So I found myself wondering if anyone else out there was afflicted by exercise-induced omnipotence. Luckily Blicky is an expert on the disorder and has devised a detailed description and etiology of the symptoms. Prerun-mile 1
The first stage is characterized my extreme fatigue, fear and ill humor. The inner dialogue usually consists of extremely negative thought patterns with regards to the upcoming run. It's so cold, and I'm safe and warm with my book and my fleecy blanket. I might get bitten by a dog or mowed down by a crazed Sunday morning drunk driver. Also, I've heard there have been black bear sightings and I can't find the pepper spray. I'm too old. Not too old to find the pepper spray, just too old to be running a distance race.
OK this feels pretty good. But I hope that great dane on Pine Street is inside. What would I do if I ever ran into that bear?
That dog couldn't hurt me that much.
How many miles left? OK that great dane is inside. Time to find a better song on the iPod. The normal person usually maintains this stage of endorphin induced omnipotence for the duration of the run, as seen in the fuchsia line above. The truly afflicted progress into the more pathological stages of exercise omnipotence as indicated by the yellow line.
Oh I'm just gliding along like I'm on wheels! I like the colors on that cute little contemporary over there. Maybe I could do something like that. Ok I'm DEFINITELY going to win this race next week. Yeah, I'm average 10 minute miles and there will be young men in their 20's and 30's, but they don't brave roving bears, dogs and chickens in their training runs. They're going down. Also, I think I could probably change careers and become a recording artist. I'll learn how to use Garage Band and maybe a musical instrument make millions on my first mash-up. What should my stage name be?
If that bear came up to me now I would beat it up. First I'd poke him in the eyes with my fingers then I'd elbow him in the stomach and rotate my arm up to punch him in the nose. Then I'd knock him down and punch him. Actually, maybe I'd dress up like a female bear first like Bugs Bunny used to do, and then when he fell in love with me, I'd beat him up or give him Acme TNT inside a candy box. I might have to be careful of how to play it to the media, with my recording contract and all. Extreme sufferers, during this final stage of endorphin madness have been known to devise evil plots involving dark magic and horcruxes to kill Harry Potter, attain immortality and rule the world or plan preemptive invasions of Iraq.
This is stupid. I'm a terrible runner. I bet even...even...Ozzy Osbourne or Rush Limbaugh could beat me next Sunday. This hurts. It's cold. The inner dialogue usually degenerates into constant repetitive profanity at this point.
There is only one cure that I would strongly recommend: sloth. I have no cure for turning thirtyten, but it most assuredly isn't signing up for a ten mile roadrace.