For My Homies of the Fall

College cross-country season has begun. As a competitive runner of over six years, I have a large part of my heart and 99% of the muscle in my lungs devoted to the running of hill repeats, windsprints, stride-outs, fartleks, tempo runs, intervals, and long runs, most of them through the hills and valleys of Upstate New York. No amount of career training recieved in college compared to the things I learned as a distance athlete: rural geography, methods of freshman abuse, puke timing, shit squeezing, tribal political structures, biophysical speed optimization, highway rest stop economics, commercial vehicle navigation, the sublimation of masculine violence, the list goes on and on.

None of it compares, of course, to winning a race with seagull shit on your thigh.

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