Day 60 and 62: 5k Run, Chest and Back, And Extreme Sickness

Simon and Schuster; Batman and Robin; Jerry Lewis and Dean Martin; Riggs and Murtaugh; Amos and Andy; Republicans and Racism; Hate and Ignorance; Evil Dictators and Mustaches; Tiny Chicks and Big Tits; Catholicism and Hypocrisy; Glenn Beck and Inane Chalk Diagrams; Politics and Theatre; Drunk Chicks and My Dick; Nerf Guns and Good Times; Taco Bell and Intestinal Regret; George Washington and John Adams - these are all great bedfellows, they all work incredibly well together. Being sick and drinking, however, do not. Throw in dairy, and you have a biological axis of evil, a triangle of tyranny, a trifecta of tumult, a cadre of cruelty, a cavalcade of consternation, a shut-the-fuck-up-with-the-lists-and-get-on-with-it-and-I-don't-think-consternation-works-in-this-context-nevermind-I-looked-it-up-and-it-means-a-state-of-paralyzing-dismay-my-bad-but-please-move-on-because-this-is-beginning-to-annoy-the-shit-out-of-my-eyes-although-I-am-technically-a-non-existent-persona-used-as-a-tool-for-interactive-dialogue-with-the-readers-so-that-doesn't-really-make-sense. 

In short, fuck.

I can't even tell what parts are the hangover, the sickness, or that suspiciously cheap burrito I bought at the gas station the night before. All I know, is I would donate bone marrow and half-an-inch of my penis to get rid of this feeling. It's like every cell in my body is being creepily humped into painful submission by that smelly, yellow troll from Sin City. (And, yes, cells have receptor sites, so they can be 'penetrated' by unwanted entities). Mentally - 'paralyzing dismay; physically, my body feels like it's being slowly broken down into a gelatanoues slime that will slowly slip and slink into a nearby sewer. I've never missed a P90X workout, will today be the first?

The weather outside matched my emotional state - cold, sad, and dreadful. Today was a cardio day so I decided I'd sub-in a 5k run instead of the regularly scheduled workout, Kenpo-X. I was not in the mood to imagine myself vanquishing various sorts of henchmen with upper-cuts and high-leg kicks. I just needed something to put my head down and drive through - running was the perfect option. I put on my all black outfit of jogging pants and hoodie - a great idea especially at night - laced my sneakers up extra tight, grabbed my mp3 player, switched on the only thing that could get my mucous-saturated juices flowing - Eye of the Tiger - and laid back down on my couch, napping for another hour. That was my first attempt. I awoke, groggy and pissed of at myself, with Eye of the Tiger still on loop, which produces the most intense I-against-the-world dreams I have ever experienced. Fortunately, the resonating emotional context of these dreams would provide the necessary motivation for me to actual go through with this. 

I peeled myself off the couch, muttering 'fuck it' underneath my breath, and ascended from my dungeon of dank misery, making my way to the starting line, Queen street. I prepped myself, slowly exhaling a mixture of air and phlegm, looking on with burning embers of determination in my eyes and napalm in my heart, all the while slowly pulling my hood over my head. I slammed down on my stop-watch, lightly growled, and took my first step. It was weak and unsure and landed atop a chunked-up piece of gravel, causing me to slightly trip, and shoot out my right hand to regain my balance. As I was getting back up, Survivor's wise and powerful words of encouragement crackled through my WestJet headphones,

Risin' up, back on the street

Did my time, took my chances

Went the distance, now I'm back on my feet

Just a man and his will to survive

I hit full pace right as the last line began to roll through my headphones. This may be a cheesy moment for some, but, for me, it was heart-palpatating, knee-knocking, vein-expanding, mind-gasming, sports-movie-montage perfection. The run was crappy, the weather was crappy, but all of these awful colliding factors made it enjoyable in a weird way. Not to overdo the Rocky theme, but I felt like I had no business making every step like Rocky had no business stepping into the ring. Simply put, I felt the high of overcoming the underdog status. 

My best time so far was 22:47. I had no designs on making this time, I just wanted to post something in the ball-park. I rigamaroled* through the finish line at 24:22 - respectable considering the circumstances.

As a result, I decided to celebrate that night.

I woke up sweating vodka, rum, and regret out of my pores. Comparing the way I felt yesterday to today is like comparing gonorrhea to full-blown AIDS. It had to be done, I had to reschedule - on Day 62, I, Eric Bombicino, missed my first P90X session. I stayed in bed until the next day where I prompty got up and moved to my couch where I would stay until 9 o'clock. I, then, rigamaroled through Chest and Shoulders and went back to bed. Determination, grit, stupidity -- call it whatever, but I paid my dues to P90X and now we're all square.

Highlights: A light dabble of teeth-clenching, white-knuckle perserverance atop an ocean of rigamarole. 

State of Mind: Temporary mucous-induced labotimization.

Rating:  5K - P83X (It was over the best time, so it can't be the full score) + C & B - P90X = P86.5

*Rigamaroled is not a proper conjugation of the adjective 'rigamarole' and if it was it is not being used in the proper context. However, I am using it as an onomatopoeia - so, I'm going to go ahead and say it's still within the bounds of proper english.