I’ll have to find a picture of Duncan doing this, but he really does. And when he does, I think he looks like he has duck feet. It’s pretty cute.
Speaking of feet, this reminds me of a funny story from middle school.
I started my cross-country career in 8th grade and did pretty well. I wasn’t the best on the team but generally was about third or so. Before each race we’d do a walk through of the course since we would be traipsing across parking lots, fields, woods, and whathaveyou where the path is not always obvious. Anyway, the top two girls on our team were pretty confident in their talents; so much so that before a race one day they decided that it was imperative that they put on their running tights before a race instead of walking the course. They must have been pretty sensitive to cold…because the rest of us were fine in just our gym uniforms (maybe we wore singlets, I’m not sure but gym uniforms sounds better).
So anyway, as we were running, I was hanging in up there in the top 10 or so runners just doing my thing. At one point in the course, there was a fork with one side following the high school course, which was much longer, and the other side pretty much as the final stretch for the middle school course. Guess who was in first place and didn’t pay attention to the right path because she was too busy with her leggins? That’s right. My teammate. And in the spirit of middle school, all the other girls right behind her followed here literally into the woods onto the high school path.
That is, of course, until it got to me. The combination of my uncanny ability to not want to break rules, awkward defiance of peer pressure, and general talent at remembering things caused me to be the first runner to feed into the turn that lead to the chute and got me into first place. Yes, folks, I became a champion that day. It was pretty spectacular.
One of the major things I remember was the evil, evil glares I got from those girls who took the wrong path. They were literally shooting daggers at me with their eyes. Unsettled slightly but mostly unaffected by their attempts to shame and guilt me into thinking my victory was unworthy, I awkwardly carried my trophy/ribbon/medal/whatever chintzy thing they handed out over to my sweet fanny pack.
Ok, that last part is a lie. I stopped wearing my pink neon fanny pack when I was like 10. But that’s another story for another day.