Jon (from MA, not MI, and not a blogger)(yet) and I are working out a pretty good running relationship in addition to a good working relationship. Each morning, one of us calls and says “11:30?” The other says “OK.”
Then, about 11, one or the other will call to back out. “OK, fine,” the one who’s going to run, will say.
Then, on the way down to change, we’ll run into each other, and say “Hey, looks like I’ll make it after all”.
And then we run.
3 miles yesterday (3.3, actually). 5 miles today. Always good.
The weather has been what I would consider perfect running weather for 3-7 milers – about 80, humid, and breezy. Wow. Just warm enough to really angry up the blood and get the sweat pump running at full throttle, but not hot enough to be hot. A little bit of haze over the bay, giving the illusion that Rhode Island is bigger than a reasonably sized back yard.
Man, it’s good to be a runner.
Today ended up as a bit of a fiasco, though. In my excitement to get out into the sun, I left my socks at the desk. Decided to give the new shoes a go without socks. Even though it is humid. Even though it is hot. Even though we were going to stretch out the run to 5+ miles.
I got blisters.
Not awful ones, and when I get home and lance them, I won’t even notice them when I make the long run for the week on Sunday. But, bad enough that I had to send Jon on down the road at mile 4, and limp back.
Not that I minded another 10 minutes in the sun.
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F. Landis (you decide what the F means, I’m kind of up in the air right now, but leaning towards “Floyd” instead of an adjective) was on NPR this morning. If he is a doper, he’s a darn good liar. I’m sympathetic at this point – the line about “Someone found a bottle of Jack” tugs at me as how I probably would have reacted to blowing up on Stage 16 for most of my life. I can see how the emotion of blowing up would play havock with my body chemistry, plus the strain of two and a half weeks of riding my butt off.
Freakin’ Frenchies.