If you had said to me when I first woke up today, “HEY WHY DON’T YOU CALL IN SICK SO YOU DON’T HAVE TO DO THE POPE PAGES!!!!” I would’ve said “what are you doing here and don’t you have a paper you should be writing?” But then I would’ve thought “My, yes, that’s a fine idea. Let’s go get a snow cone instead. But not a blue one. That’s just wrong.”
But, alas, you didn’t, so I did, and now I’m just glad I found a beer in the back of the fridge and a bunch of sedatives in the medicine cabinet. Deadline journalism isn’t as much fun as you remember it to be. The one solace: I was granted a miracle. I think it was Miracle Max who said, “You rush a miracle man, you get rotten miracles.” You should really see that movie sometime.
I ran along the beach today, 3 miles at 13:04. Loops on the Abandoned Road from Surfing Jesus to the art center and back. It’s a fine course, and requires no thinking. Given that it parallels the beach, it’s perfectly flat. The Garmin generally says zero elevation gain or maybe a couple feet if I jump up and down on the curbs. So maybe 3 feet total elevation gain for the week. Until you talk to Uncle Hal.
Uncle Hal says hey, and wishes you would buy one of those GPS things. But in today’s Fitness Summary Report, he tells me that in the past seven days I have logged 2,034 feet of elvation gain. TWO THOUSAND AND THIRTY FOUR FEET!!!! That’s like climbing up Mount Everest seven times, or at least a couple of trips up and down the press room stairs, even though I’m running on a pancake. mmmmmmmm, pancake.
The only explanation: It’s a miracle. The pope landed, I had a Mrs. Baird’s Lemon Pope Pie, and I’ve got 2,034 feet of climb in my quads. This explains why my pants are snug. Or maybe it was the Pope Pie. None of which has anything to do with anything except never doubt Uncle Hal. And maybe buy a Garmin. And remember, even though your legs feel dead, they’re only mostly dead. Happy rest day.