The Rat Race

People are idiots.

They see religious figures in pieces of toast (see eBay), question the existence of dinosaurs (see Carl Everett), and declare war on psychiatry (see Tom Cruise).

But for all their raving lunacy, each of these nut-jobs is saner than me.


Because I moronically tried to run a 10K race yesterday morning on absolutely no preparation after being enraged by a so-called friend’s casual taunting.

The conversation went something like this:

Clyde: “Joey, I’ve got an extra number for the Rat Race event. You’re running.”

Me: “That’s tomorrow morning already! I can’t remember the last time I ran in a race. Now leave me alone; I’m busy watching full seasons of television shows on DVD.”

Clyde: “And you call yourself an athlete…you disappoint me on so many levels.”

Me: “FUCK YOU! I’m in.”

Honestly, that was all it took.

Suddenly I was convinced that an obscene amount of pasta and 10 gallons of Powerade would make up for weeks of near-atrophy.”

I’m like Marty McFly from the “Back To The Future” movies, but so much worse—instead of just the word “chicken” sending me over the edge, it’s pretty much any athletic challenge whatsoever.

I once tried to hop on one leg for half-a-mile, all because I stubbornly refused to back down from a ridiculous argument.

Not only did I lose the bet (obviously), but most likely my remaining dignity, since this took place less than a year ago and in broad daylight.

And so as I sit here now with the type of Jell-O-legged soreness that can only come from something as asinine as trying to run ten kilometers cold, I wonder if it was at all worth it, whether my impulsive irrationality accomplished anything whatsoever.

The answer, of course, is a resounding “HELLZ YEAH!”

I won a make-believe battle in my head, which we all know is priceless :)
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