I never get runner’s high.  I’ve been running off and on since high school--okay, mostly off, but still--and I never get runner’s high.  All I ever feel is tired.  I think next time I should augment the experience with real drugs so I can run with a high like everyone else does.  It’s still a natural high from one point of view. I mean, what’s more natural than heroin sliding into the arm?  It’s as organic as wheat and barley.  “Holistic,” one might say.

“Holistic” is a great word when you’re trying to argue that a particular result is natural and inevitable.  When I begin supervising a large staff of people, that’s totally how I plan to fire people.  “From a holistic point of view, you’re never getting a paycheck from us again.”

Can you believe they have a magazine called Runner’s World? What is there to say about it?  I bet it’s just for show.  If you open it up, each page has the same message in 20 point type font: “YOU’RE IN HELL.” That’s the only Runner’s World I know about.

Uh oh, danger ahead.  I’m running a pedestrian path alongside Lake Merritt, and walking towards me are three very large people.  If they were vehicles, they would be wearing “CAUTION: WIDE LOAD” signs.  And they are walking in tandem.  How will I get by?  You’re only supposed to use up half of the path.  We are getting close to one other...oh, one has tried to squeeze over, but this doesn’t provide a lot of space to get between...I think we’re going to crash...I think we’re--oh god, I think--I THINK.....whoa, I really thought we were going to crash.

Okay, halfway done.

Oh, look at this girl coming towards me. Bounding lightly like a gazelle, demure drops of sweat beading her forehead.  Matching spandex outfit.  Here I am sweating like buffalo with little rolls of flesh undulating like a white tsunami every time I take a step, and she’s all, “Hmm, maybe I should have put some Michael Bolton into my iPod.” I hate these runner girls.  You know, screw it.  This time I’m going to tell her off.  I’ll let her know that running doesn’t come so easily to everyone, and it’s not even real running if you just lope gracefully along with your color-coordinated clothes and soft rock mp3s with--

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

Damn runner’s courtesy.  You always acknowledge other runners as they pass, as though the bonds of pavement pounding make up for the fact that she is evil.  Oh well, next time.

What is up with that tradition, anyway?  No matter who you are, you acknowledge the other person simply because he or she is a runner. I can just see Ariel Sharon and Yasser Arafat passing each other on a jog:

“Shalom.” “Salaam.” “We’re still annexing the Gaza Strip, though.” “We will destroy you all.”

Now there’s a group of war activists coming towards me.  An old hippy is sitting comfortably in one of those sit-down bicycles, pedaling along, waving a sign that says “HONK IF YOU WANT TO IMPEACH.” Oh My God...is he flashing a peace sign at me?  Listen, Wavy Gravy, right now I’m in favor of the war.  My head is full of pain and death.  If you come across a guy on mile 3 of 4 and the last one is all uphill, and you shove something in his face that isn’t a bottle of Gatorade, you better have made enough money selling hemp clothes to have hired a lawyer for your last will and testament.

Whew.  Done.  Okay.  But I can’t just stop. The running is only the first part of the ritual. For health’s sake, I have to do my “warming down” exercises.

Which means plopping on the couch and watching Ebert and Roeper.