Running High on Crystal Lake
For a few miles I felt the runner's high, then I celebrated by getting high in a sand cave.
“Fuck you, I’ll get up at six!” I slurred.
“Holy shit,” I thought to myself. “What are you doing!? You’ve been drinking beer and playing Euchre for five hours! What is wrong with you!?”
It was the summer of 2003. I was twenty-one, back home in Michigan after my sophomore year at the University of New Hampshire, and in the full throes of a righteous ritual: using cards and copious beer to ease the pain of a day spent house-painting beneath a baking sun. Despite that, I’d committed to running one leg of our team marathon, scheduled for a few weeks later. Running, suffering a stroke or dying in a ditch: whichever.
“So when was the last time you, like, exercised?” asked my friend Eric, late at night before a planned practice run.
“The fuck is that supposed to mean?” I turned to one of my other, more athletic friends. “Chris, are you running tomorrow?”
“Yeah, I’m getting up at six. But I don’t think you want to do that.”
The fucking nerve.
Now, when I say “team marathon,” I’m not talking about so…
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial