I dreamed about killing you again last night
And it felt alright to me

— the prophet tweedy

—

The thought comes to me midway through the second mile:

I really, really, really want to kill the old British guy.

Is there a law against murder? Might there be a loophole because we’re on the Salt River Pima/Maricopa reservation? Surely they have no love for the white man, and this one is particularly white.

He’s in an annoying black and white vertical stripe oxford shirt, khaki shorts, hands clasped behind his back, moving at 2 mph. He’s talking loudly to a woman who appears enthralled by his high decibel monologue delivered in that Monty Python accent. AND HE INSISTS ON USING THE RUNNING LANE.

There are two signs posted on the little track. They say “Outside Lane for Running Only.” I’m not sure how that translates across the pond, but hopefully it’s something like “Outside Lane for Running Only Yes That Means You, You Pompous Bastard.”

I’m not even sure why this bothers me so much. Maybe if he carried a dead parrot. It’s not hard for me to move to the inside lane for a moment, and it’s not like I’m flying around the track anyhow. I’m not even sure my 3.5 miles at 15:30 pace qualifies as running. Perhaps I covet a black and white vertical stripe oxford shirt. All I know is it drives me insane.

And so I plot devious ways to kill him, passing the time as I meander around the tiny loops, pretending I’m Raymond Reddington, or possibly Pee-wee Herman before he got killed off. How could you kill off Pee-wee Herman? Old British Guy is going on my Blacklist.

It’s the first day of the Fancy Training Plan © and it seems to be going well, if bickering over mileage with an AI coach who drains 100,000 gallons of water every time you challenge him can be considered going well. I’m not going to be around that long, and we have an emergency 5-gallon jug in the closet, so whatever.

What if the AI coach is right and I’m wrong? What if I can’t do this? Then what’s left? Walking in the outside lane, I suppose. I shall commence working on my accent.

And so Day 1 is complete, the British guy is sadly undeterred, and I will dream about killing him again tonight. Or maybe his parrot.

And it’ll feel alright to me.