The race is on

Girl: I knew there had to be another side to you.
Jerry: No, no, there's no side!
Girl: There is a side, an ugly side.
Jerry: No, no, no ugly side.

I'm not sure how each of you view me. My inclination would be as some sort of odd Jerry Seinfeld/Jason Morgan conglomeration. But I do have vices. And here is one: I don't like to be passed.

I'm not talking about driving, like those psychotics who hold up traffic and then speed up when you try to pass them. No, I'm talking about when I'm running. There are two ways to be passed while running. One is when you're going the same direction as someone else. The other, and maybe less obvious way, occurs when you're running opposite directions.

Two people, running opposite directions at the same rate on the same track, will meet in the same spot, exactly two times per lap. Let's call this spot Checkpoint Charlie. Thus, it stands to reason that if one person is running faster than the other, they will meet in a different spot each lap, and it will be obvious who is more fit and manly and who is the slowpoke.

So anytime I'm running and someone else is running the opposite direction, I speed up a little so that I can pass Checkpoint Charlie before they do. Some people might not notice such a thing. But that's what makes me different.

I say all that to say this. Last night while I was running, there was an incident. I was nearing the end of my second lap when I encountered this high school kid on his first lap. I made a mental note of where we passed so I could be sure I was ahead of him the next time around.

Only, I wasn't. I had lost about fifty yards to this punk kid in one lap.

Alright, we're taking it up a notch.

I increased my speed a bit, but still lost ground on lap four!

Good grief, what are they feeding this kid? And how tall is he? I'm 6'1" but this kid's like a gazelle, whatever that is. He covers like ten yards a step.

It was at this point I decided that no matter how far this kid ran, I'd keep running until after he was done. I would run all night if that's what it took to prove my superior stamina and conditioning.

It's a marathon, Junior. Not a sprint. You may be faster. But I'm stronger. I'm like Dwight Schrute on 'roids. Bring it!

Lap five was more of the same.

This kid's like a machine. It's like I'm running against Ivan Drago here. Hey kid, Manute Bol called. He wants his legs back.

Then it happened. On my sixth lap, Manute Drago had slowed to a walk.

Aww, could the little baby only run four laps? That's exactly how far I had originally planned to run not bad... for a beginner.

I kept running until he finished walking, careful each time we passed to make it seem as if I was barely putting forth any effort at all.

I was running when you got here, and I'll still be running when you're gone. Bone rulz!

I wound up running seven laps in all. To recap, that's:

Bone - 5.25 miles (<-----WINNER)
High school kid - 3 miles (<-----LOSER)

But who's counting?

"And I ran. I ran so far away. I just ran. I ran all night and day. I couldn't get away..."