Crack another cerveza.

I do not know where to begin, so I will just say I stopped running. That statement is as final as anything else. For twenty years, beginning on treadmills at a gym in early 1998 to the New York Marathon to happily exploring the streets of my city, to running with my children, I have been running several times a week.

I have been fat and I have been very thin. I have listened to contemporary music and I have been immersed in songs from the past. I have been injured, I have gotten better. I have always wanted to run, even when I didn't want to run, I wanted to run.

I haven't really felt like running lately.

Or maybe I have, I don't know. The sciatica/hip-and-ass thing has put me into a foul mood. If I run, I hurt. Easy as that. Hurt to sit at work, hurt to drive my car, hurt to sit i a theater and watch movies or theater. Not running, I do not hurt. At least, not often.

Also, I have been writing. Free-writing, every fucking morning. I mean, every fucking, goddamn morning I move a pen in my hand and write. And I clean house, I work and take care of my home and family. Taking solitary exercise time for myself no longer feels appropriate.

Oh, and I hate running at the gym. Hate is a strong work. It does not inspire me. It is not what I call running.

So, I have not made tracks in nearly two months. That's some kind of record. It's not a good one. I say all this but I am not okay with all of this. Turning fifty was not supposed to mark the end of my running days. I am supposed to run until I die. I have to run until I die.

Distance: 2.25 miles
Route: Hocking River Bike Path
Temperature: 58 degrees

It had occurred to me, in packing for the week, that I might run every day. Why not? I used to. What have I done instead? Worked on the draft of a new, commissioned work. Saw three movies. Spent long afternoons in restaurants with family, Cooked a dinner. Did a jigsaw puzzle with my wife.

Which of these, how many of these, should I have not done in order to make time to run? Any of them? How about none of them. No regrets.

Climate: damp but nice
Mood: determined?
Exercises: a little

The boy came with me, with a dirt bike, but I asked him to go on ahead. He's too big and strong to pace me -- he goes too fast. I had only planned to go two miles, but told him to wait for me too far out, I had to wave him back.

Starting out, my back hurt, that sorted itself out. I was just winded. I have gained weight. I will check in on New Year's, and resolve to slowly work back to 160. I assume that's twenty pounds. I haven't weighed myself in months.

Resolutions must be made. Big bad year ahead of us.

What's That Lyric?
The Spot - Your Smith