There’s no joy on the treadmill. Unless you get up in time for “The View” and watch Joy Behar. But then, of course, you have to watch Joy Behar. Which is no joy.
The treadmill is like eating chicken and rice, the secret diet of the Kenyans. But don’t tell anyone, because it’s a secret diet. You just eat it so you won’t be hungry. That’s the way it is with the treadmill. You just run on it so you don’t get swept off the back.
But it’s still hot here and Mo is not big on the heat and there’s just something about the ambiance of 300,000 people crammed into a gym.
So I did my four miles today in Rocky Rumble form. Then went to work after eating six cheese sandwiches, which is not the brightest thing to do when you’re gluten intolerant. Then was violently sick all night, without being quite sick enough to get out of Friday night football duties.
Now it’s 3 a.m. and we’re suffering through the Great Storm of 2012. The Baby Kat is hiding from the thunder, Mo is drawing a dog (actual quote: “He’s got a butthole. Can we still publish it on your mom’s site?”) And I’m writing. Life is good.
The moral: Chicken and rice is highly underrated. And I need to hide Mo’s pencil …
4 miles, tm, 1 p.m. (70)
13:30, 13:36, 13:45, 13:36