Your enthusiasm is showing.
Do you know how to make me fall in love with an entire room of people at one time? The gym this weekend looked a little more spectacular than normal. Have they started a black market steroid ring in the back, I wondered? People were hurdling and running fartleks, all while looking fabulous. No, they haven't. The USA Track and Field Championship descended upon Indianapolis last week. And my gym gave the 2008 Olympic hopefuls access to our equipment. I haven’t been this elated since I stood next to Wayne Coyne in the Green Door, silently trying not to freak out. To attack him with gushing admiration and golly-gees, you are so wonderful, will you squirt me with some fake blood, please?
And there’s this whole room of hopefuls, outfitted in their university sweats and tattooed with Olympic rings. Summons back to a story from a college professor, who professed a sensation of great patriotism when he witnessed an Olympic event. So excited he was when an American crossed the finish line that he broke through the security lines to embrace the runner. So excited he was that he started to pat him on the back with gusto. So excited he was that he didn’t realize he had a very sharp pencil in his hand, so it looked as if he was painfully stabbing the athlete in the back with a writing utensil. This was at least until security pounced him, dragged him out of the stadium. He was also the same professor who burned down his dorm room at a state university. Recollecting this story, my college career sounds somewhat dull with all the binge drinking and all-night clubbing.
But I’m in love with these people. These people who choose to make a career out of running. Running is so different from other sports. It’s a singular sport -- sure, there are competitors on the course and trainers barking at everyone, but you’re running against yourself. You’re running against the voice in your head that says your legs are going to give in. The countless meets, the injuries, the training. All against yourself. The runners rarely talk to each other as they wait for the rain to stop. Even while waiting, they’re isolated, listening on headphones, stretching their legs against the wall. All of this takes a certain amount of passion. A considerable amount of insanity.
And there’s this whole room of hopefuls, outfitted in their university sweats and tattooed with Olympic rings. Summons back to a story from a college professor, who professed a sensation of great patriotism when he witnessed an Olympic event. So excited he was when an American crossed the finish line that he broke through the security lines to embrace the runner. So excited he was that he started to pat him on the back with gusto. So excited he was that he didn’t realize he had a very sharp pencil in his hand, so it looked as if he was painfully stabbing the athlete in the back with a writing utensil. This was at least until security pounced him, dragged him out of the stadium. He was also the same professor who burned down his dorm room at a state university. Recollecting this story, my college career sounds somewhat dull with all the binge drinking and all-night clubbing.
But I’m in love with these people. These people who choose to make a career out of running. Running is so different from other sports. It’s a singular sport -- sure, there are competitors on the course and trainers barking at everyone, but you’re running against yourself. You’re running against the voice in your head that says your legs are going to give in. The countless meets, the injuries, the training. All against yourself. The runners rarely talk to each other as they wait for the rain to stop. Even while waiting, they’re isolated, listening on headphones, stretching their legs against the wall. All of this takes a certain amount of passion. A considerable amount of insanity.
posted by anarchic at 1:52 PM
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