I have several fears* related to running, none of which have to do with goals and pace and whatnot. Here they are in order of intensity:
1. Dying of hunger. (Yes, this is my number 1 fear. It could happen. To be fair, it’s not just a running fear. I’m always thinking about my next meal, so running just kind of exacerbates that tendency.)
2. Dying of thirst. (I don’t like to be thirsty. If I run more than 6 miles, I bring my water bottle. Yesterday, though, I ran 6 miles so I didn’t have my bottle with me, which was a mistake because I was listening to Life of Pi on my iPod and when he started whining about thirst when he was stuck in the lifeboat and hadn’t found the water yet, I really thought my tongue swelled up and I was dying with him. That was lame.)
3. Unleashed butt-sniffing dogs.
4. Running out of audio books/This American Life/The Moth or whatever I’m listening to. (I’m back to listening to words ever since the Podrunner podcasts got me used to how it feels to run at a decent for me pace.)
And, as of today, I have a brand-new fear:
5. Throwing up in my mouth.
Damn Fridays with their leisurely ways. All I have to do today is run, get groceries, and get the kids to breakdancing on time. Maybe I should clean the house up a bit since potluck is here tonight, but I probably won’t. Because it’s FRIDAY! I usually have single cup of coffee, eat a banana, coffee works (or doesn’t, the mystery of my bowels can not be solved) and then I run. Today, because it’s FRIDAY! I was feeling leisurely. It’s not hot out, so I don’t have to hurry up and run, so I had 2 cups of coffee. And right in the middle of my run, out of nowhere, I threw up a little in my mouth. I had 3 miles to go with puke taste in my mouth and no water bottle. That was gross. And now I fear it. The end.
*I don’t fear stupid rapists on the trail because, well, good luck getting my anti-chafing shorts off. These suckers are tight. Just because I’m a runner doesn’t mean I don’t have to do everything I can to make sure my thighs don’t try to start a fire down there. I can barely peel them off when I’m motivated by an intense need to pee, so there’s no way some weak-ass chump rapist is going to get them off of me. Not before I kick him in the face a million times like that Looney Tunes kangaroo.
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