I got a hole in my shoe today.
When you can’t really run, you cling to any sign you’re making progress. A glimmer of improving pace or mileage or sunburn. But nothing says miles in the bank like getting a hole in your shoe.
I have to wait a week to find out whether I’m dead or not. I just walked today, not willing to invest in suffering when it could be for nothing. So I strolled, listening to NPR and basking in the chilly fall weather, if 92 can be considered chilly. And after a summer of steady 115, indeed it can.
We’re shoveling a lot of iron, trying to stave off death from anemia. Maybe it will make a difference. Maybe I’ll be able to breathe again eventually. Or maybe this is the beginning of the end. All depends on what’s causing the low numbers, I suppose.
“She died with her boots on; that’s the main thing,” Uncle Hub said.
Good enough for me. If I’m going to die, I’ll die with a song in my heart, a backward baseball cap on my head, and a hole in my shoe.
desert vista trailhed, 9:30 a.m.., 92
1:32.36 (17:21, 112)
16:27, 16:56, 18:13, 17:28, 17:35, 5:58
136, 0.68, 2.5, v34