TheSPAINishLover
Well-known member
- May 5, 2021
- 1,140
- 1,293
My trip to SoCal was way more fun than expected—almost too fun, like the universe accidentally gave me someone else’s vacation. Traffic was so light I kept checking Google Maps to make sure I hadn’t fallen into a parallel dimension. Even the theme parks were empty. I got on rides so fast they practically had to chase me down to make sure I’d paid admission.
After a few days of this miracle, Crusty and I decided to meet up for a hike at Turnbull Canyon in Whittier. Another friend—let’s call it “Ruben” to protect its identity, and also to protect it from its own lifestyle choices—joined us. The weather was perfect: overcast, cool, and suspiciously pleasant for Southern California.
I arrived a little early to stretch, warm up, and chug my pre-workout beverage that probably has enough caffeine to reanimate a moose. Crusty and Ruben rolled in lazily late, and after the usual handshakes and “bro-hugs,” we planned out the route: 5.5 miles round trip, 600 ft of gain—nothing crazy. I didn’t say it out loud, but for me, this was equivalent to walking from the couch to the fridge.
We started strong at a respectable 3 mph. That lasted… roughly the distance of a sneeze. Within minutes—maybe 150 yards—my hiking partners had slowed to what can best be described as “grandma pushing a shopping cart uphill” pace. Their breathing sounded like a pair of vacuum cleaners inhaling gravel.
At around the 250-yard point, I realized they could no longer form full sentences because they were too focused on the ancient art of “not passing out.” So, being the considerate friend I am, I said I’d jog to the tower and meet them there.
I took off at brisk pace and it took a bit for their masses to thin out and disappear behind me...yeah, they are THAT big.
I reached the tower, did some breathing exercises, chatted with a couple of friendly MILFs enjoying the view, and after about ten minutes jogged back down to reunite with my expedition team. We then proceeded, together, at a pace normally associated with large, obese, out-of-shape persons.
When we finally reached the tower, Crusty and Ruben unveiled their lunches—and I swear these sandwiches were the size of couch cushions. Each had a full bag of chips and a liter of soda. I politely refrained from pointing out that we were on a hike, not filming a survival show where the twist is “eat everything you brought in the first ten minutes.”
I took a few sips of water and jogged a quick 1.5-mile loop while they ate (more like feasted). When I returned, they were giggling like Smedley the dog cartoon character from Hanna-Barbera
.
They proudly presented me with something like the “Ultimate Gay Award,” because apparently my short running shorts and compression shirt were too athletic for their comfort. This, coming from two guys whose idea of “performance wear” is anything with an elastic waistband. These two hippos could not wrap themselves in a Cal-King bed sheet yet have the audacity to try and shame me for my fit wear. Typical behavior of all the fatties in SoCal but the irony was the mannyaise (emphasis on "man") that was dripping from each of their mouths as they presented me with the award.
We laughed it off, then headed back down the trail—me strategically following behind them just in case one of them tripped and reenacted the giant boulder scene from Indiana Jones, and I had to sprint for my life.
Back at the trailhead, they immediately launched into Round Two of lunch while I enjoyed my protein bar like a self-loving, self-caring, fit, handsome, athletic male.
After a few days of this miracle, Crusty and I decided to meet up for a hike at Turnbull Canyon in Whittier. Another friend—let’s call it “Ruben” to protect its identity, and also to protect it from its own lifestyle choices—joined us. The weather was perfect: overcast, cool, and suspiciously pleasant for Southern California.
I arrived a little early to stretch, warm up, and chug my pre-workout beverage that probably has enough caffeine to reanimate a moose. Crusty and Ruben rolled in lazily late, and after the usual handshakes and “bro-hugs,” we planned out the route: 5.5 miles round trip, 600 ft of gain—nothing crazy. I didn’t say it out loud, but for me, this was equivalent to walking from the couch to the fridge.
We started strong at a respectable 3 mph. That lasted… roughly the distance of a sneeze. Within minutes—maybe 150 yards—my hiking partners had slowed to what can best be described as “grandma pushing a shopping cart uphill” pace. Their breathing sounded like a pair of vacuum cleaners inhaling gravel.
At around the 250-yard point, I realized they could no longer form full sentences because they were too focused on the ancient art of “not passing out.” So, being the considerate friend I am, I said I’d jog to the tower and meet them there.
I took off at brisk pace and it took a bit for their masses to thin out and disappear behind me...yeah, they are THAT big.
I reached the tower, did some breathing exercises, chatted with a couple of friendly MILFs enjoying the view, and after about ten minutes jogged back down to reunite with my expedition team. We then proceeded, together, at a pace normally associated with large, obese, out-of-shape persons.
When we finally reached the tower, Crusty and Ruben unveiled their lunches—and I swear these sandwiches were the size of couch cushions. Each had a full bag of chips and a liter of soda. I politely refrained from pointing out that we were on a hike, not filming a survival show where the twist is “eat everything you brought in the first ten minutes.”
I took a few sips of water and jogged a quick 1.5-mile loop while they ate (more like feasted). When I returned, they were giggling like Smedley the dog cartoon character from Hanna-Barbera
They proudly presented me with something like the “Ultimate Gay Award,” because apparently my short running shorts and compression shirt were too athletic for their comfort. This, coming from two guys whose idea of “performance wear” is anything with an elastic waistband. These two hippos could not wrap themselves in a Cal-King bed sheet yet have the audacity to try and shame me for my fit wear. Typical behavior of all the fatties in SoCal but the irony was the mannyaise (emphasis on "man") that was dripping from each of their mouths as they presented me with the award.
We laughed it off, then headed back down the trail—me strategically following behind them just in case one of them tripped and reenacted the giant boulder scene from Indiana Jones, and I had to sprint for my life.
Back at the trailhead, they immediately launched into Round Two of lunch while I enjoyed my protein bar like a self-loving, self-caring, fit, handsome, athletic male.
