Midnight basketball: It’s keeping me out of the gangs.
My hate is backwards.
The morning run always gets challenging after a night of carousing and four hours of sleep, but I had myself in a good place with the kind of insane self-talk you use in these situations to keep yourself from stopping and/or being sick: “Sure, this is terrible, this is awful, but this is where you earn it—the next time you run, you are going to feel amazing.” This is just not true.
I was coming up to the peak of the last hill on my route, head down, earbuds in, and when I looked up at the corner I was about two seconds from bowling over three old ladies on their morning constitutional. Pretty sure they all had canes. I jumped neatly to the side, missing the ladies, catching my toe on a paving stone and flying past them at about knee height in a full-fledged Superman pose. Luckily, I landed on some grass that wasn’t covered in dog shit; it was wet enough that I slid about three feet on my stomach as the abuelas stared in horror. I fled, and didn’t even realize I mangled my knee until my landlord Jesus pointed it out.
I love running.
Hippo bar. Thanks, Amina.
Ronnie Lane! Nice work, J Liebs…