life is funny.
We’re leaving phoenix at 10 a.m. Friday. It’s a pleasant two-day drive home. Sunny, desert, lots of old architecture in tiny, forgotten towns. The only downside is there will be no time to run either day. And then. The cat lady sitter person says BK hasn’t come out from under the bed for a couple of days. Which means one of two things: She’s really, really mad, or she’s really, really sick. It’s impossible to know which. Which, of course, can mean only one thing: The 21 Hour Drive of Certain Death. (Only consolation: analyzing and synthesizing professional library information aka ZZzzzzzz was not part of the drive. We would have been goners for sure.)
We barrel through Arizona, where I am almost shot at the checkpoint when I’m in the passenger seat and start to pull out my black wallet in the darkened car. We stop long enough for Mo to paint The Thing, because, come on. The Thing. But then we hunker down and drive. And drive. And drive. And drive. I might have already mentioned that one. No stops except for gas and Diet Cokes and a fist fight and a one-hour nap when we hit Deer Central. It’s times like these I’m glad I never had a kid. The stress of a sick cat is trauma enough. We barrel through San Antonio, both sleep in the car while driving the last stretch from San Antonio to Corpus (like anyone needs to be awake for that road), and arrive home midmorning.
Sure enough, BK is still under the bed and won’t come out. But she purrs when we pet her, and after an hour or so she comes out to scratch stuff and give us the Stink Eye. The rest of the day consists of occasional entrances (why, yes, that ice cream looks delightful and thank you for giving me your flannel shirt which will make an excellent place to pee ) followed by an immediate return to under the bed. But she seems to be OK after we give the solemn vow to never leave again and about a pound of cat treats.
The upside: after sleeping a few hours, I go to the jackalope and get in 10 miles (13:02). It feels fine in an oh boy do my quads remember those downhills a couple of days ago sort of way. I’m looking at my weekly totals, and I have 1,709 feet of climbing for the week. I also have 1,709 feet of climbing for the year. I should probably find some more mountains. 10 miles might be the perfect training distance. Something about going double digits without dying.
So thanks to a cat who was totally faking it and 63,000 mg of caffeine, I got in one last run before the end of vacation. And what says vacation more than a run along the beach? An OK way to end my holiday. Back to the election. Blech.
Thanks for the run, BK. You little butthead. Life is funny.