The last time anybody made a list of the top hundred character attributes of New Yorkers, common sense snuck in at number 79.

There comes a time once in every runner's life when he forgets what it is like not to be acquainted with the sport. More specifically, there comes a time once in every runner's life when he forgets what it is like not to be acquainted with people who wear very short shorts and think that it's perfectly normal. And for those not aware, I ought to inform you that I am using a very liberal definition of the word "once." But more on that in a minute. We're taking the chronological route for this one.

On the eighth day of this, the last year of our lives, which so happened to be a Sunday, I found myself at approximately the same altitude that Hillary and Norgay found themselves at 11:30 a.m. on May 29, 1953, the significant difference being that I was on an airplane and they were not. As you may well imagine, I love looking out the window. Is there any greater satisfaction than that which comes from seeing with your own eyes that the maps you've spent years looking over are, in fact, correct? I, at least, become immensely satisfied upon recognizing the bodies of water, the mountain ranges, the canyons, the highways, and, especially when flying across the dark side of the Earth, the metropolises and megalopolises. But on this particular day, as I peered down upon that flatness that takes residence between the mountains of the west and the hills of the east, I did not recognize what I was looking at. It was bright and green and almost Shire-like, but it was not familiar. Even stranger, I was not at that time aware of the fact that I did not recognize it. I wasn't aware of much at all, to be honest. And this was when, out of nowhere, a blackness descended upon my field of vision, and all in one much too busy moment, the blackness lifted and I discovered that I was not, in fact, occupying the window seat, but rather the middle seat. It took me a small piece of a second more to discern that the far green country which I had so blissfully been enjoying was nothing more than a product of my mind.
Yes, I had a dream about being on an airplane while I was sleeping on an airplane.

And just when you thought my Sunday could not possibly become any more exciting, whamo! You get to read about the adventures that occupied my time in the ensuing evening. So let's set the scene here. It's the night before the first day of classes, and I'm hanging out in Le Chateau (that one dorm that's actually a castle) with a few cross country friends. We're doing a whole lot of not doing much. Catching up, you know. Just talking.
And that's when we hear the scuffle. The squeak. The pitter-patter of little feet. An eavesdropper of sorts. Believe me, we would have loved to club him over the head with a gnarled wooden staff, throw him on a table, interrogate him, and then condemn him to a life of bravery and heroism, but, as fate would have it, he had more Scabbers than Samwise in him.
So we hear the little noise. Anthony is the first one to scream. And the last, because we are men, but that is not the point. The point is that we are trying to enjoy the company of one another for the first time in three weeks but there is a mouse in the dorm room that we are in and we are not happy about this and that is all we need to know to decide that this mouse has got to go and that is that period no question asked.
But the most is very small, and the room is very cluttered.
It takes us a relatively short amount of time to decide that the mouse was definitely in the closet. This decision is based on the fact that there is an abundance of snack food in there. Also, that's where we heard him. So we open the closet door and provide ourselves with as much light as we are able to muster, which is less light than we would like to be able to muster, but we are in no position to worry about such things. There is an intruder on the loose.
It's a very mechanical process. Patrick is at the entrance to the small closet, and he is picking up objects, one by one, and handing them to whoever is ready to receive them, and as we, the receivers, take these objects, we set them down in an orderly manner. The point is to leave no proverbial stone unturned.
We go about this for a few uneventful minutes, systematically and slowly removing potential hiding places for our unwelcome guest. Eventually, Patrick passes a completely empty bag of tortilla chips to Anthony, as part of the removal process. Now, let's make sure we're on the same page here. This is one of those big ol' chip bags, alright? Real stuff, and lots of it. Someone voices the trivial question.
"Who ate all those chips and put the empty bag back in the closet?" We laugh, casually blame one another, and then, in the space of a few seconds, everything has changed. Anthony, who is holding the bag, gets credit for the observation.
"Guys, both ends of this bag are sealed. Nobody opened it . . ."
And that's when we see the holes. Three or four of 'em. Right in the bottom of the bag.

You know the moment in the horror movie when the previously clueless protagonists realize that the thing, be it a human, monster, demon, alien, whatever, is absolutely, definitely, in the house? Well, that's what this bag was. So the search continues, but with a more tangible pulse.
I will spare you descriptions of the other things we saw that served testament to the mouse's residence in the closet; just know that the evidence mounted as the minutes wore on.
After perhaps half an hour, the night came to its own little climax. Patrick, still systematically removing objects from the closet, moves to pick up a sweatshirt hanging from a hook, and that's when we finally see the little devil. It scurries from the stomach pocket up to the hood while poor Pat instinctively recoils his inches-away hand and jumps a half-step back. We all saw it. We all know what the mouse does not: that we've reached endgame.
Now I'm not sure about the arrangements at your institutions, but here at Middlebury every students has a trash bin and a recycling bin. The room in which this battle took place is a double, so we had four bins total at our disposal. This made things pretty simple. We get the sweatshirt into a bin, and after a moment of frenzied panic, get another bin on top of it. So he's trapped.
From that point on it's nothing but falling action. Pick up the double-bin structure that holds the mouse, run it outside, and release the damned thing. Then get back in the room and clean up. End of story.

'Course, the mouse came back. They've still got nighttime visitors. And I don't think that's going to change anytime soon.

I'm now going to remind you that every sentence of this post starting at the outset of the second paragraph and continuing down to the one you just read is part of the story of one single Sunday. Now, I don't intend on elaborating on all of the events of last week in the expansive manner that I have employed for last Sunday's tales. But I've still got a few more things to say, so sit tight.

Let's briefly go over January Term again. J-term is a four week period, of which today is the second Monday, between Fall and Spring semester, when Middlebury students take just one class, and professors teach just one course. Back during J-term registration, I initially registered in a poetry class, but I eventually swapped to a different one, which is what I'm currently enrolled in. The class is called "Debating Global Literature" or something like that. We spend the month doing a close reading of Ngugi wa Thiong'o's Wizard of the Crow, supplemented by other, often extensive, readings. I'll give you a full review of the book when I've finished, but for now I'll tell you that I like it a lot so far, and if the last 460-some pages are as good as the first 305, I will definitely be aggressively recommending it to you. Once you've all read Name of the Wind, of course. WHICH SHOULD HAVE ALREADY HAPPENED.

At some point last week, I can't remember exactly when, I walked down to the local bookstore and bought myself a copy of Rand McNally's Large Scale United States Road Atlas, 2012 edition. If Santa won't get me what I want, I will, goddammit.

But now we can return to the topic with which I inexplicably began this narrative, a topic that we can call running.

Tuesday marked my first ever indoor repeat workout. We did some 600s, among other things. Now imagine doing 600 meter intervals on a track that's 160 meters long. How messed up is that? Answer: very. Running in southern California winter, to be perfectly honest, is a hell of a lot nicer than running in Vermont winter. Either you're on an awfully tiny track, or you have multiple long-sleeve layers on.

On Thursday night, right after a mediocre dinner at Ross dining hall, we, meaning the track team, boarded a bus with seats of considerable reclining ability and sat in those seats for a little over five hours as we made our way to the Big Apple. Friday's meet, which bore the relatively badass name "NYC Gotham Cup", took place at an apparently world-famous indoor track called the Armory. Now, this is one of those things that is world famous because it says it is world famous, not because it actually is world famous; I hadn't heard of it either. Yes, that shocked people. My most sincere apologies. (NotW, first sentence of p. 430, paperback) But on the upside, the track was 200 meters long instead of our 160, which made keeping track of my 1600m race a lot easier. And then I told you about the awesome part:
The Armory has a building-wide sound system, through which they play music during meets. For most of the races, they played songs that did not appeal to me in the least; that is, they played songs that most people like. But about 300 meters into my race, they turned on something a little different.

DUN.   DUN DUN DUN.   DUN DUN DUNNNNNN.
DUN.   DUN DUN DUN.   DUN DUN DUNNNNNN.

"Risin' up, back on the street
Did my time, took my chances
Went the distance
Now I'm back on my feet
Just a man and his will to survive.

It's the eye of the tiger
It's the thrill of the fight
Risin' up to the challenge
Of our rival."

I'm still not sure how everyone in my heat didn't break the world record.
Anyways, after the race, I went on my cooldown run with the three other guys who did the mile. Now, this cooldown run, combined with the warmup run before the race, reaffirmed three truths.
One: I will never live in New York City. Running there is a nightmare. I'd rather take the treadmill. Two: Douglas Adams is seldom, if ever, wrong. (I just assume you Google my titles to find out what they're from. If I'm wrong, don't correct me, correct yourself.)
Three: There comes a time once in every runner's life when he forgets what it is like not to be acquainted with the sport. More specifically, there comes a time once in every runner's life when he forgets what it is like not to be acquainted with people who wear very short shorts and think that it's perfectly normal. And for those not aware, I ought to inform you that I am using a very liberal definition of the word "once."

Over eight million people call New York City home. And I swear we saw half of them, and the half we didn't see, we heard.
"NICE SHORTS, DUDE!"
"HEY, FAGGOTS!"
"¡CHUPARME LA POLLA!"
Oh, and the average age of the people yelling these things, at least according to my estimation? Ten. It seems like every kid in Manhattan wanted to verbally abuse us. Nobody over 25 said anything. We thought it was hilarious. I mean, how many times have you ever had a pack of a dozen or so ten year old Hispanic kids run at you, shouting things in at you in their family's language?

How many times has a National Hockey League team ever been fifteen points out of a playoff spot at the halfway mark and still managed to pull off a second-half push to qualify for the post season? Zero. It's never happened before. Which is why I hardly dare to hope that the Ducks can pull it off. But they have now gone 5-0-1 in their last six, and for those of you who don't know what it means, well, it's as close to perfection as you can get without actually being perfect. Miracles have been known to happen in the hockey world. Just ask the 1980 Russian Olympic team. Stay tuned.

On Saturday there was a track party. I went. The room we were in had a world map on the wall. I looked at it for a while. But it was Mercator. So I didn't look at it for that long.

Last night I watched A New Hope with some of the runners. Good stuff, as always. These are not the droids you're looking for. Until I walked back to my building after the movie. When I finally got inside, I checked the weather to figure out exactly how miserable that walk was. It was nine below zero.

I've been caking on the peanut butter every morning, be its victim pancakes, waffles, french toast, (non-French?) toast, bagels, sausage, more peanut butter, or anything else really. This is not stopping anytime soon. Or anytime late, for that matter.