20.8 mile single run in 2:34. I forgot to mention that an enormous tree limb crashed down upon the Betzwood trail about 10 feet behind me at the end of my run. Zeus must have missed. ---------------------------- In my humble opinion, we should do a Lexis-Nexis search on the terms: "marathon" and "carb loading" and replace 1/2 the "carb loading" entries with "balanced protein, fat, carb loading" and the other half with "eat eggwhites." Protein is the lonely kid never invited to the party. For shame. ---------------------------- In my neighborhood, the difference between everyone else's trash and mine is worth writing a couple sentences about. Monday nights are always the same: everyone goes outside, nods, says stupid niceties, drops trash, and then goes back inside to peer out the window and mumble things about each other behind the curtain. I am continually being watched in my neighborhood. I am but one or two moves away from throwing a raging keg party and the elected bluehair condo association Gestapo are keeping tabs on me--big time. My trash comprises: clanging wine bottles (wakes up people when the Mexicans dump it at 5am), a few beer bottles, pizza boxes, and half-tied garbage bags. Everyone else's: Crate and Barrel boxes, LL Bean boxes, Pottery Barn boxes, neatly-tied trash bags. ---------------------------- I found out on the run tonight that I was banned from a local running team for a while because I was some sort of "typical military guy" or something like that. But it's all good now, and I'm not banned from them anymore, but I'm not on their team, so I guess the point really is moot. But still, at least Elia Kazan my ass for being a loud-mouth, judgmental clown. If either you looked at my thick head of hair and Raggedy-Ann, unstarched uniform and chocolate bar jump boots, or you pulled aside my Battalion Commander* three days before I left the service and interviewed him, I don't think "typical military guy" would enter anywhere near the lexicon. -------------------- I'm driving down to the Washington D.C. metro area tomorrow. The drive comprises really no worthwhile scenery other than the Havre de Grace bridge where the lobbyists hang out down below on the S.S. 'Dukester' chewing on foie gras and continually having to re-tie their Sperry Topsiders because of those damn leather laces. I also always stare at Baltimore and shake my head as it passes off to the right. It just looks like one big mess. Oh, I almost forgot too the rest stops on 95 which are about as good as people watching gets (second to the Walmart in Fishkill, NY). ------------------------------ *LTC Cory was killed in a helicopter crash on a return visit to Vietnam. The Soviet-era helicopter that he was traveling in hit a mountain in bad weather. I believe in ghosts because of this incident. The night he was killed was very strange with some odd events. Maybe I'll relate them some other time. Suffice it to say, he didn't like me very much. I was on my way out and he was on his way up--we didn't get along. ---------------------- Penn Relays Photo. Provided to depict: 1. The thrill of running in front of tens of thousands of people within earshot of me. THIS WAS PENN RELAYS!!! WITH ALL THE COWBELLS AND THE WHOOOP WHOOP...THE NOISE WAS DEAFENING!!! 2. My highly-efficient, Cassidy-eat-your-heart-out miler form. 3. See what is looks like to run an entire minute slower in my 1600 leg than the Kenyan anchor man ran in his. 4. Wonder where Bill Cosby went and contemplate what the corporations can do next year to get him to watch us and to hand out the gimcrack at the end while toasting the spirit of it all, tipping back lukewarm soda in plastic cups and eating cheese cubes on paper plates behind wood-paneled walls. ------------------------------------------ Back in the Infantry Officer Basic Course, every time we'd get ready to go out in the field for weeks on end, it would start to rain. It's hard to describe that feeling of hearing the pitter-patter of raindrops on the roof of your Bachelor Officer Quarter Motel 6 room, fully knowing that the next week to weeks would be spent sleeping out in the SHIT. No tent. You would only be as good as how tight you could make your poncho using bungee cords and Army-issue 550 parachute cord. The poncho was stretched out about 3-inches above you and you'd squeeze yourself into a fetal ball trying to keep dry until Il Duce would wake you up at 3am screaming in your ear that the enemy is in the wire and that you are all dead because you all fucking suck. Get up! Go! Go Go! Go! LARKIN...YOU ARE A FAT PIECE OF SHIT, YOU WON'T LAST 2 DAYS IN RANGER SCHOOL.......(I was inded 'fat' but I ran an 11:30 two-mile PT test run) Where was I? The reason for this little memory is because my buddy Ron and I used to quote this whenever we'd hear the rain. We'd sit on our rucksacks in our little hotel room watching The Real World, San Francisco. We'd hear Pedro and Puck fighting and we'd see Rachel bitching about getting wet on her camping trip in Hawaii. We'd say it over and over again. I say it now when I have to do intervals alone...THE HORROR....THE HORROR