I’m supposed to be running my way from McAfee to Daleville right now. Because that’s how my people spend Sunday mornings. Twenty miles of mountain trails.
But then Beautiful Beastie’s Birthday happened.
And the people who spend Sunday mornings getting in twenty miles of mountain trails are the same people who celebrate forty-something birthday parties like a bunch of 18 year olds. Except we’re all in bed before 10.
Because Sunday morning mountain miles.
We start out pretty normal. Eating and drinking. Maybe a little singing. Catching up on life. Admiring three month old haircuts. Because we never see each other outside of ponytails and running hats.
And then the rain stops and someone tells Everyone’s Favorite Husband to get out the rope.
That’s how we know the real party’s about to start.
When it’s time to start climbing shit.
And you immediately regret dressing for the party like you would if you surrounded yourself with normal humans.
Because the moment you step out onto the puddle covered driveway, OT says, “burpees.”
And compliance. So I do.
It’s cool. I wasn’t really fully clean when I showed up anyway.
And then the rope gets hung.
And boys try to act strong.
And GJB and OT watch in awe as the Badass Strong Blonde makes her way to the top effortlessly.
In flip flops.
(Tiny Brazilian and I have already claimed her for November’s Spartans.)
Because maybe they struggled a little.
We’ll blame the pre-rope activities.
So in an act of selfless friendship, OT took hold of GJB’s really questionable feet and boosted him up the rope.
It was a beautiful moment.
But see, I also can’t have a rope in front of me and not climb it.
Except I’m not as strong as BAB. So I make it about 3/4 of the way when my arms decide I’m probably done now.
And so I start arguing vehemently with my arms that they should carefully lower us back down to the ground. Because I saw what the rope slide descent did to BAB’s hands. And I need my hands. For things. But my arms just keep reminding me that most of the muscle they pretend to have is just for show. And so they let go a little too soon. And I have to land somehow. So I opt for putting the full force of my landing on my left foot.
The one that I twisted while taking the dogs out to potty a week ago.
The one that forced me to miss Sunset Ragnar last weekend.
The one that, immediately upon landing said, “Bitch, what in the actual fuck are you thinking?”
Um, beer? Maybe Doritos? I don’t actually know.
The one that THE BFF says I chipped a bone in. And started throwing out fancy medical words. I think because she thinks I’ll go to the doctor if she does that. Please. I’m not wasting a co-pay on a chipped ankle bone.
I was sidelined for a minute.
If that bone wasn’t chipped before, it sure as hell is now.
Of course, I also had to try the rope again. This time OT grabbed my feet. Then someone started pushing me by my butt. I think probably it was BAB. But in this group, anyone’s hands could end up back there. And we don’t even question it. Because there’s nothing questionable about it. We’ve been around each other after long runs.
As OT tells new runners who might get a little too excited about running with us: “Give ‘em 20 miles, dude. You’re not gonna want any of that.”
And those same hands lowered me back down. Otherwise I’d still be up there. Because I wasn’t about to trust myself to not land on my left foot again.
And then BB got out the 4 wheelers, and I immediately forgot to be in pain.
If you haven’t climbed onto the back of a 4 wheeler with BB touring you wide open around 40 acres of what I’m pretty sure was not all actual trail, you haven’t even begun to worry for your safety and learned to appreciate your life.
This is the view of handing your safety, in full confidence, over to another person.
It’s possible that I put my trust in people way too easily.
That whole massage situation a few weeks ago is probably evidence of that.
But also I know that she knows exactly what she is doing. So my trust was fully justified.
Even when we came up on the sheer drop and she said, “Hold on. I’m gonna take you down this faster than I did OT.”
And it’s terrifying. And exhilarating. And you want to just keep going forever.
But then OT wanted to race Lil T and Ty.
So I climbed back on.
Letting him drive.
And this is where maybe I should question my trust of other people’s judgement more?
Because he kept saying, “I’m not gonna hurt you.” Which is exactly what killer clowns say right before they pull out an axe and dismember you. And he took off like he was BB maneuvering those trails.
Trails that, at one point, he wasn’t even sure where he was.
You know things are bad when I’m the one directing you back on course.
But we made it back just fine. Our lives were probably never in danger.
But now there’s bruising on my back from whatever I kept leaning back on like that was gonna slow us down at all.
And honestly, my shoulders are still a mess from the homeless massage a few weeks ago.
So here I am.
Sleeping in and enjoying front porch coffee on a Sunday morning.
Because at this point in my life, my injuries come from potty breaks and birthday parties.