Post Titles Are For The Weak!

Yesterday was quite nice. Got to sit outside with a couple of friends, drink canned American beer (yes, every once in a great while I enjoy a beer that doesn’t require flossing afterward; sue me), talk non-stop for a couple of hours about nothing particular, and avoid doing the thing for which we were out in the parking lot in the first place, i.e. replace the brake pads on my bike. It did finally get done (in my living-room, because by the time we gathered sufficient wits to begin work it was time to eat and there was no way I was leaving my bike and tools in the parking lot unattended). Again, my hammy hands insisted upon hindering rather than expediting the work and I suspect the greatest advantage of having them is that they keep my wrists from fraying at the edges.

This week I intend to start the walk-run program in earnest. I’ve gone to the track at a school near home a few times in the last two weeks, but due to last-minute schedule conflicts it’s been pretty scattershot. Time to get serious. I’ve run just enough to understand that it’ll be a long time before I can run three miles (my goal) without walking a portion of it. Right now I’ve adopted an interval system wherein I walk fifty paces and “run” (more like a lurching trot accompanied by the gasping of my own personal exercise mantra
“Holy fuckin’ God this sucks and one and two and one step more you shuffling corpse and three and four…”. (You think I over-dramatize? There are people buying starter homes now that had yet to be born the last time I ran on a track.) As I progress, the walking strides will become fewer.

In a way I dread this labor-intensive process and in another way it’s cool to be out there battling age and inertia. My remains might actually be suitable for viewing once I finally fall off the mortal coil.

For the next three weeks Isabella and her mum Lisa will be in England visiting family. Upon the eve of their leave-taking, we declared our abject misery at their departure for so long; Lisa replied in kind, and Isabella said she’d miss her cat. None of this “Oh mummy! Whatevah shall we dooo? We ah leaving our deah friends evah so long and I shall be evah so sad until we may once again traverse the seas to return to them!” Nuh-uh. Isabella ain’t down with the sentimentality at all. This little chick is going to be either a corporate attorney or a pro wrestler when she grows up. I hear that her nan isn’t nearly so willing as we are to step and fetch for her, so perhaps we’ll see evidence of gratitude when she comes home. Yeah, like Scarlett returning to Tara.

The missus and I have decided England will be our next Grand Vacation Trip*, should we find a spare five thou or so in the sofa cushions (I just looked up travel time via air from PDX to Heathrow; thirteen hours or more! My spine would forcibly eject from my torso after five hours and go scrabbling down the aisle in search of a parachute. Perhaps we’ll go via ocean-liner). The wife would have to bring her own food because she doesn’t think she’d care for the local fare. Me, I’d be all over it. It would kill me dead inside of two weeks, but I’m game. First thing off the plane, I’m going for a chip butty. (You ought to see the face Isabella pulls when this item is described to her. She’d sooner eat from the cat’s bowl. Her mum is English, but this girl’s palate is All-American.)

The mate, she stirs. Breakfast is in the offing. Adieu!


* Our last “Grand Vacation Trip” was to a little desert town called Mitchell in central Oregon. Laugh if you like, but it was a great trip and we didn’t have to sell anything or take out a loan to go. Oregon rawks.


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