Bonk. Bonk. Run. Bonk. Run. Bonk

As you can probably tell, if you’re a regular reader of my blog, I’m a odd yet even mixture of tolerance and impatience. As a teacher and a coach, I am almost boundless in my ability to wait until my students or athletes understand my point or purpose. My tank is seemingly unlimited in these arenas; however, there isn’t much left for the rest of my life – my great, lovely wife gets a majority of the remainder. With that being said, I want to go on a rampage on the track at the middle school near my house. When I go running, I start off in a pissed off mood because I’m, well, running. Here is a kind of stream of consciousness, lap-by-lap account of my 3 mile run:

Lap 1: Bonk. Bonk. Bonk. Bonk. Bonk (I say that in my head when I run and my head bounces around at the beginning). Bonk. Bonk. Bonk. I hope those kids playing soccer on the track in front of me move out of the way as I pass them. I can’t veer from my path. Any extra distance will mess up my 3 mile run. Don’t want to do anymore than I have to. I made it by them, though they didn’t seem to take any notice of my running as I lumbered by them.

Lap 2: Uh. Uh. Uh. Uh. Uh. Uh (Go from bonk to uh). Uh. Uh. Uh.  I feel like falling asleep while I run. Maybe if I close my eyes while I run, I’ll feel better. I want some milk. Mmm… milk. There is a blockade of women coming at me. Don’t they know we run counter-clockwise on tracks? Maybe they weren’t taught that in their high school in their country. Maybe in the southern hemisphere they run the opposite way. Hmmm… maybe like the Coriolis Effect. I’m too polite to say anything but annoyed to let this problem go unsung. I’ll give them a dirty look. Dirty look possibly the same as I’m-running look. Reevaluate later.

Lap 3: Breathing in through my nose and exhaling through my mouth. A girl told me to do that in college once. Don’t know if it works because I can’t do it for longer than a lap. Girl’s walking her dog on the track. That shouldn’t be. I will throw an internal hissy fit if that dog poops on the track. That soccer ball is going to hit me I know it. I am SO going to punt it over the school if it hits me. God, help me, I will f*ing punt it. F*ing punt it so far that they won’t even be able to find it. Never.

Lap 4: Did I run 2 or 3 laps already? What’s a good way to remember this? I can remember letters better. I am on D right now. Did A,B, and C. I’m on D now. Ding dong, ding-a-ling-a-ding-dong. Donkey. Dog. Der. Der. Der. Here comes that blockade of women. Look at my face! Do you see me rolling my eyes, Coriolis sisters? Huh? These eyes… they roll for you. LOOK AT THEM. Do. Do. Do. Do.

Lap 5: Er. Er. Er. Er. Elephant. F*ing soccer ball. Everything. Boys are hitting pop flys over the track. Why are they doing that? Ethel. Ethel. Ethel. I swear to God I will throw their f*ing baseball so far if it hits me. So… far. Where are their parents? Ellie. Ellie. Ellie. Ellie. Maybe I should stop running so I can take these boys’ dads out. What? Yeah, your boy’s ball hit me? My fist is about to hit you – in the nose. That’d be so sweet. Uh, hon, why do you have a bloody nose? Some bad ass punched me in the nose for not watching Billy more closely. Sometimes it takes a broken nose to learn. Nostril, mouth. Nostril, mouth. Move Coriolis girls.

Lap 6: F-word. F-word. F-word…

Lap 7: GD-word. GD-word. GD-word…

Lap 8: Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate…

And so on…

This would go on and on until I either finished the 3 miles or left early in a quiet and peaceful protest that no one knows about but me. I’m working on a letter that would go in our community newspaper about track education classes. In a classroom setting, I feel like I’d have more patience and not want to kick their f*ing soccer balls over the f*ing, stupid school with its smelly face.