Friday’s lumber was a tough one, and I felt sluggish the whole 6.96 miles. So sluggish that I didn’t have another .04 miles in me to hit a perfect 7.
I really don’t think I ate enough the night before, having made some pasta that, by the time it was ready, I really didn’t like (Why do I always fall for the allure of red sauce pasta?). And my morning’s breakfast wasn’t that filling as I opted to not make a breakfast burrito for the first time this week.
For some reason, I also felt like I had to take a dump the whole time, and these days I go from the thought, “Do I have to poop?” to screaming, “OUTTA MY WAY! OUTTA MY WAY! I GOTTA SHIT REAL BAD!!” almost immediately, so that was looming in the back of my mind the whole time. There was no poop.
It was also day 2 of construction near the main entrance of the park and entering the park’s trails via a back entranceway that utilizes a small roadside parking area of questionable legality. It’s not really a big deal; people do it all the time in the summer to access the river, but I know my luck, so that was also on my mind.
I also like to avoid the hassle of dealing with potential tickets, fines, or having the 2014 Ford Escape towed, and I found myself hiking along, daydreaming, “If I do get a ticket by the 5-OH, can I opt for jail time? I’m not really doing much these days; it might be a hoot and save a few bucks. It might be like a mini-vacation and give me time to rest a bit.”
The hike ended with no trailside poops, no roadside parking tickets, and no vacations. Just tired legs.
Big as your hand mussel.
I’m happy to have another 30+ mile week in the books with two days to spare. Two spare days that, in addition to mowing the lawn of the vast (not really) estate of the Cul De Sac Shack, will be dedicated to doing what I do best—goofing off, drinking beer, cooking food, wrangling bulldogs, listening to music, and watching a Spurs-less weekend of footy that includes the F.A. Crap semi-finals. It’s all eerily similar to my weekdays but happens for 48 hours. C’est la vie.
OK, enough of this tortured poetry; I got a breakfast burrito to make.
The shot you get out your car window of a cruising vessel parked in a farm field.
***
The shot you get when you realize you have a telephoto lens on.
Later.