Day 9: Bears, Fat Kids and Pepperoni Sticks

As you may have noticed, this little vacation I am taking involves a lot of driving. We have already eliminated one day earlier in the trip so we could hike the Badlands. We decided to do the same today in order to have a day off before I have three days of straight ferry riding.

The morning started at 5 am Mountain Time in Jasper, Alberta and ended about 13 hours and nearly 700 miles later in Prince Rupert, BC.

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On a trip of this magnitude, you find a lot of things to keep you busy. After exhausting my iPod play lists (especially James Taylor, Ben Folds, Barenaked Ladies and Jimmy Buffet) and many of my pod casts (This American Life, Car Talk and The Junkies), I decided to start jotting down some of my observations for your enjoyment:

Convenience Stores

These things go by a variety of names - Gas Stations, C-Stores, Kum-N-Go (yes, really) and offer even more services. Where else can you eat 3 day old hot dogs, buy flavored, colored condoms (and the pills that help get the job done) in a bathroom, get 2 jumbo kit kats for $1.19, and of course, work with wonderful people and pepperoni sticks?

Unless there is some kind of candy, processed meat and erection related products emporium, I think the Convenience Stores have this market cornered.

Bears

I know, I hit on it yesterday, but when you leave a campground one morning with this being the last thing you see, then you can over-write about it too.

And without bears, I never would have been able to utter this statement to my bro: "I will sleep with your girlfriend so bears don't eat the dog." Yes, it was entirely innocent and there was logic behind it, but I'll let you guess on what that logic may be.

Drive Throughs

I'd say this could only happen in America, but it was actually in British Columbia. The picture does more justice than I ever could with words.

I was as giddy as a fat kid at a breakfast buffet when I got this pic.

Tomorrow is a slacker day where my brother and I will be supporting the local Indian Casino while exploring Prince Rupert. Then off to Ketchikan and Metlakatla on Thursday.

Don't Fat Men Waddle?

As you may have guessed by the little blog title up there, I have a couple things that I think define me pretty well:

1. I am (or at one point was) fat.
2. I like to run.

The former point is a matter of opinion. No, I don't wear 52 inch jeans, but I don't have a six pack either. I'm somewhere in between. Only a handful of lucky ladies have had the opportunity to really take in the full picture and unless one of them surprises me with a comment, I may never know the truth.

The latter point is a little more interesting to talk about. I like to run. That's easy to say, right? Well, leave it to me to complicate such a simple statement. I like to run sometimes. I think the new (and outstanding) New Balance commercials say it best - I have a love and hate affair with running.

If you were to plot my interest in running, it would resemble a Sine wave.


It's a continuous cycle of up and down. Love and hate. Black and white. 1 and 0. It starts out innocently enough, with a sunny afternoon waddle through the streets of whatever city I'm living in.

A few weeks later I've found that my time has improved, I'm up to 5-6 miles at a time and really enjoying life. If I kept at this level, all would be good. I'm losing weight, feeling great and am happier in general.

It's the next step that's the problem. "Self," I say, "You should really train for a race. You'll get in great shape, get a t-shirt and maybe even meet a cute girl or two." This is an ideal thought. Then competitiveness sets in. I ran a 54 minute 10k last week? Better knock that down to 52 minutes. My friend is training for a 10 miler? I should up it to a half marathon.

Bloody nipples, chaffing and road side bathroom breaks* become a common topic of discussion with my friends, who gratefully endure such talk. I start to get burnt out. My knees and ankles hurt. I'm sleeping 10 hours a night and don't have much of an appetite. Overall, it is becoming a very enjoyable experience. Next time I'll just poke myself in the eye and have it done and over with in 10 minutes.




Finally, the much anticipated race will come and go. I'll promptly swear off running seconds after crossing the finish line. I'll take a few weeks off before vowing to start lifting. Or maybe pick up some spandex and start roller blading. Then again, some co-ed dodgeball or soccer might do the trick. Whatever the next activity is, it won't be running. Anything that doesn't end in me waking up at 5am, wearing a bib, and sporting some short shorts sounds like a good idea.

Then a few months later the whole process will start again (see above Sine wave - man, do I love math). I know running is the trailer dwelling, undershirt wearing, menthol light smoking boyfriend who will continue to wail away on me, but I just can't escape. I need to be sore. I need the attention. I need the love/hate relationship.

And there you have the overly complex explanation of my blog's name. And remember, if you see me on COPS, please realize it was the running that made me do it.



*I've found these can be solved by band-aids, runner's lube and Immodium AD, respectively.