Cooking with Gaston.

After a night of fine revelry, I dragged my sorry carcas out to the Great Swamp Sanctuary for a three mile trot with the Gator Chasers. I was not in top form, due to aforemention revelry, but I'd kinda promised a couple of friends I'd be there. They didn't show, but I still looked forward to the comradrie that the running club typically engenders. Then the new guy runs up. "Hey, guys. I just finished a three mile warm up, and I'm ready to rock". There aren't a bunch of runners that are bigger than I am, but this dude was. The dude was chisled, with an easy smile and an assassin's heart (sorry, John, no pix). I wanted to kill him. Sadly, I couldn't catch him, and even if I could, he probably could have caused me grievous bodily harm. The group naturally separates into the first, second, and sometimes third, tiers, but always we stop at the half-way point and chat a minute before we take off again. Not today. Studly Hungwell, there, hardly slowed at the mid-point, and them that could, kept running. In my sorry state I limped on in on my own. Not much fun, this run. If Gaston shows again, I'm whipping out the i-Pod.