I experienced almost total football immersion this weekend and came away mostly happy with the results. The Colts won't be defending their championship, but Peyton's little brother fought for the chance to move the New York Giants to the next round, and Brett's Packers [now there's a Comeback Kid] will be the Giants' next opponent.
There's no question where my loyalty lies: I'll be rooting for the old guy.
That probably sounds like a foreign language to those of you who don't follow football. M@rla. Heh. Translation:
Thus the title of this post, with apologies to Meat Loaf.
Seven outta eight ain't bad, either. Saturday morning found me on my old, familiar four-mile road, ready to do an out-and-back eight-miler. I haven't run anything even close to that distance since November 4 – the City of Oaks Half-Marathon.
I didn't have to run fast – which is a good thing, because I never run fast – just farther than I have in far too long. I did pretty well [for me] the first four – 51:10 total time – but my ass was dragging most of the way back. I willed myself through the seventh mile by doing a 1:4 walk:run and by promising myself I could walk the last mile. Total time was 1:32:13, for a 13:11 pace. The schedule suggested a 13:25 pace.
I wish I had a Garmin. Perhaps if I were able to slow myself down I could actually run for a longer period of time.
I'll tell you what, though – I felt old, old, old when I got back home.
Today is a grey, dreary day, with low clouds, no sun and the prediction of snow. It is, in fact, spitting those tiny little snow pellets right now. Mean little snow pellets, not those big, fat, friendly flakes that define the beauty of winter.
My, my, my I'm in a weird mood. Perhaps I need to release some endorphins. On the treadmill. Like, three miles' worth, maybe? Wish me luck.