Here are the makings of an errand run:
- A busy day and really, really tender toesies, that kept me from running over lunch.
- My son had his screws and plates removed from his arm this morning and they were waiting for me at the surgery place, all cleaned up and sterile and in what looks a lot like a urine sample cup.
- I had just a few minutes between work and an important beer engagement with my running bud Marty.
- Pour into a large mixing bowl and combine.
Here's the tricky part... since I was going to a hospital-like building, and seeing how they frown on things not sterile, let alone things that lick their own butts, and then lick you, knowing full well that it's disgusting but doing it anyway, I wasn't going to be able to take the dog.
She knows when I'm getting ready for a run. I know she knows because she shifts from her normal hyper-active bouncing off the walls, shedding bushels or tiny dog hairs, self, to her slightly more disturbing, violently excited, leave a Bugs Bunny style silhouette hole in the door, take me for a run before I work myself up into a spontaneous warm fusion explosion and take out half-the county, mode.
The challenge is to get her into her crate before she turns into a WMD. There is only one way to manage this, and that is with a big fat lie. That's right. I lie to the dog. She thinks she's running with me, right up to the point I latch the crate. Works every time, because she's a dog.
Ok, back on point... the errand turned into a brush with death.
Ha! You totally don't care about me lying to the dog anymore, do you?
With a fresh dump of snow overnight, the sidewalks disappeared. That means that the only viable running is on the streets.
Except the errand required me to use streets that aren't the quiet streets of my neighborhood. These streets would be populated by cars driven by drivers who are tired and beaten down from a day at the office and who probably think that running down a stranger and trying to get away with it is just the thing to put some excitement back into their humdrum suburban lives.
Take a look at what I had to work with...
I know! Crazy, right? And these cars/trucks weren't giving an inch. They were begging me to put a foot inside that white line.
The good news is, I was flying! There's nothing like the fear of vehicular homicide to get you running fast. Ah, sweet, sweet adrenaline.
Numbers: 2.7 miles, most of it inches from death. But, I got the boy's hardware!