Untrue story. Excuses, excuses...
Time for a story:
Last year a squirrel frolicked free - like the wind, or an empty, discarded Blizzard cup (I see them a lot when I run for some reason, and they make me sad, hungry and sick all at once). A nasty, irresponsible hooligan (the sort who would probably make reference to Forest Gump when you pass by in your shortest of shorts) rolled freely along an arbitrary strip of tarmac.
As it happens (or did happen) the arbitrary path of the frolicking squirrel becomes entwined in the arbitrary strip of tarmac, at the precise moment when the irresponsible hooligan rolls past.
The squirrel does not win. It dies. And so it goes.
Some time later, Speedgoggles ran by and saw the squirrel. Speedgoggles did nothing.
The next day Speedgoggles ran by and the saw the squirrel. Something had eaten its eyes and flies were swarming.
And so on. It was a bit like watching one of those youtube videos were some loser** takes a picture of themselves every day and you can watch them age in real time. Except this was not in real time, so I guess it wasn't really like that at all.
This continues for the entire cross-country season, until the squirrel doesn't look very much like a squirrel. Actually, it was more of a stain on the road with a bit of matted fur stuck to it. But I knew what it was and that was all that mattered.
For an entire cross-country season I felt a deep spiritual connection to roadkill.
I told someone about this. Their response?
"Ew... that is SOOOO gross."
The end. No moral or inspirational afterthoughts.
**probably still cooler than me though.
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