‘Running Is My Jaw Session With a Head Shrinker,’ Says Hardboiled Detective
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A local detective last night told an associate that without his regular thrice-weekly runs he would likely be a hop-head by now, or hitting the hooch even harder than he already does.
Dumb Runner learned of the conversation from someone close to the associate, who asked to be identified only as a dame with gams that wouldn’t quit.
“Before I started running, I was really in dutch,” said Rigby Reardon, 44, a 15-year veteran of the force who plays by his own rules and gets results. “Feeding my trap at greasy spoons, always sucking on a gasper, staying out all night with some lacquered chippie.”
He poured himself a glass of bourbon.
“I was ready to go off my nut,” Reardon said, draining the glass in one gulp. “We’re talking a one-way ticket to the loony bin, sister. No stops. Express.”
“That is, if a bum pump or a slug from a redhot didn’t deep-six me first.”
Reardon, wearing a grimace, laughed.
That all changed about two years ago, however, when a friend introduced Reardon to running. The two trained for a local 5K together, and he has been running faithfully at least three times a week ever since.
“Now, I’m hitting on all eight,” he said. “Everything’s jake.”
Running, said Reardon, has kept him physically fit and—at least as important—mentally and emotionally healthy.
“Running is my jaw session with a head shrinker,” he said, pouring himself another bourbon. “Keeps me level, see? That’s no spaghetti.”
As the conversation wore down, the associate asked Reardon if he had any FKTs on Strava.
Reardon responded with a crooked smile.
“Huh?” he said. “What the hell kind of weird jargon is that?”
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