Good Times

A memory that made me laugh out loud this morning at the gym:

It's three o'clock in the morning. I've got several layers on top and my way-too-revealing running tights on bottom to shield me from colpo d'aria. Reagan's itunes are blasting away in my head and for added warming up measure, I can't help but allow the beat to resonate deep down in my bones. Bryan is valiantly supporting both me and her mother, who should be arriving from her night leg any minute now. Besides a few other quiet supporters and a couple more runners warming up for their turn to vanish off into the abyss, we are alone in a northern californian world that we are wholey unfamiliar with. My subtle body-bobbing slowly transforms into full hip rolls, bum thrusts and elbow swinging--I am gettin' down, as they say. Bryan starts up a chat with the very proud husband of a (apparently faster than me) runner, while trying to ignore my embarrasing behavior. I don't see the cute thing at first but to combat his wife-braggin' attempts, I up the ante in my dancing and exclaim, "But can she do this!"  He quiets with, "well, no." Aha!

After at least 15 minutes of this (and that), I am getting worried that Leslie is lost. We were deep into discussing our utah roots when I interupt with, "She should have been here by now." My dancing slows and eventually stops. The Proud Husband explains how Leslie's leg is long and hilly and hard and that this leg will be fairly easy, and I insist that, "No, her's is actually quite short and flat. But my leg, which is also your wife's, is going to be hilly, and long and hard. And even though she may be faster, she can't do this [hip roll]!" He continues to insist the opposite until Bryan and I have the same flash of lightning--WE ARE AT THE WRONG EXCHANGE!

In have an instant we look at each other, take off in a full sprint to the car (me more prepared for that than her), while we catch a faint yet pathetic "Good Luck!" from the chatty duo.



The story ends in finding Leslie, twenty-five minutes into chilling in her own sweat, with a fake worry and frown (to fool the disdainful volunteers and snearing runners) and me jumbling my vest/headlight/ipod/batan only to happily vanish off into the abyss with the best night-leg warm-up of the decade.