Saturday, March 24, 2007


Addictions to exercize can start with simple obsessions of technique, or preoccupations with the day's happenings, or cetera.

My father raced my family (&me) down Mt. Killington in '94, when it was a snowless summer, and he was on foot and we in chairlift chairs.

Once he began swearing (Dad got awfully embarrassed the time his 7-year-old son hissed "horseshit!" in a crowded store upon stubbing his toe on a set of shelves) -- once he started swearing we knew he was okay, though he did have to limp down 600 vertical feet or so with his busted left knee.

I'm a solid runner, (though I look faster than I am) and when I and my meticulously-placed-feet come up on some overpronated dilettante, passing as quickly as possible is the only way to remain comfortable in this therapeutic routine. Doing that with our knees would mean therapy we can't afford, me and my uninsured knees.

Today I cooked a loaf of banana bread and in tandem a loaf of orange bread. I programmed in Visual Basic until my eyes got dry. My bank account is going to give me digestive problems. And some dude who looks like a marathoner fucking housed on me halfway into my route, right at the big hilltop, before the Botanical Gardens.

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