Don't be cruel

The following scene remixes my Saturday from a week ago. I couldn't find a way to include a memorial for my neighbor Yelba, but somehow I think that's probably for the best.

I glanced outside to find six snowflakes on a windshield. The track workout is on, I thought to myself. After breakfast, a toothbrushing, and some unrelated thoughts playing pong in my mind, I looked again to find the white coming down hard. I checked my phone. I checked email. No one was going to give up. With nothing left to check, I headed out the door. Purposefully overdressed, running ahead of schedule, I tromped down 14th on my way to the track.

With a Lincoln look-a-like in one cage and a cardboard Washington Monument dipping down to enter the other, round one of the Elvis Birthday Fight Club was all but underway. Lincoln would land the early punches and take control of the phallus. What looked like certain victory was snatched away when a trap door opened in the cardboard masonry and out popped a six shooter.

The track was white with snow. The quiet seemed more morning related than snow-related, but once my partners arrived it was obvious we'd have the track to ourselves. We warmed up slowly, our footfalls tracing the oval in shoe sizes.

Lil' Dutch and more than her fair share of make-up were disrobing. The poor seating arrangement blocked anything below waist level and for the most part this seemed ok. Out came the tassles, on went the twirling. What a curious talent. With a mixture of awe, horror, amusement and something not entirely unrelated to arousal, I watched spinning tassles with my head bobbing in time.

Paul went out too fast in the first half mile. I couldn't keep pace knowing that I was under-trained and we still had seven halves to run. I wanted to slow Paul down, but wasn't sure that my pace was the right pace, so I let him go and sought a realist's pace while trying not to slip on snow. The rest lap came quickly and soon we launched into another half and another round.

Colonel Sanders seemed to handle the chicken easily, he may have even choked it, but then just as the match seemed to be in hand, he took to making a racist rant. It wasn't long before the crowd turned on him and his goose was cooked. The chicken would live to fight another day.

By the third half, Paul had come back down to earth and I had sped up slightly. I felt ok at our 5:30ish mile pace, but was unsure how long I'd last. I lasted longer than the giant cross-dressing man. He won his early round, but then fell to a better-dressed opponent.

I made it through four and five before the personal bargaining began. I'd do one and sit one I thought. Or, I'd sit now, so I could finish the last one ok. Yet somehow, like the burlesque dancer on burlesque dancer fight that broke out in the middle rounds, it seemed like I just didn't know when to quit. As shirts and boots were tossed aside and as I seemed to recover just enough each time, I survived five and six, then happened upon half number seven.

A robot was fighting a chicken and technical difficulties ensued. I stayed close through seven convincing myself that I'd be done after it was over. Then I couldn't quite quit. I started eight. I tucked in behind Paul and ran strong for 400 meters. Chicken wings were flying. Robots were dancing the chicken. Chickens were dancing the robot. It was a back and forth battle and my mind lost. I slowed considerably, and fell off the pace. Way off. It's not how I like to finish a workout, not how I want to finish races.

I think the chicken emerged victorious. I don't think that was a metaphor. Thanks Elvis. Thanks Paul and Bill.