A few of the Tough Mudder buds and I went out for a six mile jaunt through Sunday morning at Umstead Park. We ran the Loblolly trail. Unlike last weekend when I ran it alone, there were other people, and with the other people came children.
So we're running the second half of the trail, headed back to the parking lot, water, and a large bag of bananas. I've taken the last position in our group to save us from infiltration by enemy psychometricians. My team had moved out of sight, and they were probably engaged in 500 pushups and burpees when I noticed a family with many children ahead on the trail. They were coming toward me.
I scanned the trail to decide if I would walk or run past them, what with never knowing if the children will zig or zag when you expect them to zag or zig, which leads to eating rocks, roots, and pieces of children, none of which I was in the mood for then. The trail was wide where we would meet, and I decided to keep running, not that many would call the pace I was keeping any form of running.
As I approached the group, I selected where I'd step so as to not have to explain yardraticide to a judge later that week, and as I entered the area, I felt that familiar twinge that all runners feel at some point, and there in front of Mama and her assembled brood, I cut one huge frap after another, each in perfect time with a footfall. No, I'm not talking little freeps here. I'm talking huge, probably ignitable, thunderous fraps. There was no time to stop and apologize. I just continued scarring the children and mama for life. Dad, I can't speak for.
As I exited the group and the fraps abated, I heard one of the children exclaim: “DAAAADDDDD!!!!!,” and I knew my reputation would remain unsullied, though I'm not sure the other dad would ever talk his way out, much less forgive me as I faded into the forest with both arms raised Nixon-esque in my personal triumph.