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Five years ago I approached my late thirties dreaming of the glory days I thought I would never see again.
I knew that my life was collapsing around me -- I had lost my job, my wife had left me, though I had found
an extra forty pounds on my 5' 11'' frame. Exercise consisted of changing the batteries in my VCR remote as I caught up on all the movies I had missed since high school.
I re-lived my Airborne Ranger days as Stallone and Schwarzenegger ran rampant over their enemies brandishing M-60 machine guns like Super-Soakers while I packed away another quart of ice cream.
Weekends? Hah! Modern day quarterbacks could never come close to my skills, which, dormant as they may be, were still fresh in my memory.
During a physical exam my doctor warned my about my state of declining health.
"You need to lose some weight and lower your cholesterol count," he would warn.
"Start a walking/slow jogging program, or swim,
or face the consequences!"
I couldn't do that. My knees ached all the time anyway, and I knew that jogging would only make them worse.
I never liked swimming, and walking was for wimps. So I went back to the television.
I'll give him this -- Dr. Darwin was persistent. I would see him at the grocery store or the video store and he always greeted me by asking if I had started my exercise program yet.
Of course I demurred, and would receive that glance of knowing disapproval.
One Saturday morning I was awakened by a loud knocking at my front door. Disgruntled and disheveled, I pulled on my sweats and sneakers, then stumbled to the front door and squinted into the bright sunbeams
penetrating the mist that rose over the chuckling waters of Little
Gunpowder Falls.
The background of crimson maple leaves framed the face of the most beautiful lady I had ever seen.
My heart dropped as she spoke, "I'm from Dr. Darwin's office," she said, "and I'm looking for Jim. Can you tell me where he is?"
I could only gaze in wonderment. Luminescent stripes accentuated black, skin-like material covering the slender, voluptuous figure before me. She seemed to be wearing nothing, though her garment covered everything.
Diamonds sparkled in twin liquid pools of blue as she
reiterated, "Sir, do you know where I can find Jim?"
Weakly I stammered, "That's me." "Great, I'm from Doctor Darwin's office.
He told me to find you and let you know that if you can catch me, you can have me!" With that she began an easy lope down the road toward the deep, dark forest.
Motivated more by primal instincts than any thought of physical well-being, I sprinted after her.
By the time I reached the end of the block I was huffing and puffing, and forced to a walk.
She slowed down until I almost caught up to her, and the chase began again.
After one trip around the block, I was finished. As I crawled through the doorway, she called out, "See you soon," and ran away.
This went on every other day for months, and an amazing thing happened. My double chin receded, my pants began to droop, and I developed a new vocabulary.
After the second meeting I bought a pair of Nike Air Jordans to jog in and some cotton gym shorts that matched the stripes on my knee-high basketball socks.
After a few weeks I began to get the hang off it, and our sessions began to last longer and longer.
Try as I may I could never catch Heather. I discovered that she had gone to the Olympic trials in the
10K, which accounted for her ability to pull away from me with ease at any time. I dreamed of catching Heather, I fantasized about her
during the day, and plotted strategy during our early morning runs.
I began to run every day, pretending to struggle on our days together. They were now my "easy days." Alternate days were spent
in tempo runs, track workouts, and long runs. I was becoming one lean, mean, running machine. I was the epitome of Jekyll and Hyde. With Heather I wore my Air Jordans and heavy cotton gym clothes. Alone, I wore Brooks Radius SC Cushioned Trainers, Thorlo anklets, and 3/4 split Coolmax running shorts with my DRS
singlet.
After popping a 52:30 ten miler on a hilly course under an assumed name at an out-of-town race, I knew I was ready to make my move. After a two week recovery, I arose at 5:30 on THE DAY. I took a tent, air mattresses, and blankets to a secluded glen that I had scouted near one of our regular routes. A little incense and a portable CD player with soft music would add to the atmosphere. Back to the house, and this time I changed into real gear. Saucony Breakaways at 5 ounces graced my feet, while full-split micro fibre shorts provided minimally essential coverage. I didn't need a shirt or singlet this morning. I figured we would start off at our customary 8:30 pace, and at the three mile mark back in the woods my true intentions would be revealed. Heather would have to be able to cover a surprise 5:05 mile in order to get away, and I was full of confidence that months of longing would come to an end.
At 7:22 AM there was a loud disturbance out front - the dogs were barking and somebody was really revving an engine. As the dogs began to whimper I heard a momentous CRASH just outside my window, door, and then a tremendous pounding began on my doorway.
Not now, not now, I thought. Three minutes to showtime and there's an emergency in front of my house. I opened the door to investigate.
The most hideous woman I have ever seen sat outside my front door on a chrome-laden Harley, gunning the engine. Her greasy hair did not hide the gorilla-like receding forehead, while oil and dirt streaked her scarred cheekbones. A black patch covered one eye, and the black leather jacket barely covered the three hundred pounds of human flesh perched on the motorcycle seat. She reeked of cigarette smoke and cheap booze. Tattoos covered her forearms, and she was missing two fingers and a thumb on her left hand. Nazi jackboots came over her knees, and her exposed thighs rolled over what I think may have been a G-string meant to provide some semblance of modesty. It was hard to tell since folds of flesh drooping down from her belly successfully hid whatever minimalist garb she may have been wearing. In her right hand she held a
coiled bullwhip. She turned her head to the side and spat a great stream of brown tobacco juice onto my porch. "I'm looking for a punk named Jim," she snarled through black, rotted teeth.
"My name's Jim," I replied, "but I have a very important meeting with my best client here in two minutes. Please leave immediately. You can call me later for an appointment."
"Well, well, well, lookee here," she hissed. "I'm from Doctor Darwin's office, and he told me that if I could catch you, I could have you!"
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