Chose promise, chose due; here’s the follow up to Anatomy of a Good Run which was fun to write but ended up sounding way too pompous for no reason, especially after the real runner Jenö had left a kind comment.

So even though the plan really is to fool myself – and nobody else – into believing that I’m a pretty decent casual runner, I must also fool myself – and nobody else – into thinking that I have an awesome sense of humor. Hence this post.

A great bad run always starts with a touch of heroism and a bold statement: “Tonight, I’ll run.” Being accompanied by trumpets and drums, the morning claim never fails to move me. I find it greatly motivating to know that I’ll be running in the evening. It motivates me to eat another croissant at work, and maybe an extra slice of pizza for lunch. Oh, and why not a coke? It’ll all be compensated by the night’s workout.

The day goes well and much coffee is ingested. By the end of my shift I’m psyching myself up, conditioning my mind to how good I’ll feel after running, repeatedly sweeping away the thought of a comfortable evening watching the new Star Wars trilogy.

When the coworkers announce that they are going out for a few beers after work, I put on my most intense, dutifully crafted, painful face and declare that I, sadly, can’t join them. I have to run.

The key here is to emphasize the words “have to” in a way that implies both raw suffering and sheer determination. My face as I make such a statement is a brilliant reconstruction of Luke Skywalker’s torn and tortured attitude as he tells his father Darth Vador that he shall never join him on the dark side.

While on the bus back home, I actually get excited for a moment at the perspective of running. My metachlorians are throwing a party. I usually boot up the computer when I get there, just to check my emails and maybe read a few blogs. I’m in no rush. I’m bloody hungry though, but there’s no way I’ll eat before running so I suck it up and promise myself the second half of that cheese fondue for afterwards.

I get dressed for the occasion, l’habit faisant invariablement le moine: a great pair of Nike running shoes bought at an outlet along a Minnesota highway, the Wal-Mart knee brace, my good old Birdwell britches, not so adapted to running but carrying their load of memories as they have endured much harder runs in the Caribbean heat. A synthetic shirt, breathable and light, so that I’ll look the part and act cool. The MP3 player strapped to my left arm, battery charged and playlist selected. And the Suunto Vector watch at my wrist, as a back-up for the MP3 timer. Once a diver, always a diver; redundancy is the mother of all success rules, and success rules.

It’s getting late. Now that I’m all set to go, I remember that I was really supposed to answer a couple of important emails tonight. I reluctantly walk out the door, take a deep breath, expel it, it smells like the neighbors’ garbage. The dark side of the force is calling me softly. “Join me, Vince, and together we can rule the galaxy and eat cheese fondue!”

Tripping in the dark on the wooden planks of the boardwalk around the house, I slightly hurt my left knee and curse out loud. Stupid French Cancan! Without those ridiculous acrobatics onboard a ship in the middle of some agitated ocean, 14 years ago, I’d still have two great knees and could run a lot better.

The brace is old and one of the metal spines has already begun rubbing against my leg. My shoes are slack; I stop and tie my laces again, too tight this time. Bummer, it’s warmer out here than I’d hoped, I’m already sweating and I haven’t even started running. I’m walking up the hill as I always do, warming up. Giving myself a last chance to back out.

But once I get to the top, no more excuses. I have to go on with my Jedi training. Zut. I crank up the music, start the watch timer and launch into a slow run. I can’t find the song I want and step into a pothole, almost twisting an ankle. “Concentrate, feel the force around you.” Three minutes into the first street, I have a side ache.

And then the music dies.

“What? I just changed the battery! Could I possibly have picked up an old one? There’s no way I’ll make it without music tonight. I can’t believe it. What amazing back luck! I was so looking forward to this.”

I paint Obi-Wan’s face on mine, as he watches Anakin slowly drifting away into the dark side, a complex mixture of silent suffering, deep sorrow, fatefulness and ultimately, holiness. And then I decide to go eat fondue.

“The force isn’t so strong, in this one…”