I read a study today,
It basically said,
Elite endurance athletes
Think about the race,
The tactics, they cues their body is sending
Amateurs think about
Everything else with a drifting mind
That can’t seem to focus
On the strategy, the plan, the reason for being.
Okay, I read, even made a note
About focusing on the particulars of
Whatever it is I’m doing,
Swimming, biking, or running
Because my amateur ass won’t finish
If I let my mind wander
To all the stuff that floats
In my gray matter.
Fully aware, I made a mistake,
Sharing my intentions for an impromptu ride
One of many hours
Because what else am I going to do
On a frigid Friday afternoon when I was gifted
With a bit of free time.
Saddled up, fan on, timer going, I started.
Mr. Shelby and his brother Arthur
Made mayhem in season five.
I was struck by the religious symbolism of several scenes,
“Gotta remember to write that down, brilliant angle.”
The smell of barbecue wafted down the basement stairs
Allowing my stomach to send signals
That hunger was on its way.
Then I realized my butt was aching,
My legs were tired, the sweat was dripping hard,
Exams were over, the sauna is gross,
But it’s not as bad as the steam,
I’ll risk the dry heat. The food, the food, the food.
Seventy-minutes in, done.
A couple of hours short.