Running update: I do try not to die. Really.

I did not share this story with you before because I was frankly ashamed of my stupid behavior and obvious lack of brain power. But now I'm over it and am ready to tell you all about it because I've found a way to make it seem like I've learned an important lesson and, thus, redeemed myself enough for public scrutiny.

And I also hope it will serve as a warning to other people who think it's smart to go running when it's 95 degrees out at 8am.

Not that there are many other people who'd entertain an idea as stupid as this, but still. For the greater good, I say.

About a month ago, during the Spring Heat Wave of Aught Eight, when it was 95 degrees at 8 o'clock in the morning and I was already sweating from walking the dog at a leisurely pace, I decided it was high time I went on my scheduled long Saturday training run.

Oh, because clearly that is what you do when it's 95 degrees outside. You consult your technologically advanced printer paper training schedule magneted to the refrigerator and do whatever it says because it obviously takes the weather into consideration when calculating your mileage on it's inkjetted surface that was printed, like, a year ago.

You raise your eyebrows, but that's exactly what I did. I stood in my kitchen in my running clothes, already sweating from the slow ass walk I just took with the dog, and stared unbelieving at the schedule on the fridge.

"Well, it says right there, 9 miles. So, I guess I'm going to run 9 miles today. Even though it's so fucking hot I want to die right now and never go outside again."

To my credit, I did fill and wear my running Camelbak that I got during a recent moment of self-satisfaction and obvious delirium but, like I'm sure you already realized, it did me a fat lot of good since 50 oz of water is nothing when you're traveling 9 miles in 95 degree heat. Oh, and did I mention I was out late the night before drinking G&Ts like my life depended on it?

Sigh.

I'm sure there's some math in there that could more specifically detail the depth of my stupidity, but we all know I don't do math and, now it would seem, I also don't do THINKING because I strapped that pack right on, stuffed a few gel shots in the pocket and went off on my merry sweaty way as though it was the greatest idea in all the land which I can tell you now, it was not.

I think I made it about five miles before I had to stop running and walk. And I had been considering stopping to walk for about 4.75 miles at that point. Mostly because I was sure I was dying a little bit with each step I took.

It must have been the fact that the hose ran dry at about the five mile mark and panic started to set in that the walking suddenly happened. One of those moments where the body self-protects because the brain is too stupid to do what it is supposed to do and certain internal organs are starting to shut down.

Sadly the self-preservation was only intermittent because while my body was saying, "You need to walk and conserve energy, retard.", my brain was saying, "the more you walk, the longer it's going to take to get home to the in-door ice and water on the fridge so you better run."

It was a long four miles, to say the least. I ran and walked and tried not to die or look like a maniac the rest of the way and when I made it home I did not leave all day even though I was supposed to go to the beach with a friend and our dogs.

No, instead I came crashing into the house, delirious like a bat on a bender, took a shower and spent the rest of the day lying prone on the couch sucking down water through a curly straw and watching the Indiana Jones trilogy through one squinting eyeball because I was in 100% energy conservation mode and it required the least amount of remote control clicking.

I gave myself a nice healthy case of heatstroke, people. Like a big fat dumbass.

And for what? So that I wouldn't disappoint a training schedule printed on the reverse side of an old Amazon order and magneted to my fridge?

Oh the depths to which I will sink to prove to a piece of paper that I am dedicated to my training and not wussing out just because oh it's a little hot outside what are you some kind of baby?!

So now for the moral of the story: Don't run when it's really hot out because you could get heatstroke even if you're wearing a Camelbak and eating gross gel shots that taste like a horses ass.

NOT EVEN THEN.

Which I guess you could have figured out on your own, but I thought it would be good for me to tell you that I've learned my lesson and will not run when it's hot out like that anymore. I even told Bubba I wouldn't, so as long as he's home to protect me from my own self, I should be safe.

Other than that, my training is going well and I'm about to crest the double digit training mark if it's not too hot this weekend for such activities. If it is, well I'll just find a trilogy on TV and set to sucking on the curly straw without delay.