They can take our lives but they cannot take our silly clothes

Sitting on the futon, laptop on top of lap, beverage near by, feet propped on desk chair.  Here I contemplate the mysteries of the universe and ponder the great truths such as that spoken by the Monkey Man: “Running is stupid.”  My foot and ankle are mildly sore in a way that would surely disappear if I were to rest it just a little.  I am stupid.  Having nowhere to be until noon, I rose at 5:30 to run for an hour.  It is almost certain that I will run tomorrow, or at least take some form of exercise.  People who do not know any better might laud this determination.

This is not determination. This is fear.  The fear was originally of slow suicide by cigarette.  Then the fear was of death by gluttony.  The prime fears being held at bay, I have to invent new fears to keep myself on the road.  Fear of embarrassment is often sufficient.  Sign up for a race and voila! fear of a DNF, or worse being passed by the tutu guy, rears its ugly head.  MUST TRAIN. MUST. TRAIN. Then the race becomes longer in order to maintain the fear.  Even a long race, however, will grow insufficient.  So we add more opportunities for humiliation; we raise the bar.

Like by entering a race with ridiculous elevation gain. A race that finishes in the midst of a traditional Highland Games.  Imagine finishing such a race in the midst of traditional Highland Gamers dressed as one of them.  Aye, lad, it is the mother of all kilt runs we are talking about here.  To pull this off, I do not have to win but I do have to finish strong.  The sight of a doofus in a kilt stumbling toward the finish line is not going to garner shouts of celebration from the crowd, but a long-striding wearer of the Black Watch plaid ought to get their attention.  At least, this is my vision.  Between now and 10 July what remains is to perfect the wearing of the kilt on long runs and the long runs themselves.  The only way to make these necessary preparations is to embrace the fear.