THE TORTFEEZOR: Cool Runnings

The worst thing about working out is the jock itch.

It's inevitable every time I run. And since I just returned from a cold winter's jaunt through the suburban streets, I'm feeling the burn.
Do you know how difficult it is to type this while rubbing Tough Actin Tinactin on your inner thighs? It's not pretty. It's terribly greasy and your fingers keep slipping off homerow.

(Yes, I just dropped some QWERTY knowledge on ya. Up to 55 wpm. So put that in your pipe and smoke it, Mrs. Buck. I've never forgotten that D+ you gave me in Applied Keyboarding. I don't care that you were kinda hot in that thirtysomething-pixie-sprite kind of way, I know you were holding me to a higher standard because I was the only junior in that all-freshman class. I at least deserved a C. Do you know what they do to the D kids? They make them go to the vocational school and they end up working at the car wash on Saturday mornings in January (Props to my boys Kevin and Greg at the Soap N' Suds in Whiteland though. Yalls make my Mariner shine. No disrespekt. Holla!)).

Okay, we need to get this pony back on the trail. Where was I? Oh yeah, my evening workout. I've been pounding the pavement because I have a five-mile trail run on Saturday. I've mentioned this in previous posts, but as it is emminent, I felt I must update you all on my progress:

I will likely die at this event.

I'm just not built for running. You don't see too many 200 lb. marathoners who stand 5'7. I would probably finish faster if I just rolled instead of jogged. Instead, the event coordinators will have long since packed up by the time I limp to the line. I just do it for the pre-race pasta dinners anyway.

And the running gear. I love running gear. I have the hats and the gloves and the shorts and the stopwatches, but the best part is the compression tights. My favorite thing to do is see how long my wife can keep from vomiting when I'm wearing nothing but the tights during my pre-run stretch.

For a visual: