the Fonz

When I run, I often look like The Fonz.

I don't mean that I resemble Arthur Fonzerelli, white t-shirt and leather jacket and super awesome hairstyle. Actually, if Fonzie were to need to run for some reason (though, most certainly he wouldn't run, but saunter down the road) but if he did, you can be sure that Fonzie would do so in the most cool manner possible - I bet he could even pull of running 26.2 without breaking a sweat in that jacket of his.

Nope. There's nothing that exudes "cool" or "trend-setter" when I run.

When I run, my hands take on the Fonzie pose. Passing cars must think I'm a stumbling, trotting hitchhiker, my right hand always out there, looking for some Good Samaritan to take pity on my huffing & puffing self and load me into the cool interior of their back seat, saving myself from having to make my way back home.

When I become conscience of that I am channeling my inner-Fonzie, I try to make my thumbs behave normally, but that makes the rest of my arms behave weirdly. Then I run like I've just been given these 2 new limbs to try out, and they are all wavy and floppy and I don't seem to know what to do with them.

So, if you see me turtle-trotting down the road, thumb out, know this: I'm not trying to bum a ride. I'm just saying, "Aaaaaaayyyyy."