Morphin' the Endorphins
The third stop of my sojourn through sweet tea country was Black Mountain, NC. I previously have lived in Black Mountain, and many of my beloved friends still live here. Whenever I visit, I typically stay with my buddies Whit and Lindsay.
My last trip to this region was just one month ago when I attended their wedding. Often times I fear that when my friends get married, they will assume the stereotypical personalities of the "old married couple" by turning down a night of beer and billiards in order to stay home to watch reruns of "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire" and "America's Funniest Home Videos." Not Whit and Lindsay, though.
They are two of the most active people I know. While I appreciate that they are always up for a night at the local pub or a day on the lake, I often wonder whether they are candidates for an appropriate 12-step program. While some junkies get their fixes from snorting lines of white powder off mirrored tables or from injecting needles into their blue-veined forearms, Whit and Lindsay have an obsession with forcing their bodies to endure 26.2 mile runs while ingesting curious substances called "Goo" and "Power Gel." And, at any given moment when they're really flying high, they might throw in a mile-swim or a 10-mile bike ride if they start feeling chills or convulsions due to withdrawal.
As Lindsay recently relayed to me that she soon will participate in a swim-bike-run morning binge with her mother and older sister, I realized that the insanity isn't just limited to Whit and Lindsay. They're all crazy. While this will be Lindsay's mother's first triple-threat combo, I can just see her becoming sucked into this dark world of carbo-loading and overpronation-correcting shoe inserts. And it could be worse than any of us realize: If she gets hooked, this elementary schoolteacher may delve into dealing and start distributing orange-flavored Gatorade powder packets out of the trunk of her car to impressionable second graders during recess.
With the wide-eyed wonder of a Bengal tiger salivating over a rump steak, Lindsay further explained to me that she is planning a binge several months into the future. As her voice accelerated and rose in pitch, she slurred her words and broke into a cold sweat when she described a gathering in the woods of other hardcore junkies. This mishmash of likeminded endorphin seekers is called the Shut-In Ridge Trail Race, an 18-mile, uphill trail run. My response to Lindsay's stream of altered consciousness was equally wide-eyed as I simply stared at her with open jaw and uttered, "Who are you people?!"
The road to recovery will be tough for Lindsay and Whit and their family, but I feel confident that they can do it by having a friend like me around to support them. I'll start writing their recovery plan today, but first I've got to head to the kitchen to prepare a big bowl of Moose Tracks ice cream and then race back to the sofa so that I don't miss Oprah. Then I'll start helping them recover, but only if there are no Golden Girls reruns on Lifetime and/or there are uneaten Oreos that I find beneath the sofa cushions.
My last trip to this region was just one month ago when I attended their wedding. Often times I fear that when my friends get married, they will assume the stereotypical personalities of the "old married couple" by turning down a night of beer and billiards in order to stay home to watch reruns of "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire" and "America's Funniest Home Videos." Not Whit and Lindsay, though.
They are two of the most active people I know. While I appreciate that they are always up for a night at the local pub or a day on the lake, I often wonder whether they are candidates for an appropriate 12-step program. While some junkies get their fixes from snorting lines of white powder off mirrored tables or from injecting needles into their blue-veined forearms, Whit and Lindsay have an obsession with forcing their bodies to endure 26.2 mile runs while ingesting curious substances called "Goo" and "Power Gel." And, at any given moment when they're really flying high, they might throw in a mile-swim or a 10-mile bike ride if they start feeling chills or convulsions due to withdrawal.
As Lindsay recently relayed to me that she soon will participate in a swim-bike-run morning binge with her mother and older sister, I realized that the insanity isn't just limited to Whit and Lindsay. They're all crazy. While this will be Lindsay's mother's first triple-threat combo, I can just see her becoming sucked into this dark world of carbo-loading and overpronation-correcting shoe inserts. And it could be worse than any of us realize: If she gets hooked, this elementary schoolteacher may delve into dealing and start distributing orange-flavored Gatorade powder packets out of the trunk of her car to impressionable second graders during recess.
With the wide-eyed wonder of a Bengal tiger salivating over a rump steak, Lindsay further explained to me that she is planning a binge several months into the future. As her voice accelerated and rose in pitch, she slurred her words and broke into a cold sweat when she described a gathering in the woods of other hardcore junkies. This mishmash of likeminded endorphin seekers is called the Shut-In Ridge Trail Race, an 18-mile, uphill trail run. My response to Lindsay's stream of altered consciousness was equally wide-eyed as I simply stared at her with open jaw and uttered, "Who are you people?!"
The road to recovery will be tough for Lindsay and Whit and their family, but I feel confident that they can do it by having a friend like me around to support them. I'll start writing their recovery plan today, but first I've got to head to the kitchen to prepare a big bowl of Moose Tracks ice cream and then race back to the sofa so that I don't miss Oprah. Then I'll start helping them recover, but only if there are no Golden Girls reruns on Lifetime and/or there are uneaten Oreos that I find beneath the sofa cushions.
posted by Ritchie Miller at 9:34 AM
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