I Love You, Man

Don't walk ahead of me; I may not follow.
Don't walk behind me; I may not lead.
Don't walk next to me either; just leave me the hell alone.


This pretty much sums me up.  The older I get, the more I dislike people.  The people who have known me since I was young are now wondering how it is possible that I can dislike people more than I used to.  I don't have that answer.

It may seem bizarre that I am sharing this with you when my last post was about the joys of running with a club, but stay with me here; I can explain.

For me, running is a continuous high.  The good feelings usually start around mile 3, and then I just keep getting happier and happier.  By the time I finish, I am like a blissed-out heroin junkie.  I try to hide these feelings, but inevitably something slips; I might start by saying, "We are so lucky to be running here!"  or "This is so beautiful!"  My running buddies look at me and usually grunt something in reply, and if I can, I put a lid on it.  Inevitably, if the miles are long enough, or if I'm in an exciting race (like the Akron Half Marathon, where I saw the blimp AND fireworks), I will get more sentimental.  In my head, I call this the Bud Light Syndrome.

I love you, Man.

When I did see the blimp surrounded by fireworks in the morning sky of the Akron Marathon, I turned (tears in my eyes) to my running buddies and said, "I am so happy to be here with you!  Thank you so much for running with me to get to this moment!"  I'm quite sure they were wondering who I was.

You can only imagine my reaction after a race, when I combine the Bud Light Syndrome with ACTUAL beer (well, if you count Michelob Ultra as real beer.  Normally, I don't, but that's what you get at races).   I am a high-fiving, sweaty-hugging, fellow-man-loving fool.  Take a picture of me then because chances are good that if you remind me of this later, I will bite you.