Stolen: Thunder
This weekend, I joined the ranks of barefoot old men, babies, and v. small dogs in “hiking” the Billy Goat Trail in Maryland. I had originally thought this to be an accomplishment, but discovered, after talking with barefoot old men, babies, v. small dogs, and the universe, that this is not so.
If you have never been to the Billy Goat Trail, it is a trail in Maryland where Washingtonians go on weekends to talk loudly about the weather on their trips to Boston and/or political candidates while violating your personal space in the great outdoors (versus the ATM line, Chick-Fil-A line, or Orange line). On this trail, while dodging bees and other white people, you will scramble over rocks with heart pounding, ponder mortality, and wonder which is more intimidating: the German baby ahead of you bounding from rock to rock like Spider Man, or the twelve shirtless douchebags behind you, gaining on you each time you scrape your knee on a boulder (Boulder?!). If you pause from cursing the Department of the Interior, you’ll see lovely views of nature, and marvel that you are only miles from the Nation’s Capital of Tooldom.
The best part of the trail, however, comes when you finish it. You’ll be proud of yourself for scaling rocks in too-big sneakers and not dying. You’ll then realize everyone else has already done it, as a child, backward, and blindfolded, and once with a broken leg, and stop being proud. You’ll pledge to yourself that next Saturday, you’re going to Target, which will be just as crowded, but the hotdogs and pretzels are cheaper.
If you have never been to the Billy Goat Trail, it is a trail in Maryland where Washingtonians go on weekends to talk loudly about the weather on their trips to Boston and/or political candidates while violating your personal space in the great outdoors (versus the ATM line, Chick-Fil-A line, or Orange line). On this trail, while dodging bees and other white people, you will scramble over rocks with heart pounding, ponder mortality, and wonder which is more intimidating: the German baby ahead of you bounding from rock to rock like Spider Man, or the twelve shirtless douchebags behind you, gaining on you each time you scrape your knee on a boulder (Boulder?!). If you pause from cursing the Department of the Interior, you’ll see lovely views of nature, and marvel that you are only miles from the Nation’s Capital of Tooldom.
The best part of the trail, however, comes when you finish it. You’ll be proud of yourself for scaling rocks in too-big sneakers and not dying. You’ll then realize everyone else has already done it, as a child, backward, and blindfolded, and once with a broken leg, and stop being proud. You’ll pledge to yourself that next Saturday, you’re going to Target, which will be just as crowded, but the hotdogs and pretzels are cheaper.
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Also, I think I had nightmares about that trail for a while afterwards.