Tuesday, July 23, 2013

Training Week (Insert Number Here) or How to Know if Someone Is Trying to Kill You

If you have been reading my blog you know that I haven't been able to run for a while, but now I'm back to running on dry land. Illinois, like the rest of the country is experiencing SUMMER. Since I do not want to die on a run, I've been running when the weather allows it. But even if the day is a cool 80˚ it's still hot.  One day as I was slogging through a three mile run in this heat, I had an epiphany-- my junior high P.E. teacher was trying to kill me.

I never liked my junior high P.E. teacher. He was one of those former jocks that despise anyone who isn't going to be the next pro basketball/football/baseball star. Since all my athletic talent was maliciously stolen by my younger brothers, I was often the focus for his disdain. He put us through the normal shaming rituals that are common in P.E. classes throughout the land: comparing our abilities to girls, making sure there were plenty of teams to be picked last for, laughing hysterically as we tried to do chin-ups, etc. He once forced us to do one hundred one armed push-ups (okay, it was only ten normal push-ups; but seriously, at that age what's the difference?) His malignity would have been terrible anywhere, but it was worse where I lived.

I spent my junior high years in the it's-so-hot-nothing-will-grow-so-we-paint-the-pebbles-in-our-yards-green city of Tucson. Tucson is hot. No one owns an oven there because they can cook all their food by just sticking it outside for a few minutes. I lived there for three years and sweated the entire time. The whole city would have burst into flame years ago if it weren't for the miracle of diverting water from another state's river. This practice allowed for brief areas of almost greenness.

One of these areas was a park across the street from my school. It had grass. The only way to keep it alive was by the perpetual use of sprinklers. If I recall correctly there were even a few trees. Our P.E. teacher would have us start running in this verdant place.

"This isn't too bad," we'd say to each other, "We can run through the sprinklers!" "Maybe Mr. S__ isn't so bad after all." For a moment we were happy and carefree. Fools.

The path the teacher plotted for us quickly left this little oasis and we found ourselves slapped back into the reality of where we were and what we were doing. We were in the desert. We were running.

"Holy Crap! We're running in the desert!"

Yes, the desert. For those of you who have never been to Arizona, let me explain. First, you have to understand that the desert has no shade. None. There are no trees, no skyscrapers to block the sun. There are no clouds. (For some unfathomable reason Arizona banned clouds from entering the state in the late 1880s.) The sun takes full advantage of this. Every day it works hard to catch as many things on fire as it can. I once saw a child's ice cream cone catch on fire. Our teacher made us run in this heat.

Just for fun set yourself on fire. Now try running. Yeah, it was like that.

Then there are the cacti. When movies and television shows depict the southwestern desert they mainly show the Saguaro cactus. These are benign cacti. They smile pleasantly at passersby. One in my neighborhood handed out lemonade to thirsty kids. But these are not the only type of cactus. There are others like the Cholla cactus. This devious pin cushion spends the nights carefully spreading caltrops over every centimeter of the ground. It cackles as it hides them under thin layers of soil. When morning comes it cleverly positions itself in the glare of the sun. Then when some poor sun-blinded fool comes near it it throws a few more caltrops at them just for good measure. No material known to man can stop these spiny missiles. The spines of these deadly little balls happily slide right through sneakers and skin. Our teacher made us run through fields full of Cholla.

Just for fun go get some sewing needles and stick them in your foot. Now try running. Yeah, it was like that.

Then there are the animals: rattle snakes, scorpions, and tarantulas. If you have ever watched the Crocodile Hunter you have heard how these animals won't attack unless they are provoked; how they want to be left alone, etc. Steve Irwin is a filthy, filthy liar. As soon as you stop to wrench the Cholla caltrop from your foot, the scorpions and spiders attack in perfect military formation to the beat of the snakes' rattling. Our teacher met with the rattle snakes every morning to let them know exactly where and when we would be running.

Just for fun inject your leg with scorpion venom. Now try running. Yeah, it was like that.

Any sane adult would have stopped and said, "This is ridiculous. I'm not running through this. In fact, I'm calling the police, this guy is obviously trying to kill me."

But we were junior high students. So, when an adult told us to run through the desert we ran. Eyes burning and stinging with sweat; we ran. Limping and delirious; we ran. Our heads burst into flame; we ran. Snakes attached to our legs like leaches; we ran. The demons in our near death experiences collapsed from heat stroke; we ran. We ran and ran and ran. We saw the bleached bones of other runners who had succumbed to the desert; we envied them and ran. It was torturous, it was agony, it was an attempt to murder us, but hey, at least it wasn't math class.




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