Mile 0: I step out of the house with a slightly hysterical Wilbur, the Doghorse. After chanting my fallback mantra a few times: “Beyonce thighs Beyonce thighs Beyonce thighs,” I start my run by turning on my go-to bass-thumping beats. Listening to the miscellaneous rappers talk about my bouncing bodacious booty triggers my energy boosters.
Mile 0.5: Wilbur the Doghorse is convinced this is a sprint and if he doesn’t run as fast as he possibly can all of his neighbor-watching priviledges will be taken away. I spend the first half mile convinving him this is not true.
Mile .85: A herd of hormonal teenage gazelles, also known as the high school track team, frolic by at a 6 minute pace. Take it easy boys. People go on safaris to see the elephants (that’s me in this analogy), not the deer.
Mile 1.4: A sneaky sidewalk attacks without being provoked. Wilbur panics at my uncouth style of falling on my face and sprints away. I convince him that he will not also be attacked by the shifty cement, and he returns. I stand up, reassure myself that even the blood gushing down my leg cannot stop me from completing these six miles, and take off with a surge of warrior adrenaline.
Mile 1.6: Warrior adrenaline tragically ends.
Mile 2: I pull spandex from bunching too far into my “pee pee butt,” as the toddler in my home says.
Mile 2.3: Wilbur and I reach our first country road without a sidewalk. My behemoth Doghorse thinks his dainty baseball-sized feet can only handle smooth, cool cement. As cars speed toward us, my options are to either body-slam him off the cement and risk tripping both of us, or let him stay on the road and take up half of the lane. I decide to gracefully rotate between both options.
Mile 3.2: Necessary spandex reajustment.
Mile 3.5: Begin contemplating mysteries of the universe. Does Rory from Gilmore Girls ever decide she can love and stay in a relationship after the show was brutally canceled and ripped away from a very emotional fanbase? Would my face look even more like a strawberry if I dyed my hair blonde? Can cars driving by see my unshaved winter leghairs?
Mile 4: What is this soft padding noise I hear from behind me? Is that the same gazelle herd from three miles ago? The entire city of LaPorte to run through, and they have to lap me twice in one day? Their breaths are like whispers compared to the Darth Vader choking noises coming from my lungs.
Mile 4.4: Spandex alteration. I start to question a few of my choices.
Mile 4.5: Slight panic ensues when a large bug tries to make home in my right nostril.
Mile 4.7: I can feel myself slowing down more and more. My feet feel like they are on fire. Actually, my entire body may be ablaze. I repeat my manta and push forward. “Beyonce thighs Beyonce thighs Beyonce thighs.”
Mile 5: Wilbur starts to significantly decelerate. This is not a good sign. “You have 0% body fat!” I gasp.
Mile 5.5: Wilbur’s energy abruptly returns when a suicidal squirrel dashes across the road.
Mile 6: I arrive back at the house. Wilbur’s tongue sloppily falls 10 inches out of his mouth. My bloody knee is crusty and speckled with dirt. I sit on the grass and the runner’s high begins to surround me like a glittery champion fog. I realize that I can do anything! I am a phenomenal human being! In fact, I am going to go sign up for a marathon right now!