Running Into a Marathon

Santa running a marathon

A little bit into my run I started smelling a burnt plastic smell, and I became a worried I should strap gas masks on the kids, that some people were cooking up a giant vat of crack in their backyard, and its wafting through the air. I soon came up on dead skunk road kill, which was clearly where the smell came from. Aside from having an imagination that always jumps to the most tragic scenario (possibly from too much law and order SVU), there is good reason why one would think this if you live in my little community. There is a term for a population that wanders around our city, “The Carmichael Crackheads.” It is not PC, but it is the only way to classify the lot. They can’t be called “homeless” because they are all clearly drug addicts and so it makes walking or running around a nuisance because I am a crazy person magnet

I stick to neighborhood streets on my runs because I don’t want to have a Carmichael Crackhead confrontation. There is one part of my loop where I have to cross a major crackhead hangout, and I keep my eyes forward and run faster. There are pedestrians on this road, crackheads and non-crackheads, and with the endorphins pumping, I have overzealous hospitality, so I tend to wave hi, or say good morning to people I pass by. Sometimes they smile back, or grunt, or just look at me like I am idiot. Then there are the demonic looking ones, with bright red faces and black eyes who look at me with such penetrating hatred, I can actually envision them pulling out a knife and stabbing me in the throat. Those are the fucking ones to steer clear of, and luckily they leave a memorable impression, so if I see them around a store or the bus stop, I can turn around or start sprinting.

This morning when I came to this part of the road I noticed a blockade, where the street was blocked off to cars. I ran right into a marathon! All the runners were on mile 14 and I came storming on the scene after just running two, so I was running like a fucking race horse around people who looked as if they were ready to trot on over to the glue factory. I was pushing a jogging stroller with the two kids strapped in, so people were really impressed. They were hollering, “Go mama!!” At first I was really loving all the attention, and cheers, but after realizing how much of a fucking poser I was being, I felt bad for relishing in unwarranted cheering, so I decided not to cross the finish line for the half marathon and turned off course the street before.

I am such a freeloader

Running on the main road when cars aren’t allowed is amazing. Usually I run on that street for a short stint because the stroller is so wide and weaving in between telephone poles and bus stop benches is too much of a pain in the ass especially with having to dodge crackheads. I have been pushed out into the street dodging these obstacles and it is really fucking scary since my kids’ chance of being run over by a big rig has significantly increased, which would in turn leave me completely gutted and lifeless, and lead me become a member of the Carmichael Crackhead clan where I would reside until I died of some disease under the awning of an abandoned shopping center. Good God, I need to stay off of this street.

On my usual morning jogs, which are not adjacent to an unexpected marathon, I notice random tagging around the neighborhood that says, “Kooky.” It is such a funny thing for someone to be spending their time going around and writing on billboards and posts. If the crackheads are leaving these kooky “kooky” messages, then I appreciate their sense of humor and am grateful because these signs lift my spirits when I am out on my runs, sort of like cheering sideline from the marathon. They certainly aren't proving themselves to be Banksy, but their fucked out of their heads on drugs, so what more can you expect?