Another day

The alarm shrieked, a sound more akin to a banshee wailing than a gentle wake-up call. You groaned, burying your head deeper under the covers. Five more minutes, you pleaded silently, but the image of that delicious post-run coffee and the smug satisfaction of completing a challenging workout pushed you out of bed. You stumbled towards the bathroom, the morning air a frigid assault on your senses. After a breakfast of questionable nutritional value (mostly consisting of whatever was lurking at the bottom of the cereal box), you laced up your shoes, the laces feeling suspiciously like tiny snakes trying to strangle your feet. You arrived at the designated meeting spot, a small park that looked suspiciously like a neglected dog park. Your running buddies were nowhere to be seen. You checked your watch, then checked it again, convinced that time itself had conspired against you. "Where are they?" you muttered, starting to tap your foot with increasing agitation. Just as you were about to unleash a string of colorful expletives, you spotted them lumbering towards you, looking like they'd just wrestled a bear. "Sorry, sorry, we overslept!" wheezed Lightweight, his face flushed. "The kids built a pillow fort and we got sucked in!" Seeman, looking remarkably fresh-faced despite his claims of a late night, chimed in, "I swear I set five alarms!" You stifled a laugh, though inwardly, you were dying to unleash a sarcastic, "Oh, you and your 'five alarms.'" "Alright, alright, let's get going!" you said, "Before I start questioning my life choices." Instead of a traditional run, you decided to spice things up. "Today," you announced, "we're doing a Mosi to the roundabout at the end of Elm Street. It's going to be epic...or disastrous. Probably disastrous." Fish Fingers, ever the optimist, piped up, "Epic! I'm feeling strong today!" while Dunshire, already looking bewildered, mumbled something about "property cards" and "rent." Bean, meanwhile, just stared vacantly into space, seemingly oblivious to the impending torture. A Mosi, for those unfamiliar, is a type of interval training that sounds much more impressive than it actually is. You set off at a brisk pace, your heart pounding like a drum in your chest. Lightweight immediately fell behind, gasping for air like a fish out of water. "Wait for me! Wait for me!" he wheezed. The roundabout loomed closer, a menacing circle of doom. You sprinted towards it, your legs feeling like jelly and your lungs burning. Seeman surged ahead, a competitive glint in his eye. Fish Fingers, true to his word, was surprisingly strong, keeping pace with you. Dunshire was already lost, muttering about "street repairs" and "chance cards." Bean, however, seemed to have found a newfound energy, inexplicably skipping and humming a cheerful tune. You rounded the roundabout, feeling more like a wounded gazelle than a seasoned athlete. But the workout wasn't over yet. "Alright," you declared, voice cracking slightly, "time for some core work." You dropped to the ground, your form resembling a beached whale attempting a push-up. Lightweight groaned dramatically, while Seeman attempted to impress you with his impressive (and slightly exaggerated) number of repetitions. Fish Fingers struggled valiantly, while Dunshire lay on the ground, staring at the sky and muttering about "mortgages." Bean had disappeared, presumably off exploring the local flora and fauna. You then proceeded to lead them through 22 sets of 20 "big boy sit-ups" (which, in reality, were more like pathetic wriggles). By the time you were finished, Lightweight was practically catatonic, Seeman was bragging about his superior fitness, and Fish Fingers was looking a little green around the gills. Dunshire had finally given up on the ant and was now attempting to play a one-man game of Dunshire using the surrounding park benches as "properties." Bean, having successfully climbed the tree, was now attempting to perform a daring aerial act. Next came 22 sets of 20 "jumping on top of a rock" (which, in reality, was more like hopping awkwardly onto a small boulder). Lightweight attempted to feign injury, Seeman started to complain about the unfairness of it all, and Fish Fingers was on the verge of tears. Dunshire had finally lost interest in Dunshire and was now attempting to "negotiate" with a squirrel for a peanut. Bean, having lost his balance, was now dangling precariously from a tree branch, screaming for help. And finally, to cap off this delightful morning, you forced them to run one more lap around the roundabout. By this point, Lightweight was crawling, Seeman was muttering darkly about "revenge," and Fish Fingers was contemplating running away and joining the circus. Dunshire had finally lost interest in Dunshire and was now attempting to "negotiate" with a squirrel for a peanut. Bean, having lost his balance, was now dangling precariously from a tree branch, screaming for help. Back home, you showered, the water feeling like a blessed relief. You enjoyed a well-deserved breakfast, though the only thing you could stomach was a large glass of water and a mournful stare at your toast. The rest of the day was a blur of exhaustion and regret. You vowed to never again agree to a "spontaneous" workout with your friends. You also vowed to find a new running group, one that didn't involve sadistic exercises, questionable leadership, and characters who seemed to have wandered in from a surrealist fever dream.