Tomorrow is the Seattle Hell Run, the first 5k I’ve ever participated in and because I’ll die between mile 1 and the mud pit, it will be my last. I have been running on a 5% incline on the treadmill at night, working through the couch to 5k app on my iPhone.
The gym at night is a both a blessing and a curse. There are no children in the locker room and few women perched on the benches being all naked and untoweled like they grew up in homes where they were not made to feel ashamed of their bodies and their mothers did not force them to wear a half-slip when they were seven years old. Jealous!
The one downside is that because it’s nighttime, the large windows become mirrors and I can totally see the guy on the treadmill behind me spend 30 minutes gawking at my bouncing frame, like hello, there are tv’s all around with news, sports and community, move right along. Nothing to see here, or maybe there is too much to see which is why I’m working out in the first place. STILL! YOU ARE NOT STEALTH, SIR.
So far I’ve progressed in how much I can run without crumpling into a sweaty heave and mimicking the breathing patterns of Gilbert Grape’s mom. I am carried by the lyrical stylings of Ludacris as he sings praise for his beloved such as, “My chick bad. My chick hood. My chick do stuff that your chick wish she could.”
And I bet Luda’s chick could easily handle a 5k even if one of the obstacles includes jumping over fire. I bet she should tackle a hell run like a cheetah zooming through the savannah grasslands. I’m going to keep that in mind as I stop halfway to googlemap a shortcut that will take me past the wooden walls and straight to the finish line.
Wish me luck, okay?