A Propos of Absolutely Nothing

According to Weather.com, we are in the immediate path of a severe thunderstorm right now. Either that, or we are going to be assaulted by traffic lights from the sky.

But the power just flickered and with our utility of record that can only mean one thing: It is raining just outside Gdansk.

The power has had the unnatural propensity to cut out at the most bizarre hours. One reasonably expects something to go wrong during strong summer storms, blizzards, the occasional glancing remnant of a hurricane or St. Bastille day. But we've kept the lights on during all of the aforementioned while on a clear, warm afternoon in July, the damn thing cuts out for eight hours!

I should be training right now. Running a circuit in the park to give good account of myself next month (in a couple of weeks.) Severe storm warning is tonight's excuse. Monday was grocery shopping, Tuesday a late appointment, yesterday the lawn needed to be cut. So I'll do the race pushing a Toro at a brisk pace. Dare to pass and I'll narrow the competitive field, so to speak.

Who, and I mean WHO leaves comments on news stories? Is there a great under-employed horde of web surfers out there with nothing better to do than to comment on everything from current national politics to the local blueberry pie eating contest? And are they all gramatically challenged? This is just symbollic of the denigration of our forums of expression. In days past, if I had to listen to the poorly constructed, ill informed, prejudicial grammatical diarrea of a complete boor, I could at least fall back on the cocktail party it was being presented at.

I was going to write a post in the style of a letter from God. What with the storm approaching and indeed here now, I thought I could slide in a couple of good ones about not assuming a storm signalling My anger. That in fact, if you listened to all I listen to in a day, you'd get this kind of manifestation of irritable bowel. But I was also going to slide in a couple of notes about not listening to anyone who claimed they knew God's intent or spoke God's word. That God really manifested Himself in other ways, like in a rainbow that a child is awed by, or a kitten, or in a sunset that inspires an old man to return to his ailing wife and comfort her last hours. Then, in a reflexive philosophical jerk, I realized that "God" was going to advise you not to listen to me.

I hate when I'm that deep. Thank goodness I don't comment on news posts.

Bunny on.

Running from the Nadir

Got a little race I'm training for in a few weeks.

Just a couple of miles, not a big deal and something that, in my active running days, would qualify as a light workout and excuse for a lunchtime beer.

Unfortunately, these aren't my active running days and, while a stretch, I'm going to use the excuse of active lunchtime beer days as explanation of why the Special Olympians are going to kick my ass this year.

I trained for and ran this race last year. And that would be the last time I ran since oh, a few weeks ago when I realized I had signed up again this year. So I got out to the track just as the temperature crested the first level of the Inferno mark. Its always a challenge finding a comfortable pace through the obstacle course of Frisbee golfers who have collapsed from heat exhaustion and are being seen to by paramedics.

So training hasn't exactly been rigorous. I'm, when one regards progress in baby steps, still in the sleeping on my stomach, drooling and having to be changed every ninety minutes stage.

Add to that, the team I'm running on this year has had some minor personnel changes. Our former, and to be again, Captain is not running. He's enrolled in some kind of ultimate challenge the day before our meek, erectile dysfunction-themed race in which he has to run a thousand miles through burning fields and across mighty rivers, bike Death Valley in a heatwave, swim the English Channel during some U-Boat reenactments, be eaten by a wild animal and bring religion to the Borneo Islanders.

He won't be rested up enough to tackle the "Sorry, I had a hard day at the office, let's try again tomorrow night" marathon relay the next day.

So we found a replacement, of sorts. Oh, they'll be a fine runner but they're not the typical team member. That is to say, they are not a sarcastic middle aged married man who gets out with the boys to run, tell dirty jokes and speculate about the hot little number in copyediting.

They are the hot little number in copyediting.

They are also my former little hot number in copyediting. Not spouse, but pretty serious romantic interest whom I agreed to let on the team when every other potential team member was either unavailable or uninterested or still incarcerated or dead. And we debated the latter.

And now I have to run with a woman who's known me ten pounds lighter, five minutes faster, several shades less gray.

And even then, it didn't work.

Its a relay. We hand off. I have the last leg. If she has the next to last leg I can tell you right now what's going to happen:

She'll start her leg strong and full of hope. Somewhere near the end she'll suddenly get off the course and walk the rest of the way home. I'll wait at the handoff point, someone will give me a bill for dinner and I'll head off alone.

She'll likely call the next morning suggesting we try again.

Bunny on.