My recent aims with my running have been to attempt an improved time on my measured short course one weekend and to add duration the next. I have had a few setbacks, just the usual crap, calf strains etc, but the past three weeks have been good. On the faster runs I am not so daft as to think that the sixty-six year old Pig can run as fast as his younger self but I am measuring up to the post sixty-five records I keep. As for the longer runs, you might recall my target to get back up to an hour on the road by late Spring. I managed that and then the injuries came along. So now I am working my way back up. Today's target was fifty-five minutes. I find this the most difficult target because it feels like you are wimping out on going for an hour. Anyway I managed it and touched that elusive feeling - the runner's high.
I have to distract myself when I am running. If I do not do so, I become mired in the sheer monotony of what I am doing. I gave myself a number of things to think about today - early on I cultivated a hatred for the dog that went for me without any admonition or apology from his owner. C*** - and that's just the dog. Better thoughts soon intervened. I had a brief conversation with one of the elderly householders on my route. He always makes an effort to greet me. This is nice. I envisaged a perfect fairway wood shot that I am hoping to deploy in my next game of golf. This is nice. And then I turned to thinking how I was going to create for you, dear reader, a perfect summation of all that Trump has been up to in the past few weeks. I failed. Venal and mendacious, he is a scar on the face of humankind. This is not nice. So I finished my run by humming Joe Walsh to myself - life's been good to me so far.
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