Jogging on my own was always burden. Jogging with my little girl is a delight. She has even transformed the pre-jog preparation process from one of anticipatory dread into one of carefree gaiety as she giggles and squeals with delight, sitting patiently (note: rarer than a white-horned rhinoceros) in the stroller, waiting for me to put on my shoes, do 25 seconds of token stretching (don’t tell my wife, she thinks I do a full half hour stretch before and after every run… ain’t nobody got time for that) and assemble the 1500 baby-care items that I’m legal required to shove into the overloaded stroller each time I wish to depart the safe cocoon of our downtown apartment without being sued for parental negligence if I happen to forget an important article of clothing or chew toy. My daddy-daughter jogs were spectacularly transformed 2 weeks ago when I upgraded her ride from the feeble Gussy and Gus crapola-stroller that handled slightly worse than a shopping trolling (complete with comedic front wobbly wheel that threw a tantrum every time I cornered) too fast, to the slick, sleek and soulful Bob Revolution – a piece of machinery so delightful that I often wonder which states in the US would legally allow me to marry it (not that I ever would, I don’t believe in polygamy). The engineering is so Germanly precise that when I’m running around the city I feel like a race car driver negotiating the tight turns of the Monaco grand prix. I no longer even notice the incredulous stares from passersby as I zig-zag between cracks on the pavement and make loud VROOM VROOM sounds or yell “GET OUT OF MY WAY, THERE IS A BOMB ON BOARD AND I CAN’T DROP BELOW 60″ to further entertain my daughter. And thankfully, the two times that we crashed I had remembered to buckle her in, so aside from some minor whiplash she probably got from the sudden stop, there was no major damage. In fact, she thought it was part of the race car game and seems a little disappointed each time I narrowly miss the small dogs that I’m deliberately driving close to in order to scare the bajeezus out of them (you can guess what happened on the 2 actual collisions). Oh god, I hope this doesn’t create some sort of dog-torturing predisposition when she is older. I guess I’ll be the one paying for her teenage why-do-I-want-to-hurt-dogs therapy sessions. What joy!