An Ode to the Banked Track
Dear Track,
We really have to stop meeting like this.
I appreciate the way your slopes hurtle me into the straights when I can remember to skate the track and push through the turns. I cherish your rail, which guards me from being flung out of the corners. In fact, I am even grateful for your cushy, smooshy masonite, without which I would be left to fling my ample ass onto less forgiving surfaces such as concrete or hardwood.
But seriously, Track…
It’s not you. It’s me. My left thigh has been drawn to you like cats to a laser pointer for the last two weeks. I can’t take it anymore. I’m losing sleep, literally. Like, I can’t sleep on my left side and I’m a toss-turn sleeper. I’m putting my skate down, Track (and then picking it up again… over and over… ’cause that’s how derby works) and vowing to end this torrid affair you’re having with my thigh. It will be hard, I know. It is so meaty and luscious, what track wouldn’t want to gobble that thigh up? But I know if I bend my knees and stay low and stick my ass out like I’m pooping on the track, I can put an end to my thigh’s fascination with your lovely gray surface. Also, I’m calling in reinforcements.
<3 <3
me
2 comments March 12th, 2008