For the most part – and for most people – goals are good things, in that they give incentive to accomplish that which might otherwise fall by the wayside: compete in a marathon, lose 20 pounds, finish a book, get an A in Statistical Analysis of Differential Equations As They Relate to Astrophysical Gravitational Bodies Larger Than Thirty Solar Masses Class this fall – you know, that sort of thing. But what happens when the attainment of the goal becomes patently unrealistic? What happens when the goal is now just hanging around, mocking your efforts? In a situation like that, does the goal actually become a deterrent to doing the positive things that would move you along further toward it, regardless? I'm at that point in my running.

Maintaining a level of general fitness is a Good Thing. Running as a means of accomplishing general cardiovascular fitness is also a Good Thing. I set a goal at the beginning of the year that related to running, but due to a myriad of reasons, not the least being a strategic-level loss of GAS, I haven't been close to getting the miles in to keep up with it. At this point, I'd have to triple my current (admittedly low) mileage, and keep it at that level consistently for the next 5 months, just to get back on track. I don't think it's worth the potential for injury. I understand that, and can deal with it on an intellectual level. I know the goal is no longer valid, and I should still run for the CV health. Emotionally, though, giving up the goal is tough, and – when I allow it – irritates me to the point of wanting to toss in the towel on all fitness. Stupid goal. It's just hanging around, pointing fingers and laughing at me. Bastard. 

(Apologies to The Rolling Stones)
My GAS: that which I gain and lose on an-almost daily basis. Nearly every day, I have misplaced it by mid to late afternoon. I find it again most mornings, often immediately upon waking and it's with me, firmly in my grasp, nearly all day. But then, at some point most days, I lose it. Don't get me wrong, I don't lose it every day, but I seem to have become far less diligent about keeping tabs on it than I had previously, and it's more than a bit irritating. 
If you happen to see me without my Give-A-Shit, you'll know it's late in the day.

I went out afoot in the dirt on Sunday for the first time in more than three weeks. Why so long, you ask. Well, I had been traveling, but mainly it was the result of Pop & Whoosh (see below). Regardless of how I got to this point, I did. Trying to recapture some spark, I decided to do a little exploring to the east. I had seen Sullivan Canyon from the air, it looked inviting, and exploratory events tend to be interesting.
As a result of my sedentary lifestyle for the last few weeks, within the first we steps, I was generating lung butter to beat the band. Seeing as how I was doing an out-and-back type of run, I figured I could mark my trail with the chunks.
Along the way, I saw no people, heard no motors, and only saw birds. During the many times I stopped, the silence was profound, once you eliminated my laborious breathing.
My return route was punctuated with my constant mantra of  "Follow The Yellow Phlegm Road" as I watched for my markers, and footprints.

Sullivan Canyon itself was worth it. Going down was entertaining, and, while making my slow way back up, I though about nonsensical comparisons of canyon to person (in Angela Sullivan) instead of the nagging and incessant pains I was by then experiencing:

I'm sure there are more comparisons that could be made, but that was enough to get me back to the top. If you know Angela, or another Sullivan, feel free to create your own comparison table. 

"Pop" and "whoosh" are noises not normally associated with trail running, and in a sense, they still aren't. However, as it relates in this case, they are the sounds I associate to January 21 – the day I lost my already-wavering motivation. Let me describe it. I understand the description might stretch credibility, but whatever. Suspend your disbelief for a few and humor me.
There I was, sitting in a Starbucks with my homies, Motivation, Annual Goal Attainment, and Nascent Existentialist Depression. I was slamming my second (or was it my third?) venti Komodo  and working; I can't exactly say what the rest were doing, but they were there with me. Probably eating coffee cake.
Anyway, there we were, and in walks Soul-Crushing Reality.He's a big, ugly brute. Not someone you'd want to meet under any circumstances, let alone working a weekend, two thousand miles from home. He didn't say a word: just glared at me. Motivation saw the look, my reaction, and - as they would have said 40 years ago - split the scene.
Now's the time for a little physics lesson. As something evacuates a space, the air surrounding it collapses to fill the newly created void - the normal process of actualizing a pressure differential. This typically goes unnoticed, except on a large, slow scale, where wind is created or a smaller (yet still large) scale, where lightning rips the atmosphere and the air returning is heard as thunder.
On a small scale, if something evacuates fast enough, the air replacement can be heard as a popping sound. My buddy Motivation disappeared so fast, the pop was plainly audible.
Annual Goal Attainment was quietly picking his nose and examining the results when he heard the pop. He looked up and saw the door swinging shut behind Motivation. "Hey... hey! Wait for me!" and with an audible whoosh, Annual Goal Attainment was likewise gone, leaving me only with Nascent Existential Depression for company. Swell.
I was hoping that getting out again would revitalize my motivation and bring the guys back. The jury's still out on that. If I had turned around at the point when I felt great, and finished strong, I might have had done so. Unfortunately, that point came at around 25% of the total distance. Should have listened. Motivation and mood dissipated as distance increased – lung-butter fun notwithstanding. I walked the last 40% of the journey. That, my friends, is demotivating.

Despite the beauty of the area, the solitude and spectacular weather, be glad you didn't participate in my phlegm-fest, you'd have been frustrated by incessantly waiting for my slow ass, and grossed out by the constant hacking. As for the title, that's how I answered the question of "How did your run go?" upon my return to civilization.