The man-leggings made an appearance today and it was a regretful decision. It wasn't particularly cold, but an absolutely drab, misery of a morning, so I felt I needed to barter with myself a little bit to get on out there and musk-up my run route (as it's had a whole week to dehaze) and I struck the deal at top-and-bottom base layers, and a hat so woolly that they had to break into a second sheep to knit it.
One thing you need to know about my leggings...using the word "need" pretty loosely here...is that they are incredibly territorial. They don't play nice with others. I've made the mistake of prying them over the top of undies before, but the lycra just gets an instantaneous grip of them and starts trying to eject them upwards, out the top without the slightest bit of consideration for any undercarriage that may be blocking its path. It was an eye-watering experience, and one that convinced me that I'm not a great fan of castration, so I vowed there and then that it would be commando for then on out.
Have you ever watched one of those Domestos (or hhhhhhiff) adverts for kick-arse cleaning products that wipe out 99.99% of all germs, and think, 'Well what the hell is that last, double-hard 0.01% made of?'
Gusset sweat, that's what.
After a nuclear holocaust annihilates all life as we know it, right down to the humble microbe, the only things that will remain are cockroaches and my leggings-gusset.
I don't know what to do with them now. I've never handled hazardous waste before. Can I burn them? I wouldn't feel safe with anything less than a 100ft fuse.
This wasn't the source of regret though, not even close. No amount of trouser-butter could outdo emasculation. *shudder*
Now, I'm a pretty zen and philosophical guy; you've got that about me right? And a pragmatist, I'm sure no-one would argue with that. I understand that the world isn't just made up of all sorts of people, it thrives on them. Diverse demographics comprise a whole spectrum of skillsets, perspectives, intellects, attitudes, outlooks and opinions and each are as necessary to our success and continual development as the other; from the knuckle-draggers who overtly fart at urinals to the visionaries that define and shape the advancement and betterment of our civilisation, like Charmin Rollbots. Each component is imperative to the tuned functioning of the whole, everyone plays their part, except for one.
One cog in this machine is like the wasp of the human race. F*cking pointless. Like the Shetland Pony.
I'm talking about the fit, beautiful people. There is no place for them in my eyes.
There I was, waddling along like a penguin with a head injury; my beanie slowly expanding and collapsing as it collects and releases back pressure, blowing haze-rings into the air like a cartoon train, my ventless jacket more bio-seal than raincoat, and wetter on the inside than out; my shorts draped over my leggings in the vain hope that covering the budgie bulge does absolutely anything to allay the nausea created by the whole. My right nostril is increasingly inflating a snot bubble with every breath, the left one popped 30 seconds ago and has been smeared and evenly distributed from wrist to elbow.
Y'know, completely normal.
And then out of nowhere was overtaken by one of these disgusting creatures: Eight foot tall and most of that was legs. Equine by gait, and bounding without effort, completely detached from the ground for seconds at a time. Her pony tail swaying, whipping and dancing as she leapt, roses burst out of the concrete in her wake. She was dressed in running shoes, a pair of thin shorts that barely covered her bum and...er, I don't think I got higher than that. Some kind of T-shirt, I think.
One of us got the wrong weather memo. It was an awful sight.
She looked at me as she overtook. Well, she didn't look, her head remained bolt forward, but her eyeball shifted by a fraction of a fraction of a degree, and with the faintest of cheek-tightening, momentary half smiles, she utterly emasculated me.
It was the runners' version of looking into the pram of a God-ugly baby and pitching their voice up a semi-tone, cooing things like, "Isn't he cute" when it's blatantly obvious to the entire universe that no, it isn't. It resembles a heavily punched ball of clay. In fact, it would be a hell of an achievement to be even uglier whilst only possessing the one head. Even its Mum knows, and to pretend it is anything other than the concertinaed chasse of cheap car after a demolition derby is just an insult to everyone's sense.
That's what she did to me.
In that instance of time I realised I had slightly overdressed. And that I should probably refrain from wearing leggings in daylight hours. I need to get some proper running bottoms, I reckon.
She covered the next half mile in about 4 perfect paces, and then was gone around the corner.
Good job really, there's no place for them in this society. The smug bastards.
So that was my W6R2, and despite being ruthlessly humiliated for a nanosecond, it was actually quite a good run. My target was to not get injured and I'm pretty sure I succeeded. That's how high I set the bar for myself!
...I don't know what to call it without sounding dramatic...
we'll say near death experience over the weekend, my joints have been burning and felt like they'd been fused together. In fact, every muscle in my body felt as if I'd been sharing a jumpsuit with a drill instructor on amphetamines, so I wanted to get out there and go gentler than a pair of lovemaking hedgehogs.
The significance of this run is that I've now equalled my first failed C25K effort and surpassed my second. I remember this run from 18 months ago (and re-read my post Get Crazy With The Cheese Wedge) and remember that I was blowing at the end. For the last couple of minutes I was gasping for breath and offering MJ my entire kingdom for it all to be over. In that respect, it's been a completely different experience this time around. Slowing down means the runs are less taxing, and I feel that, energy-wise, I've got a lot more in me than I'm currently exerting and come to a stop with an apathetic shrug.
On the other hand, the minute I think I'm actually in danger of becoming a runner, my knee has a sudden surge of individualism and says something like, "I will not conform with with your bourgeois 'forward bending' any longer. I'm a free spirit, I will bend any way I want!" and my leg starts flapping around like half-boiled spaghetti.
I've been trying to do some strengthening exercises recently and gave planking a go. Watching videos of it, I'm sat in my jammies saying 'pffft, anyone can do 60 seconds of that' and then started convulsing 15 seconds in. My wife honestly thought I was having another fit and shouted at me. That's a tried and tested response to seizures. I've bought myself a yoga mat (delivered) and a foam roller (not yet delivered) too, so sh*t is getting serious at the moment, but with all that said though, I'm not sure when I'll be out there W6R3ing. In all honesty, I'm terrified of it. I've been running around on here, talking smack to everyone about it for the last couple of months, and now it's fronting me up. It's bigger than I thought.
Plus, I have just nearly died...
Happy running, my virchies! Don't be too hard on the fit and beautiful will you? It's not their fault that they're repulsive.