Okay, whether my body is truly a self-healing miracle of science depends on the meaning of the words "self-healing," "miracle" and "science." And "body."
I had three runs in a row in which my sports hernia didn't bother me--but I felt my left calf muscle starting to pull and had to walk the last half mile each time. I suppose I can claim that it's a miracle of science that my body knows when it's about to pull a muscle.
Then--two nights ago--I ran a 6:31 mile for the first time all year.
Is that fast? Unfortunately, no.
It's fast enough to brag about on my blog, where three people will see it, but not on Facebook, where a hundred people will see it. I could've gone faster, except I was carrying five extra pounds of body weight and concerned about pulling a muscle. Which is another way of saying I could've gone faster in some alternate universe in which it wasn't 2015. Which is another way of saying I really couldn't go any faster.
Here's something that will either make you feel kind of happy or depress the hell out of you: we're never going to be younger than we are today.
I know--shit.
But I'm happy to be alive. We're gonna shed these extra pounds, sell some more manuscripts, get a better job, put Samuel through college, and, dammit, it's all gonna happen.
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