Tuesday Night 6K

 

The Tuesday night Marathon Clinic was running late and so was I. As the minutes ran past seven o'clock, I still had to squeeze in a tempo run and squeak into the hospital before eight to visit my father - because after eight o'clock it is all locked doors and security gurads and an intercom to be admitted and a name check and... a huge pain in the... well, you get the picture. The difference between a minute before eight and a minute after is night and day and huge amounts of waiting around and I still had fathers to see, dogs to walk and some kind of healthy Boston diet plan to follow.

I was hoping to do 8K, but a cold rain turned into slush which turned into snow and I was in shorts and just about left my pecker in the frozen foods section of the grocery store, which meant the run turned into 6K.

Heart rate is higher than I wanted. After the hard 10K less than a week ago. But it's the Boston Marathon, baby. Will back off on the ten K tomorrow as I ease into my eagerly anticipated 32K this weekend. Was that I hint of sarcasm I detected?

Hopefully my old man will be out of the joint soon. Watching him try to fix me up with his nurses and his doctors and his physios in a style that could best be described as ham-fisted blundering with a blunt wit is almost as painful to watch as is to endure as the focal point of his machinations. It is, as you can imagine if you know my father even if only in passing, carried out as might be the bludgeoning of baby seals by fascists suffering severe astigmatism and excessively bad hand-eye co-ordinations. Quite possibly halitosis as well. Morons, in other words...

In the end, my father was extremely pleased with his new Hip-Hop track suit wardrobe I purchased for him for his crazy Christmas in the Emergency Room of St. Paul's... Black, Navy, Red and all interchangeable. It's "sweet" to quote one of the twelve year olds in the marathon clinic. A French fashion model agrees...

Speaking of folks in the clinic. Some fast bunnies. Will be interesting to see how they do over the course of the next few months..

A French Model even said so.

And despite what the French say about most dross and piffle - how can you argue with them about food, wine, women, several rather sexually deviant but ultimately incrediably erotic positions of which you, not being French, will die never having know the nirvanva that accompanies such hedonistic contortions; clothes, cheese and bread? - they say it so very delightfully.