Halfway There!

I ran nearly 7 miles today. An hour and twenty-three minutes nonstop. I also almost shat my pants during the last mile. Whatever. It's cool.

When you're training for a distance run, you gain some crazy muscle mass. I was poking about my quads and realized that I have acquired some impressive thighs. This reminds me of one of many stories of my athletic past. I think it's about time I started to share these stories.

I've always had sizable and powerful thighs. I believe it was my mother who first dubbed me "Thunder Thighs". This is a nickname that I at once abhor and adore -- for what I think are obvious reasons. In fifth grade over a meal of Chinese food, my friend Ben and I decided to join the Brookline swim team. I loved and still love to swim. However, when it came to the water, I was more buoyant than I was brisk. I did okay...but I seemed to have some trouble with a very key part of competitive swimming: diving. For some reason, I just could not get it right. Every time I leapt into the water, my thighs would angle in such away as to slap violently against the surface. My form could not be fixed. And oh it was painful. I'd work myself into such a panic right before I had to go up onto the starting block. Here we go again. The slapping also caused some splashing and there came a point when people knew to move away from the pool and shield themselves in the front rows when it was my turn to swim. Every time without fail I'd spray everyone within a certain radius when I touched down in the water. While Ben went on to be MVP of the season and much later a college champion swimmer, I (probably because I was able to dive into the pool once or twice without creating a tidal wave) received the Most Improved trophy and retired after one year.

We have to start somewhere.

Hot Mess - Volume 1

Each day of P.E. in middle school started off with a half-mile run around our campus. In inclement weather, we'd complete equivalent laps around the gym - let's say ten. As the teachers couldn't monitor everyone's lap status, going the full distance was on an honor code basis. One rainy day, my overweight, sasstastic eleven year-old self decided four go-arounds were more than sufficient. I strode to the benches a good five or six minutes earlier than usual. Having watched me fail to execute even a single lay-up at JV basketball tryouts the week before, Coach Roach (not kidding - that was actually his name) surely noticed something was awry when I sat down before some of the primo pre-pubescent athletes among us. Long story short: I got caught and was forced to finish the remaining six laps in front of the entire class. 

Not so fast, Roach, I thought to myself, for he had left the divider that separated the two basketball courts down. As soon as I was out of  everyone's sight, I cut across the walkway between the two courts, slashing the distance in half - if not more.  

And then came the laughter echoing through the torture chamber. 

I had failed to notice that the space divider hung a good half a foot above the floor. The entire class saw every move of my sneaker-clad cankles along the bogus shortcut.  Well played, Chaloff.  Five more laps. In full view of the class. A freshly-laundered Abercrombie athletic shirt soiled FOR NAUGHT, DAMMIT.