What's Your Resting? Mine's Under... like, Seven.

I’ve recently gotten back into running. Running, for my readers who may be injured, lazy, Asian, into extreme sports shit, or have actual lives that don’t involve moving their bodies to another place for no other reason than to make their hearts stronger, used to be considered the absolute best thing you could do for your body. The miracles of modern science have since decided that running is one of the worst things you can do to your body, somewhere between eating poo and scavenging for loose golf balls at a driving range. I have decided to go with the 1970s science on this one and run.

I’ve never eaten poo. I invite any readers who have done it to tell me about the experience. Describe your anticipation of the event. Did you eat it knowingly or was it slipped into your food? Was it human poo? Dog poo? Cat poo? Was it solid poo or more of a liquid poo? I have more questions. Maybe just tell me you’ve eaten poo and we’ll call it a day.

Running was the only sport (if you can call it that) I ever did okay at, even though I was never an amazing runner. I hit 6:10 on the mile sophomore year of high school and haven’t timed myself since for fear of huge disappointment. The point is, I realized that absent competition, it’s easy to become a better runner. Just run more, run harder, and you will get better. Not the case for basketball, where practicing just increases your chances of being called a fag for acting in plays instead of playing sports, especially since you’re so tall not to mention your brother was a football star. Thanks, Dad.



Anyway, I think the best thing about running noncompetitively is the competitiveness of it. I tend to hit the street in eastern Santa Monica, along Ocean Park by the Counter (which should NOT be compared to Father’s Office) and, surprisingly, a Starbucks. My gym is also near here. But the cool weather, large park, and virtually bum-free atmosphere of the area is a magnet for runners, and we all try to outmatch each other. My favorite trick is to be running west, knowing that the standard route for runners who go to my gym is up to 14th and then turning around, because there’s a fuck-all giant hill right after 14th and no one wants to run back up it.

Anyway, I like passing people on the street, people who do not run as fast as me, politely sidestepping them, and then reaching 14th way before they do. That way, I turn around and see them a few minutes later on the way back, and I’m able to say “Not too much farther to the hill at 14th. I would know because I’m already on my way back. Enjoy reaching the halfway point of your run whilst I am practically finished with mine.” It takes a severe slowdown to accomplish this, and sometimes I must turn and run next to them for a minute to get the whole speech out through my halted breath.

But it’s worth it. It’s fucking worth it.

Sign up to run the LA Marathon for AIDS. If you’re like me and haven’t raised money from acquaintances since high school, you’d be surprised how much bank your co-workers will give you to run a fucking marathon.