Deeply Meaningful Post Ahead

Ah yes. Spring has sprung. And this time of year, darned if we're not all hard wired, just like the trees, for our sap to rise, our blood to sing in our veins. I feel sappier than usual, which means for an old broad I'm feeling hella fresh.

My training goes reasonably well. It actually goes fabulously well in that I'm not injured. Seems bad luck to say it, but there it is. I'd like to have more mileage under my belt, but if I don't run it I can't log it in the book. Hate how that works. I did a 16-miler last weekend and boy was it ugly. By the end I was jogging 200 steps and walking 60, rinsing myself in sweat, and then repeating until I made it home. Next weekend I'm supposed to do 19. What sadistic moron came up with this training schedule?? Oops, I think I know.

Today I loped on up to the high school track and did a little speed. I've never pursued a regular regimen of speedwork, and am thinking it's the missing component in my training. I decided to do 6 x 200 this week and then do maybe four more sessions between now and May 6, adding a few laps or meters or whatevers each time I do a session. Very scientific, as you can tell. A "200" is half a lap around the track, or so they tell me. What I can tell them is that by the time I did six of those puppies at my top speed, I was gasping for breath. Oh yeah, every time I did a 200 flat out, I got to shuffle a "recovery" 200 at a slower speed, meaning not actually going backward but pretty dern close.

The best thing about my inaugural speed workout was the company. When I got there I found a couple of hunky twenty-somethings doing their own speedwork, and doing it sans shirts. They were good looking, and they were fast. I was inspired by their fluid beauty. When I went fast, it looked very different than when they went fast. As I was leaving they were standing nearby and I said "You guys look great. Whoever you're running against -- you'll win." One of them pointed to his watch and said "Unfortunately, this is the one," meaning he was just training to beat his own time. "That's the hardest one," I said (we old broads are very wise--kinda like Yoda without the burlap dress). They both smiled and waved. (Just one of many nice things about being a woman d'un certain age is that I 'm able to enjoy young men without any of the confusions or complications that young women need to worry about.)

Anyway, life is good right now. Not long ago I saw my fine nephew, who is a fierce biker. It was good to see him and some of his family. I'm proud to be related to all of them. I figure pointing to them and saying "they're my relatives" makes me look good.

So what about the illustration for this post? You guessed it--time to cook some serious French toast here. I believe French toast may be the meaning of running, if not of life itself.