Crazed Cacti

Texas is hot. I am sure everyone already knows that, but I am starting to realize the reality of just how hot it is. It is only January and I have found that I can run in sleeveless shirts and shorts. Is this normal? Sure, everyone makes fun of the fact that Texas thinks so highly of itself, being it's own country and all. But I think I might just believe it. How can NYC be 6 degrees and in here it is 60? Crazed Cacti are what does it.

I have finally found an indescribable apartment to live in, in the land of Pflugerville. And yes, that is a "PF". They use these two letters in every way possible. Pflugerville Pfall Pfestival is just one of the many examples I will give. Sure, it seems silly and ridiculous but I will accept that over the alternate spelling of dolphin...dolpfin. Now they are just messing with the English language and I don't know how much of that I can tolerate. I don't care for the small town, but it is quaint and growing. The Starbucks is my friend and so is the double bolt on my apartment door. Maybe that will preempt you for the journey I took through the back roads of Pflugerville.

I mapped out a new route for my 5 mile run. This lollipop route seemed easy enough, looping through side streets and main roads to lead me back to my apartment. As I made my way along the first street, the houses became dingier and spaced out. The first landmark was a "hall" in which people rented out to get married or host special occasions. All I could make out was one plastic-covered tent in the middle of the field.

I started to cross over this small rusted bridge, but second guessed myself. The last thing I needed was to destroy a bridge and die in a creek bed. Three guys came out of the woods next me, as I was making this decision, with shovels and hammers. They headed towards an open field, making glances in my direction. Let's assume: grave diggers?

I made it about 2 miles out until I was followed by a Mexican boy on a bike. I use boy lightly. His short stature masked his age of 25 or 30. His small legs were able to keep up with me for a short time, while he blatantly turned to stare at me. His creepy ways were put to an end when a cop car strolled by at an alarmingly slow pace. I lost him in a neighborhood.

Another group of hoodlums were ahead, playing in a sewer. I have never seen so many young pimps in my life.

After another mile of just wanting to get home, a PT cruiser came speeding by, pushing me to the uneven sidewalk. I caught up to it at a small deserted parking lot, that of course, I had to pass through. A shady fella got out with a paper bag in his hand. He quickly hid his sketchy face and sunk back into the cruiser, only to speed away again.

I thought my adventure must be over, but I always seem to be wrong. As I headed into my last mile, an ice cream truck (in the middle of January) turned onto my deserted street. The same jingle was played for 10 minutes. As hard as I tried to get rid of this nuisance, I had no luck.

Finally able to turn down a street, I ran into two hooligans, who upon seeing me, started digging in their pockets. I was ready for anything, knife, gun, cell phone. As I picked up my pace, I didn't dare turn around. I sprinted the last .3 mile and didn't stop until the second dead bolt was locked.

So much for relaxing during my run.