Back To Basics

I’m going to start writing about my marathon training.  I'm running the 26.2 with Donna.  It's a sub-bucket list thing.  I want to run a marathon before I have to do it as the final leg of an Ironman.

I’m in the middle of week two and it’s been pretty easy so far.   I’m following a Hal Higdon plan, and there have been a bunch of three-mile runs with a five or six miler in the middle of the week and a long run on the weekend.  I ran the long eight miler last Saturday comfortably.  My goal is to follow the plan strictly.  I’m trying to check my ego and let the expert know more than me.

There’s a cross-training day that’s in the program that I don’t know how to handle.  Both riding my bike and swimming are pains in the ass, and get more uncomfortable the colder it gets – as opposed to running, which is the opposite.

Checking my ego is difficult.  I’m seriously considering adding weights to my program.  To be honest I’m not considering it all; I’ve decided to add weights to the routine starting next Monday.  So everything I’ve written so far is just a bunch of bullshit.

I’m using my morbid obesity, narcissism, and my goal of finishing – not racing – the marathon as rationalizations to add weight training.  I’m also deluding myself into thinking that if I do the running on top of the weights then the marathon will be a piece of cake.

I ran six miles this morning in a little over an hour.  It was hot than the bitch.  That’s what I get for being lazy and letting the sun come up.  The best part of the run was that I didn’t shower (because I’m a bum) yesterday and the smell coming off my clothes after I finished could have been considered a hate crime.  It was awesome.  As I think about it, people seemed to be noticing as I approached to pass them earlier than they normally do.  I thought it was because my music was loud, but maybe it was my parfum d’Apocalypse that was announcing my presence with authority.  Good times.

Reggae And Close Proximity To A Wormhole

I’m going to try to write tonight.  This is going to ramble – I’m sure – because I’m listening to a reggae station on Pandora.  It’s ranging from really early stuff about dancing and women to some hyper militant stuff from today.  I’m really enjoying the simple rhythms.  They’re hypnotic.  They make me feel like I’m on vacation.

I’m counting this post as a response to a letter I received, even though I’m going to ignore what was written – fuck Rick Scott and Matt Weiner – and write about things both the letter sender and I find much more important.  Star Trek.

Most of the Star Trek series are available for instant streaming on Netflix, which is fantastic.  Most are available: TOS, TNG, Voyager, and Enterprise (aka Star Trek: We’re Grasping At Straws).  Something is missing.  A captain is missing, a captain with certain pigmentary (it’s a word, I just wrote it) characteristics that I happen to share – especially after skipping the sun block on today’s trip to the beach.  Are they serious?  How can they exclude DS9?  Why not change their name from Netflix to Swastikaflix or JimCrowFlix?

Listening to this fantastic reggae – there hasn’t been a bad song yet – I’m imagining the Emissary (pbuh) sitting in his office while Jadzia ( not Ezri) Dax rolls a fat joint of some next level Gamma Quadrant Chronic, none of that weak-ass synthe-weed the Federation tries to pass off as the real deal.  And since Ben Sisko wakes up every morning as Ben Sisko, he sparks that bitch up with a phaser set on We Cool.  He schools Jake on how to take two and pass.  Jake acts like he doesn’t know, but he doesn’t cough, so everyone knows it’s not his first rodeo. Major Kira has the major giggles.  Worf is hypothesizing and philosophizing on the actual factual of the origins of the Cardassian/Romulan/English alliance with Chief O’Brien, and staring at Jadzia’s ass, and wondering who a Klingon has to kill to get some Cheetos up in this bitch.  Odo’s turned himself into a steel drum and Nog is playing some Ferengi crap on him with no feel.  Both of them are high from the contact.  Dr. Bashir shows up late because he was altering some urine samples – Starfleet be hatin’.  Quark becomes Worf’s brother when he shows up with Cheetos and Doritos.  Worf hands him a fifty thinking it’s a five.  Quark doesn’t say anything.  A Ferengi gotta be a Ferengi , that’s the 1^st Rule of Aquistion.

There’s your TV show.  Where’s my Emmy?