My fancypants gym is open next Thursday, Thanksgiving morning; in fact, they offer a special two-hour event, every year, by screening a movie in one of the cardio rooms. Usually it's Raiders of the Lost Ark. You get on the machine of your choice, the treadmill, say, and then you can sprint "along with" Indy in front of that giant boulder. (I like to imagine the results they'd get if they also included a pack of genuine blow-dart-firing natives lined up across the mirrors at the back of the room. Sensurround!)
But anyway, my trainer has been encouraging me to sign up for this event. It has a silly name, which I couldn't quite put my finger on when I was resigning myself to it, the other day. "Okay, okay...I'll do the Turkey Trot," I said, giving up.
She laughed and laughed. "Turkey Trot! That's not it!"
"Well, what then?"
"It's The Super Turkey 100," she informed me with utter seriousness. I stand corrected.