"I'm hoping to meet some ladies during the Chicago Marathon on Sunday."
"But they'll all be running away from you," my mom replied.
"And that's different how?"
I have heard from some female runners I know that when they need that extra motivation during runs, when they just want to quit, they envision that I'm chasing behind them asking if they are free this weekend.
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2 comments:
Hey, Sleep Less,
You run ,marathons too? I've been running them since I was a kid...now my knees are shot so I have had to cut back to sprints...5and 10K races.
I like your spot. You have that special sarcastic quality that I seem to gravitate to - maybe because I'm a sarcastic SOB from the get go.
Try to visit my spot, Unprotected Textual Internetcourse. You might find some of it interesting, or you might think I am insane.
Wait...I forgot; I am insane. Well I'll be dipped in fecal matter!
I don't sleep, but I can't drink...it makes me sick. There are other things, though.
Um...I'm writing a novel and need a collaborator. Someone slightly over the edge...perhaps you'd be interested. For money, I'm an OP-Ed columnist for a local newspaper. The editor is insane too; he prints things I write that should get him fired. Well...both of us. But I love it. Writing outside the box of convention is great fun, if you get my drift, which most people don't.
ML Smith "buytextual"
smthmort@gmail.com
My God, what have we done?
August 9, 1945
Altitude: 22,000 feet
“Tom, how does it look down there?”
“Can't say, Paul. This cloud layer is a lot heavier than we anticipated.”
“Ted, how do we look?”
“You're off, Paul. Make an easy 180 heading due north and climb to 32,000.”
“Tom, let me know when you're clear.”
“Alright. So far we got nothing. We may have to make a go-round until I can get a good look.”
“Ted, can you give me a ceiling on this cloud layer? I may have drop below.”
“Check. Looks like 7000 or 8000 feet, but we should clear 15 - 20 miles out.”
The Enola Gay buffeted against a strong wind from the north, making it difficult for Paul to maintain course. He had flown blind before, but never in the new B-29, an aircraft that was drastically altered to carry a heavy load that included Little Man and a crew that was larger than usual. The Enola Gay was cumbersome and difficult to handle, but she held her own at 32,000 feet, despite the brutal headwind. Below us was a thick cloud layer that made it impossible for the pilot or the bombardier to see anything but gray overcast.(cut to:)
It seemed like only moments ago that we had roared down that rutted runway in the pre-dawn mist on Tinian Island. Paul had his favorite smoking pipe and the usual supply of cyanide tablets. We all knew what they were for and hoped there would be no reason to use them. We had made two flyovers last month, and people on the ground seemed to regard us as a routine nuisance. Some of them even waved. We didn’t expect any anti-aircraft fire.
When we lifted off, Paul told me what General Ent had said to him.
“If this is a success, Paul, you’re going to be a hero. If it’s not, you could wind up in prison.” I thought about that remark - it should have been the other way around. But everything about Special Bombing Mission #13 was twisted, including the mission number. Who came up with that bright idea?
Less than 24 hours ago, the ground crew painted “Enola Gay” on the plane’s fuselage. Paul, who was only 23, insisted that the plane be named after his mother, Enola Gay. I wondered how she might feel about that, or how his father, Paul Tibbets Sr. might feel. How could it possibly feel to know that your son had your wife’s name painted on a plane that would unleash hell on earth?
We caught a sharp downdraft just as Paul returned to his seat, causing him to spill his coffee on the controls. Oddly, it seemed to speed up the response of the hydraulics.
“Wow, what happened? She’s handling like a Rolls.”
“I think it’s the caffeine,” I joked.
“Smith, now I know why they picked you for the mission. We needed a lunatic on board.”
“Pleasure to be of service, sir.”
“Fuck you, Smith.”
“Same to you, Colonel.”
“Call me Colonel again, Smith, and I’ll force feed you one of these.” He showed me the little green pillbox.
“I heard they work fast.”
“Yep. Listen, if we have to take them, I won’t be seeing you afterwards.”
“I don’t know about that. We’ll probably all go to the same place.”
“Yeah, but Smith, according to Ent’s logic, who knows. Hey, they do have good furnaces down there.”
“Why shouldn’t they? The devil himself got them from Hitler.” Everyone on the flight deck cracked up, but it was nervous laughter. We were all tight.
__________________________________
That's a peek at some of the novel. It doesn't stay with Enola long. I'll try to send you some of the heavier stuff if you want to see it. Let me know.
buytextual
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