Everyone has one of these in their life: a wise, slightly-older friend who just absolutely irritates the living piss out of you, in large part (most likely) because they’re right about something and you’re not ready to agree. In my past life running in the Deep South, that friend’s name was Pool.
If you’re going to be a terrible, occasionally hungover, inconveniently sick, low-gear, slow but enthusiastic runner, you should at least have the benefit of being rich to even those deficits out. Unfortunately, rich I am not. I greeted the New Year with $211 after six months of unemployment and $537.00 in mandatory bar dues, but damn if I didn’t spend ninety of those dollars on a tiny race I’ve been dying to run since before I…
