Fugu Man Tells a Long-Winded Tale 1/25/10

Winter came back today. We had been frolicking in 40 degree temperatures for about a week, and we thought Winter had shown mercy on us and retired to the Dakotas. This morning was a f***ed up, repugnant dose of reality. The temperature was in the 20s, and so were the wind gauges. Winter had returned from Minot, bringing with him the scourge of toupees from Fargo to Chicago, The Alberta Clipper.

It's the kind of wind that makes your airway and your sphincter tighten. It gets under your warmest clothing and freezes your follicles. A poor sap in Sioux City had his spleen flash-frozen while walking to his car from his house on a Clippery January morning. If The Alberta Clipper were a paranoid, right-wing media figure, it would be Limbaugh, Savage, Beck and Coulter combined. An hour in such a wind has been known to make Al Gore drive his Escalade around the Arctic Circle, just to speed up global warming.

Nonetheless, I, bound by a peyote-induced resolution to run regardless of the weather, headed out into the maelstrom. My regular 6 mile loop first takes me south, then east, both of which were with the wind, then I would turn for home, going north and west, both into the wind, before finishing with a little southward stretch. I was just hoping my nose would not turn black from frostbite and fall off before I got out of the wind. I guess if it had, I would not have known until afterwards, when the warm, soothing shower water began to pool in my sinuses.

Despite my misgivings, I was actually feeling pretty fluid in the first couple of miles. Alberta was at my back, pushing me along. I was so warm, I even felt a little sweat under my arms. It was almost effortless. All this speedy pace was doing, however, was getting me to my turnaround point more quickly, so that I would have to face the frigid blast of The Clipper head-on.

At that point, not only do I turn, I begin what is about a .75 mile climb, up a pretty steep grade. I call it Mt. Woodson Avenue. I put my melon down, and dropped into low gear, all sweat now falling from my armpits as ice. My airway, irritated by the dry air, narrowed, and my breathing came a little shallower and faster. Halfway up, a blonde woman running with a Jack Russell terrier, came down the hill, passing on my left. She did not speak, probably because her words would instantly have been carried three blocks away. I did not speak, because I was afraid of being punched in the face by Alberta.

Then, another block on, something happened that would prove to have near-disastrous consequences for the protagonist of my story: another blonde woman passed me coming down the hill, with yet another Jack Russell, but this time on my right. A deja vu moment, or a glitch in the Matrix? Either way, it made me lift my head to look. In my hyperventilating state, I was in no position to ward off the tremendous volume of wind that entered my mouth just as I inhaled. Approximately three thousand cubic feet of air then took the Express Train down my throat, and into my lungs. Simultaneously, the woman lost control of her dog, and it was blown into my backside, effectively plugging my sphincter. The air trapped, I was instantly transformed into a 152-pound puffer fish, and lifted into the lower reaches of the atmosphere. I could see the blonde getting ever smaller, and a Japanese space station getting closer.

The crew members, ecstatic over their luck at this gigantic fugu filet floating toward them, a delicacy they were told they would not eat for six months, readied their kitchen utensils and sake. I knew I was done for, unless a major miracle happened. (As an atheist, I don't believe in such things, and reprimanded myself for my weakness.) I also wondered how I would taste with wasabi and ginger. That's when I realized that I could still save myself, if only I could get the air out. Butt, how? Oh, the plucky little dog! He was my deliverance. He had also spotted the space station, and in his excitement to greet those aboard, he wriggled himself free from my rump, allowing the air to escape.

I began to float back toward Earth. I realized that Jack would make a consolation snack for the disappointed astronauts, and hurriedly grabbed my little savior. (As an atheist, I don't mean that in the metaphysical sense.) Ten minutes later, a little singed from our reentry, Jack and I touched back down in exactly the same spot from which we had lifted off. His owner showed her gratitude by dousing me with pepper spray, and continuing on her run with Jack The Astro Dog. And I, not wishing to tangle with The Clipper Again, turned my back to the wind, and headed west, by heading east. I circumnavigated the globe, adding about 25,000 miles to my log book.

Thanks for humoring me.