The hottest run I’ve ever been on was in Louisiana. It was Memorial Day weekend, and we were down there for a wedding. We’d been invited to stay at a camp (vacation home on the bayou with AC, WiFi, four showers, and satellite TV) owned by my mother’s best friend, and in my infinite wisdom I decided I needed to go for a run on the levee. I knew I’d have to go early, but fate and coffee slowed me down. By the time I made it out (my mom in tow) it was 10 am and hot. I had water and was wearing as little as possible, but I was still drenched in sweat by the time we’d managed to walk to the levee. As we jogged along, my mom was cursing as much as I was. She had grown up here, but two decades in Colorado had killed her ability to tolerate humidity. The only reason we’d forced ourselves to go out was the boudin, crawfish, cracklins, and other fattening foods we knew awaited us in the camp. We’d been eating like pigs all weekend, and would continue to do so through the wedding.
We went out and back for 2 miles, but it took us nearly an hour because we kept having to slow down or stop. When we finally got back to the camp, my not-uncle had a cigarette in one hand, a margarita in the other, and was sitting on the screen porch. I don’t recall him laughing out loud, but the smirk as he took a drag on the cigarette was enough to tell us what he thought of our nonsense.
We staggered inside (where there was AC) grabbed our own margaritas, and went to take showers.
Then we ate a metric ton of boudin.