December 13, 2013


A slog around the golf course behind my gym. Six miles or so, slow. Legs fatigued from yesterday's 5 easy-6 tempothresholdhardish (with some fast folks)-5 easy. Air wet, a sort of omni-damp, directionless. Rain is top down; this simply was. Up. Down. Foward. Back. Just on you. In you. The sky brown, or tan, really. Sepia, maybe. Shot through a soft filter. Like a dust storm but, you know, the opposite. Wet. It looked like nostalgia but felt very present.

Racing in the morning and there will be mud, maybe. Ice certainly, perhaps enough that it cancels out the former. The hills will be there in either case, not caring if they're slick or jagged, giving zero shits about you, trying to scale them. But I'm going to try. Hopefully faster than anyone else who shows. If not, among them. Close, at least. Stroke volume maxed, tendons and muscles straining, sucking down the biting cold. It will look like hell and feel like heaven, because there is no present like racing present.

We'll see. I'll let you know.

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