Pancakes Then Running Is The Wrong Way Round

The title has nothing to do with the post except this happened on the run I just finished and, having finished, I'm feeling somewhat glurky in my stomach.

I was on the second, homeward half of my 6km run this morning. When I run my six, I really only have two choices: north to the Sunnyside Mall or South just past Fisherman's Market. On Tuesday I went south so today (just not for the halibut) I ran north.

On the way back, a car made a left-hand turn coming out of the mall where the Cora's is. There's two entrances/exits to that place: the safer one where you can use the left-hand turning lane and this one, the one farther south where this guy came out in his p.o.s. Neon and almost got creamed by a "Vans on the Go" Van which is, you should know, a really big truck.

The guy driving the van hit the brakes and blew his horn.

The passenger in the Neon raised his arm out the window and gave him the finger.

Yeah.

I thought I'd like to have a word with this guy.

Yes, I thought, maybe next time the guy driving the van could just never mind about the braking and the blowing his horn (so annoying!) and just run over you. And maybe it might not kill your stupid ass and you'd only get so busted up you could still stick your middle finger up through all the broken safety glass and let him know that somehow HE'S still the idiot, the guy in the van, not you (asshole)or maybe you might have your back broken and you'll only be able to weakly whisper at him with harsh gasping breaths, "Fuck you, you fuck," or maybe you'd just be dead next time, that would learn him.

Fucking moron.

It amazes me and it galls me that there are so many idiots driving other people into peril and they, THEY have the nerve to react angrily to the person who's lifespan he's just been shortened by five years or so. To get the fuck-you finger from the idiot who was in the wrong in the first place.

So as soon this was done (left-hand turn, horn, finger) the Neon had to stop for the red light at the end of Union street, me running up beside him.

So you'd like to have a word with this guy?

Well, here's your chance.

I get up next to him and I can see the guy in the passenger seat. He's some Whiskey-Tango gangster type, wearing a hip-hop ball cap with the wide, flat brim, weird funky facial hair, neck tattos and at least one black inch-and-a-half diameter earring that spreads out his earlobe and makes it sag down from his ear like a pierced testicle.

So I decided not to say anything. Because I was scared to.

Thoughts For The Day

This was going to be a Facebook post, but I figured there were too many characters to fit. I thought about posting them so that they would show up with this one first: Thoughts of the Day. And then a procession of them posted individually as you scrolled down. I'd plan them all out to post in reverse order so you could scroll down and read them in the order I wanted you to. I thought that would have been very clever.

Instead I did it this way.

I had a lot of thoughts today that for a change I thought I'd write down and share. A bonus thought, even.

I'm just back from my run, all sweaty from the exertion and humidity. My shirt's off and in the washing machine. Please, in your mind, picture me fitter. Thank you.

"On Facebook," I was going to write, "sometimes I'm garrulous and sometimes over extended periods I'm very withdrawn." So today with all these thoughts, well, this little collection of thoughts, today I'm garrulous. But all in one place that I'll eventually link to a single Facebook post that no one will fucking read anyway, so.

My favourite quote of the day, made by me:

We were talking in the lunchroom at work about the U2 concert and I said, "But tell us the REAL measure of any concert, and that is how many public displays of nudity were there?" Because at the AC/DC concert girls would lift their tops whenever they saw themselves on camera (sad, really) but at the Eagles concert, there was only that one young girl as we were walking out who pressed her bare breast against the chain-link fence.

It occurred to me only then and I said out loud, "A bare breast in a chain-link fence is a breast far-removed from its preferred habitat."

I've added swimming to my fitness regime having now gone twice, count 'em TWICE! to swim in the lake to the other side and back, a total of 1km. Twice! Already I feel fitter, in my head if not in my body. I have built the unshakeable expectation that sometime around the middle of next week, my body will look exactly like Michael Phelps's.

Phelps'es.

Phelpses's.

Speaking of fitness, I was listening to Marc Maron's podcast. Lately I've completely abandoned all my music to listen exclusively to his podcasts while I run. Partly because all the runs now are long ones. He's talking to a guy who was talking about his first ever session with an analyst. I thought to myself, "I did that once, briefly" and then further wondered if I shouldn't start going again. Figure some things out. Then I thought, "No." What I need is a LIFE COACH. Not an analyst, a life coach. That's what I need!

(Gru says, "Light-bulb!")

After all, I wanted to run better and I joined the running room and got coached by my brother. I learned the most ever about curling for that brief period in high school when I had a coach. I wanted to play golf better so I took all those lessons.

So maybe I need to pay someone to be my life coach, hire a life coach. Get me out into the world and better involved in things, teach me to be social, expand my life beyond single dad and movies at home. How to get with people. How to do things not alone.

But on the other hand, I took all those golf lessons and I'm not the player I used to be. How many times have I been in the 80s lately? Not many. Before lessons? A lot.

My life coach needs to come with a guarantee.

Was there more?

No. I think that was it.