Taco run

You are supposed to run and instead you eat 6, 8, 10 authentic Mexican tacos.  You are visiting family and it’s hard to say no.  You drink 2 margs and you laugh with your family around the table.  You tell yourself that you can run after dinner at dusk.  After dinner you take off in the crisp unusually cold evening air and run down to the local state park.  You decide to run the 1.5 mile lap around the park 3x and then run home.  On the second lap your legs start to feel sluggish as a Ghostface Killah song about cheating comes on and a blue heron flies home for the night.  You know it’s Wednesday, it’s hump day, if you don’t get a good workout today then your week has little chance of succeeding;  you failed on the crux workout.   You hit the third lap and you feel a little bit of lightness return to your legs as a new peppier Ghostface song about falling in love immediately comes on.  You finish the third lap and decide to run 10 hill repeats in the one small hill in the park and then head home.  You run them in sets of 3 heading down the hill, a different way each time, because as a runner you find weird running patterns everywhere.  You take off for home, heading into the stiff wind.  As you run along the road with no shoulder you start to stand taller, your posture feels unusually upright.  All of a sudden you feel strong, Duncan Callahan strong.  You start feeling cocky, running along the road in the dusk with cars whizzing by.  You find yourself slowly picking up speed and soon you are running along with a strong pace.  About that time an early 90s Chevy trashy car whizzes by and 2 guys lean out yelling “Faggot!!”  You downshift, and you feel the rev of your own engine loudly in your own ears, begging you to let go of your inner brake.  You take off and now you are in perfect rhythm with the music.  You want to yell at every car that passes that Meridian, Idaho is a redneck trash town with no public infrastructure, full of Fallujah-like walled off unlivable compounds which people only leave in their trucks to consume fast food.  But instead you look out and see the rain over the mountains in the east and the glowing setting sun in the west and steadily press down on your inner accelerometer.  Instead of hurting, your body responds with a rush of adrenaline and you surge ahead.  Nothing hurts, you can’t feel any tacos and you feel like you could run a fast 5k.  No matter how hard you push you have more.  Block after block and house after house flies by and you smoothly put on your brakes in your parents driveway, coming to a smooth stop.  You look in the window and see your mom sitting there watching TV, waiting for you like she did when you were a kid.  You look back up the street of houses that all look the same expecting to see a trail of smoke.   You think to yourself: “damn, what did my sister put in those tacos.”   You’re running the suburbs.