Running As Panacea

As I write this, I’m sitting at a hexagonal table made of compressed composite (these things weigh a ton but last forever) outside of a Westin hotel with the sun shining strong and at a slant, forcing me to squint my right eye. A guy is crossing the street with a backpack that has ‘Golf’ stitched on the side, some neon-esque themed New Balance’s, and some tan sweatpants. The sweat has already dried on my skin, the evidence of my huffing and puffing fading as the dark sweat blotches that permeated my Adidas shirt begin to lighten and then fade.

I am at least 2 miles from my car, but I just executed a soul cleansing dump in a granite tiled bathroom within the classy conference room halls of The Westin hotel. What a critical discovery that bathroom was. Around mile 3 of my run, standing atop the apex of the United States Naval Academy Bridge, my anal sphincter seized and began yelling vulgarities at me. “FUCKING PORTABLE POTTY TIME SHITSTAIN! HOW MANY TIMES DO I NEED TO CONVEY TO YOU THE MORONIC LOGIC BEHIND DRINKING COFFEE AND THEN JOSTLING YOUR INSIDES?! MAYBE SHITTING OFF A BRIDGE WITH A RESPECTED INSTITUTION OF LEADERSHIP AS BACKGROUND WILL DO THE TRICK! MAYBE THEN YOU’LL LEARN!”

In response, I told my anal sphincter to be a man, to get a grip -not said just colloquially- and to hold tight -not only in the sense of patience- while I juggled my options. I had only run 3 miles, the sun was still shining too strongly, the day was still too young for me to circle back to my car. I felt a deep conviction in the well of my intrinsic wisdom that whispered…