So Monday I ran four miles. Again. So I guess that I can do that, then.
And shaved off two minutes. Down to a blazing (see reference above, to fire) 47 minutes. About killed me, but no walking.
So that's that, then.
And I have some, well, what feels like fire (ok, chafing—but see how I worked "fire" in again?) under—well let's just say in a place I was warned to put body glide. But didn't. So now I know that, too.
And, people, I think that's a wrap for tonight.
Although someone did ask me a provocative question on Sunday, which still has me stymied, which was: Why are you doing this? (Running a marathon, that is.)
I'm pretty sure I'm supposed to have an answer. So, I'll be busy working on that for the next post. Or the next few years.
Don't touch that dial.