intervals. This
balancing of my psychosis is the only reason I run.
Last Friday I am slammed with work which included trying to
make decisions on major yearend purchases in order to lower our tax liability,
and improve our operations. At some
point in the afternoon my good buddies from CFE start calling me out asking me
why I’m not doing this Jingle All The Way 8k, and then Matt R. pipes in that
there’s only 30 minutes left to register, and that I should register.
It was like I was in black fog of peer pressure, as my
wallet pulled out of my back pocket, and I reached for my debit card. As I entered the numbers into the Pacers registration
page, I typed as quickly as possible,
like I was taking down a distasteful bit of medication, then without a thought
I hit enter and paid for my place.
That night I went out and started to drink…I am by nature a
lush, which is why I don’t drink that often, but things being what they were, I’m
sure the anxiety run played a role in my drinking. Like usual when I get shitfaced, everyone
else around me was casually drinking, so I was that guy, and at some point while
out with the some PCF’ers I pinky swore with Ms. Cupcake that I’d be at the 10
AM WoD the next day.
This is me after drunk texting triple L, and talking smack about to her about the WoD the next day, this is how I waited for my woman to escort me home. Bask in my awesomeness readers.
The rest of the time leading up to the race went like this…
Saturday Wake Up Feel Like Shit…
Do the WoD…Feel Like Throwing Up During the Wod…Dry Heave
while doing burpee box jumps…scar my left shin while jumping into the box…end
WoD and mentally checkout after brunch with PCF’ers at Green Pig Bistro…a few
times while at Green Pig I know people said something to me, but I just starred
at them, and gave them uncomfortable silence.
All Day Saturday…”WHY THE FUCK AM I RUNNING?”
Go to bed early.
Sunday Morning Wake Up to texts, and facebook messages about
people backing out of the race. After a
good half hour of back and forth texts between my Punting CFE Buddies and Matt
R. the decision was made to run the race.
Basically after all the CFE’ers punted, that’s right when it was first
and goal they said fuck it let’s punt and see what happens, something about
rain, and sickness, so I left my fate in the hands of the running gods, and
told Matt I’ll do whatever your wife decides.
As most things in my life, I left the decision for that day
to a woman. If it wouldn’t be considered
creepy I’m pretty sure I’d still let my sister and mom pick out my clothes
The race turned out to be a decent time, if you consider
hating yourself for 40 minutes, so you can spend the last 3 and half pushing
yourself past the point of hate into self-loathing. It was a flat course that started at Freedom Plaza,
and ended back at Freedom Plaza after a loop near the Capitol, and some short
out and backs.
It was interesting to see all the people running in Santa
Outfits, which included a guy who ran in a Santa costume and juggled the entire
race. There was even one guy who ran in
a suit with loafers, he was hauling, and I was captivated by his locks of
flowing golden hair, and chiseled chin…was that out loud?
The first half of the race for me wasn’t so bad, it was
relatively cold, and the first two miles served as a warm up, I’m sure I kept
to a 9-10 minute mile. At the halfway
point I picked up the pace, and took off my sweatshirt. I found myself working significantly harder,
and I actually started to pass people.
Between miles three and four I felt shitty. I never reached a point of wanting to quit,
but I just felt like I could use a break, but when I turned the corner and saw
the 4 mile marker, those feelings went away, it was that or the fact that some
doucher was obnoxiously singing Christmas Carols, nobody wants to get their
assed kicked to a soundtrack, especially a poorly sung one.
The final 600-800 meters I pushed myself as fast I
could. My legs at this point were
smoked, and the only thing pushing me through the final stretch of time was the
desire to overcome the pain, and my self-loathing.
In the end I finished in 43:25 which comes to about an 8:41
mile. I’m happy with the time, but and
glad I did the run, but I still think running is fucking stupid.