Full Metal Junket

Despite being new to the world of running, I'm already very much a creature of habit. The sneakers are New Balance, the bra is an Enell (att'n, Army Corps of Engineers: those suckers have enough spandex to restrain ANYTHING! Bulging levees, hordes of North Koreans, you name it!). The time is always evening, and the route is invariably the same (it happens to pass right by a Wendy's, although I have not yet treated neighborhood motorists to the sight of a well-padded woman sprinting down the sidewalk while clutching a Frosty). And then there's the soundtrack. Ranging from "angrily loud" to "loudly angry", its overall sonic impression could be best described as "entire lineup of Ozzfest receives unmedicated hemorrhoidectomies". I've tried dance, ska, hip-hop, breathy crooning and lovelorn whining, and nothing was as effective in propelling my ass down the street as a good old-fashioned "YAAAARRRRGGGGGHHHH!"

That is, until yesterday.

Junket sat atop her little blue Bianchi, Twizzler-thin frame encased in stretchy black racing gear, a Tour de France cap perched jauntily on her head. Coupled with the smudgy eyeliner and pack of smokes protruding from her saddlebag, the overall impression was that of a French teenager pedalling down to "le cafe" for "zee CWAH-sohns" and "zee anti-Americahn sen-tee-MOHN".

Well, until she opened her mouth.

"MOVE THAT ASS, FLABBY! THIS SPEDOMETER SAYS YOU'RE ONLY GOING THREE-POINT-FOUR MILES AN HOUR! IS THAT THE BEST YOU CAN DO? Well, IS IT?"

When Junket proposed accompanying me on bicycle during my regularly scheduled run, I figured it would be a fine opportunity to spend some time together and catch up on juicy sisterly gossip (in addition to being biological siblings, Junket and I recently became Milk Sisters, between whom there truly are No Secrets).

Junket, however, saw it as an opportunity to urge her eldest sibling to athletic greatness while simultaneously brushing up her R. Lee Ermey impersonation.

It was not the greatest run I've ever had. I'd like to attribute that to the sweltering humidity and a lingering chest cold, but in truth, it's hard to keep your heart rate up when you keep laughing so hard that you stagger into parked cars.

Some choice quotes:

"You call those abs? More like FLABS!"

Jul: "Ooh, a waffle!" (after spotting rain-soaked, ant-infested waffle by the side of the road)
Junket: "Why don't you just EAT IT? I know you want to! You probably carry maple syrup in your back pocket for just such an occasion!"

Junket: "What, you can only go FOUR-POINT-NINE MILES AN HOUR?"
Jul, muttering: "I am gonna crack that fuckin' spedometer off and shove it up your- "
Junket: "FOUR POINT FOUR! MOOOOOOVE IT!"

"Signal! No, arm pointed DOWN and to the LEFT! You can't do SHIT!"

"You probably don't want to fully extend your arm because of all the FLAB I'll see hanging down!"

"What in the great blue balls is WRONG WITH YOU?"

Jul (in a completely random act of retaliation for all of the "flab" and "tubby" comments; a low blow, but still better than pulling a Vincent D'Onofrio): "Oh, yeah?... you accidentally shit in Caer's pajamas when you were three!"

Junket: "Yeah, well... I got rid of my pajama-shitting problem! Why can't YOU get rid of your FLAB problem?"

Jul: "Stop, stop! I'm laughing too hard to run!"
Junket, in same drill-sargeant growl: "Oh, terribly sorry!"
[Some minutes later, still in Ermey voice]
"My mistake! Quite a faux pas there..."