Paul was again away cosmopolizing a few weeks ago (can’t keep him away from the bright lights and high living), and instead of walking every morning and running every other, I ran every day. Very gently. Daintily. Full of fear and trepidation, expecting the worst. But all went well, and I had a couple of 20-mile weeks for the first time in over a year. So when he got back, I thought I should keep this up, levering myself creakily out of bed at 6:15 and out the door by 6:30 (Hey! It’s dark out here!) to get in an ever-so-gentle four miles in time to get home, cool down, change into dry clothes, chuckle at Doonesbury, and head back out for our walk at 7:30. Even though (because?) I’m hardly raising my heart rate on these shuffles, I’m shedding a little flab and gaining a little fitness, and I felt strong and light on the New Zealand crew’s shakedown in the Whites last weekend. This may sound like no big deal, but, as Bing might sing, it’s been a long, long time.
Excuse me while I go search out some wood to touch.
95 days, 9 hours, 51 minutes, 32 seconds, if Air New Zealand is running their railroad on time. But who’s counting.
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