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garbanzo a gogo

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garbanzo a gogo last won the day on March 24

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  1. garbanzo a gogo

    Homesick

    and those would be gone before you hit the missississippppi river. you need a car with a nook.
  2. garbanzo a gogo

    Homesick

    23 year later, Mo still grabs puts a death grip on the handle on the passenger door whenever I drive in a questionable manner, which is most of the time given that I'm left-handed. So good luck. I wonder how many bagels would fit in a minnie cooper, and if they would get lost in transit due to a questionable trunk.
  3. garbanzo a gogo

    Homesick

    i LOVE that color!!!!! low key, allowing you to commit driving offenses without memorable identification for witnesses. Assuming everyone in NYC has fuzzy dice, and I assume they do. Puzzled by the white stuff on car though ...
  4. masks are for suckers. Safety cones are mandatory. .
  5. garbanzo a gogo

    Homesick

    we should just hang out in this post. Need photo of Minnie Cooper.
  6. Muskrat Marathons is only a 2,438 mile road trip away!!! Enter soon for reduced rate.
  7. garbanzo a gogo

    Homesick

    hmmm. still seems to be taken.
  8. garbanzo a gogo

    Homesick

    i, of course, was hello kitty's magical motor oil, one in a series of hello kitty names when The Evil Remy was hellbent on banning me from the loop forever. sadly, spanky pancakes is already taken on instagram. " ... hurtling past each other, traveling back and forth in time, ricocheting off one another like pinballs, sending sparks flying; creating new tangents and fragments; sending reason running for cover." -- fun times, those days. although the protagonist in the book is now insane and undergoing shock therapy. always somethin ...
  9. . weird. my dress shoes fit exactly the same. maybe the problem is with your dresses.
  10. You embrace the treadmill while shunning the trail race. harumph.
  11. garbanzo a gogo

    Hey hey hey.

    you can never, ever go wrong with vonnegut.
  12. “The true runner is a very fortunate person. He has found something in him that is just perfect.” ― the prophet sheehan -- I became a runner on May 19, 1979. The Run for Life in San Angelo, Texas. A 5 miler, back when there were such things. 34 minutes and change. I was hooked. My Uncle Bob was an addict. Old Onitsuka Tigers and tattered shirts, a True Believer back in the days of Fixx and Sheehan, of flour starting lines and popsicle-stick finishing systems, of DMSO and Pearl Light. I never had a chance; I was hooked. I knew my life would never be the same. I had been in search of an identity growing up, and just before my 24th birthday, I found it. I was a runner. And that's been my life since. Run, eat, do other stuff, sleep, repeat as necessary. Things came and went. But running was the thing I built my life around, my sense of self, my reason for living. My wardrobe consisted of race shirts, old jeans and retired running shoes. My greatest compliment was when people were concerned for my health because I looked too thin. Standing by the mailbox waiting for Ultramarathon magazine to arrive; a life of vacations in which I never saw the cities because walking wasn't allowed during race weekend. My life has since then has always revolved around running. I was a very fortunate person. I found something in me that was just perfect. My game plan was to make it to retirement, and then finally get serious. With unlimited time and no distractions, I could finally test the theory: What if you just ran all the time? I had dreams of hitting the 24-hour run circuit, sleeping in the back of the Honda and crushing other geezers. Run eat, sleep. Become Cassidy in the cabin. And now. Just as I'm about to hit 65, my body has decided to retire. I think my heart is finally giving out, the byproduct of too many desert summers and chocolate Frostys. Getting old isn't as much fun as the brochure would indicate. I'm now at the point where walking 2 miles at a turtle pace reduces me to toast. My dreams are toast as well. In the book "Being Mortal," Atul Gawande ponders when it's time to pull the plug; what quality of life you require before deciding that if you're not really living anymore, then what's the point. I was always in the Maude camp (if you have never seen "Harold and Maude," you must. you must.) Maude said you should check out while you're on top, because it's all downhill from there. But I suppose Gawande's point is well taken. Figure out what you need in life for it to be worthwhile, and continue to live as long as you can sustain that level. He had the talk with his dad, who replied: "Well, if I'm able to eat chocolate ice cream and watch football on TV, then I'm willing to stay alive." For me, running was always the one essential. As long as I was able to run, no matter how slowly, nothing else much mattered. Running was all I wanted to do for the rest of my life. And now I can't. And it increasingly feels like I never will again. "The mind's first step to self-awareness must be through the body," Dr. Sheehan wrote. What happens when the body won't let you take that step? Life is all about recalibrating, plotting a new course after you've been following Google Maps and it's led you into the middle of the lake. But I'm sinking, and I was never much of a swimmer. There's no good answer. "From the moment you become a spectator, everything is downhill," Dr. Sheehan wrote. "It is a life that ends before the cheering and the shouting die." His words haunt me. Running is what I have always lived for. And now ... I can no longer run. And I likely never will again. I suppose the solution is glaringly obvious, if a bit terrifying. Watch football and eat chocolate ice cream. Does a Medium Chocolate Frosty count? May 19, 1979. I was a very fortunate person ...
  13. i never gave much thought to Team in Training until I become one of the folks you're helping. And now you're my hero for being on the team. my heartfelt thanks. and yes, i'm all too familiar with the "well if you're eating something fun, I should be having a treat as well" cat ploy. Never fails. Congrats on your sorta race! And the job will come. Believe.
  14. "Even when freshly washed and relieved of all obvious confections, children tend to be sticky. One can only assume that this has something to do with not smoking enough." -- the prophet lebowitz -- He's standing at the red light. Oh, how I hate him. I'm sitting in the car, waiting for Mo to return from her run. I'm still at the point where a slow 2 mile walk is a near-death experience, so she finishes up her masked-miles marathon while I read a book of essays by a crabby New Yorker (if that isn't redundant, and I think it might be. Sorry, KRG). I look up, and there he is. These are hard times, and our fuses are all a bit short, so I try to be tolerant. Storm the Capitol? Meh. No mask? Whatever. Diet Pepsi over Diet Coke? Hmm. Getting close. But he is doing the One Thing I Absolutely Cannot Stand. There are basically two types of runners in the world: Those I approve of, and those I do not. He falls squarely into the second camp, an aficionado of the Worst Thing you can possibly do as a runner. Worse than snot rockets, worse than running with music blasting out of a speaker, worse than waving hello and forcing me to be friendly, even worse than matching socks. That's right. He is The Guy Who Jogs in Place at the Traffic Light. Why? WHY? WHY??? The running gods have rewarded your run with a brief respite, a chance to take a nap while waiting for the cars on Hayden Road to run over you despite the blessings of the pedestrian crossing gods. It's a get-out-of-jail free card without the weird Monopoly Monocle Mustache guy. You can just stand there guilt-free, basking in the sun, enjoying the afternoon, catching your breath, not worrying one bit that your HR will drop 10 beats a second. Does jogging in place even help? If so, why is he out there mostly NOT jogging in place? Save the trouble and jog in the living room. And yet, he continues. Arms churning, legs pumping up and down, a futile aerobic endeavor that his Garmin will not acknowledge. And if your Garmin doesn't record your exercise, is it truly exercise at all? Mo is standing near him, also waiting for the light. I try to call her, as she appears to have a clean shot at his jaw, to request that she punch him out. Alas, the phone rings in the passenger seat next to me, having taken the day off. Or maybe it is just ringing in place. The wait goes on forever, the byproduct of a traffic light that only changes a few times a day since it's for pedestrians, and who cares about pedestrians in Scottsdale? Otherwise, what's the point of owning a Tesla? I seethe, I fume, I plot mayhem, I ponder whatever happened to the wonderful blogger who wrote "Your baby smells like my cat." And then, finally, here they come. The guy runs past, oblivious to my rage, too far away for me to accidentally open my door and nail him. I consider running over him in the car, but I drive a Honda Fit and he would likely win. Sure, Dave could replace my sun visors, but Idaho is so far away. And Michigan isn't even a real place. Mo gets in the car. I ask her about the guy. "Oh, yeah. I HATE those people," she says. This is why we are married. There are only a few absolute truths in life. Babies smell funny. Marathons are exactly 24.85 miles long. There is no Stink Eye like a cat's Stink Eye. And jogging in place at traffic lights should be a Capitol Offense, with a Capitol O. I redouble my vow to avoid annoying runners. And sticky babies. I should probably smoke more. that's him on the left and mo, wearing her bulletproof running vest, on the right, after the light eventually changed. p.s. If you jog in place at traffic lights, please know I'm just kidding. You're OK by me. No, that's not true. actually I hate you.
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