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You know you're in for a treat when you see the words "cross country" on a menu. It's like the chef got lost on their way to culinary school and decided to make a pit stop in confusion-ville. I went to this cross country-themed restaurant, and let me tell you, the menu was a wild ride. They had a dish called the "Mystery Mile Meatloaf." I asked the waiter what kind of meat it was, and he just shrugged and said, "It's a cross-country blend." I didn't know whether to eat it or use it as a doorstop.
And then there was the "Forest Fiasco Fondue." It came with a side of twigs and leaves for dipping. I felt like I was at a picnic with Tarzan. I asked the waiter if the fondue was made from real forests, and he said, "Nah, just the essence of trees." Whatever that means.
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You ever hear about this sport called cross country? Yeah, it's like they took track and field and said, "Let's make it even more confusing!" I mean, seriously, you're telling me the finish line is somewhere out there in the wilderness? I feel like they're just trying to prepare us for the zombie apocalypse or something. I joined a cross country team once. I thought it was going to be a nice jog through the park, you know, maybe high-fiving some squirrels on the way. Turns out, it's a 5K through mud, hills, and forests. I felt like I was in an episode of "Survivor" without the million-dollar prize.
And don't get me started on the checkpoints. I'm out there running, gasping for air, and suddenly there's a random person in the woods holding a clipboard. I thought I took a wrong turn and ended up in an episode of "The X-Files." "Excuse me, am I still on the race or did I just stumble into Area 51?
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You ever notice how cross country seems to have its own secret language? The coaches are out there shouting things like "negative splits" and "strides," and I'm just trying not to trip over my own feet. It's like they're speaking in code, and I didn't get the memo. And the hand signals! I swear, cross country coaches are like traffic cops on a marathon highway. One minute they're pointing left, then right, then doing some interpretive dance move that I'm supposed to understand. I felt like I was in a game of charades, and the answer was always "run faster.
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So, I decided to carpool with some fellow cross country runners to the race. Big mistake. Have you ever been in a car with a bunch of people who just finished a 10K through mud and hills? It's like a mobile sauna of regret. I thought I was getting into a car, but it turns out I was boarding the "Sweat Express." The aroma was so intense; I felt like I was inhaling victory and defeat at the same time. Note to self: invest in a car with better ventilation or, better yet, a car wash attached.
And don't even get me started on the post-race snacks. Energy bars, protein shakes, and the unmistakable scent of sweaty socks. It's like a buffet of regret and electrolytes. I'll stick to my post-race banana, thank you very much.
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