It was Conference. The race I had been looking forward to all year. I spent the day psyching myself up with punk rock music and teenage angst. Our team looked the part of the winners, with new uniforms and matching knee high socks placed strategically on one leg. Sure the shorts were still short, but they were comfortable.
The gun went off. 3.2 miles to go. The course wound through a wooded area with narrow trails. I started out at the back of the lead pack. My plan was to attack the hills and sharp turns of the course where the packs would likely spread out and then count on the narrowness of the trails to make it difficult for people to pass me. It was a good plan, but I got tired too quickly attacking the toughest parts of the course.
On the second lap I was approaching the narrowest and steepest part of the race. I heard cheering ahead of me- girls from another team encouraging their male counterparts.
"Come on, Irondale!"
I felt awful, and knowing that our rival team was ahead demoralized me even further. When I turned the corner I saw the girls still cheering. They watched me trudge my way up the sharp incline. The bright cheering faces soon contorted into looks of disgust and horror.
I thought to myself, "What the hell was their problem?"
I finally reached the top of the hill and knowing I was falling behind the pack, I dropped my head and watched the ground. I noticed something. It was an unmistakable pattern. Rhythmic. Hypnotic. Exposing.
It was my penis.
Every time I strode forward with my left leg, my penis. That fleshy winnebago, popping out of the bottom of my shorts with no net. My old shorts used to have a net.
My head was hanging, pun backhandedly intended, and with less than a mile to go I had pretty much given up. This season was a disaster. I wasn't going to post my worst time, but I definitely wasn't my best. With my penis safely tucked away where it could no longer frighten any 16 year old girls, I crossed the finish line.
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