The morning was spent watching the 4 mile and 15K races in Scarsdale. It was weird not to be racing. I have sympathy for “support spouses” I see at races — if you have no interest in running and you’re willing to hang around a race for three hours or more, holding clothes, administering water, etc., that’s true love and devotion.
Jonathan took 2nd place in his age category, garnering him a medal that is so ugly, it’s almost beautiful. If R. Crumb designed a medal, it would look like this one. I’ll update this post with a picture later on.
Now I’m sitting in a comfortable chair, planning out menus for the next three weeks and watching a show, narrated by Leonard Nimoy, about the Black Death. I’m learning that huge numbers of people go completely wacky during things like plagues. Apparently, there were two diametrical poles on the wackiness spectrum: Orgies of feasting and other Bacchanlian pursuits on one end, and an enthusiastic outbreak of Flagellism on the other.
Well, this is a barrel of laughs. I’m suddenly remembering why I rarely watch television.
I’ll turn 42 in a few days. Ever since I hit 40, I’ve cared less and less about my age. In fact, I find I have trouble remembering it. Early senility, perhaps?
My foot is still giving me minor grief. I’ll do an hour of walking on the treadmill later today, along with some icing. I’m thinking of getting a cheap exercise bike, since it’s becoming evident that minor injury is now going to be a fairly frequent component of training. At this point, the number of pieces of exercise equipment in our little house is beginning to rival the number of chairs. In every room, a torture machine. We are very odd people.
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Races Like a Girl 