For this Christmas Day post, I am going to steer clear of writing about the emotions and grief that my family, near and far, and I have been going through over the past week due to the loss of my father last Thursday and our 13-year-old dog Jake the very next morning. I’m sure you can imagine what it was like; you don’t need me to shit on your holiday.
My much-anticipated weekend of slack turned out great, and I enjoyed all the hits: good beer, good food cookin’, a commanding Spurs victory, sexy time, and other indoor goofball slacker activities due to freezing rain. As Ren Höek would say, “This is the life.” Well, at least until Monday.
After an abbreviated lumber due to the local Thanksgiving turkey trotters, I was anxious to get on the trails on Friday morning to finish off my week of lumbering.
I was up at my usual 6 AM on Thanksgiving morning to tend to the dogs and my dumps, and then it was a quick cup of coffee and out the door into the dark to get to the trails before the annual Turkey trot trail race kicked off at 9 AM.
I was sort of pissed about the race happening because I really wanted to attempt it this year! But the last time I Googled it (pre-autumn mental meltdown), all I could find was the 2023 event info. Then, when I woke up this morning, I wanted to double-check, and NOW there was the damn info. Go figure. Perhaps it’s a sign from the Run Dogs that I’m not ready yet.
I’m not a fan of being right. Mostly because I’m usually right about bad things. But as William Shakespeare once said, “C’est la vie.” (I really don’t know if he did, but he may have, so just go with it).
I ended my last post by saying that I was about to head out onto the front porch to enjoy another cup of coffee and watch the sunrise. And I did, but it sort of hilariously went pear-shaped.
June is done. Thank the dogs above!
It’s been ten days since I last strapped hiking sneakers on my feetz, and it might be another four or so more until I do so again.
This is a long one, people. No reason, really; I just found myself wasting time every so often this week and writing down random shit.
6:05 AM on Christmas Morning, and I was up as usual.
No, I wasn’t waiting to gleefully rip through a giant pile of presents (although there was one with my name on that I had my eye on); I was up waiting for the freaking sun to start thinking about rising so I could squeeze in a few miles before we did the version of Christmas Morning you do when it’s just a couple and their 19-year-old son who is now thankfully way more into sleep than opening holiday presents.
Sadly, the sun wouldn’t be fully up until after 8, so that meant I had nothing to do but tend to the dogs, drink coffee, and look at the ever-declining interwebs until I had enough light for woodsy lumbering without a headlamp.
After hitting my weekly 30-mile goal last Friday, I held true to my promise to “not do a damn thing” over the weekend. And by not do a damn thing, I mean no hiking, for there are always more leaves to bag, foods to cook, groceries to get, poop to scoop, dogs to tend to, beers to drink, music to listen to, sexy time to have, and absolute shit International football to watch (Gahdamn, I hate International Breaks!).
