Saturday, August 4

Despite the heat, we managed 18 miles in 3.5 hours. OK, so we're not going to qualify for Boston. But I'm pleased, especially considering that I felt as though I was suffering some heat stroke or an angina attack by mile 3. I ended up crying for about minute or more, mostly because I was in pain but also because I cannot stand the idea of not finishing a long run. I fear that quitting early will foreshadow a poor performance in the marathon.

Anyway, we were at mile 16 on Gehman Road, which has no shoulder, when a man who looks as though he never misses a meal flies by in a conversion van with the windows up (suggesting, of course, air conditioning). Well, it was probably 85 degrees at this point, and we're sweaty Betties who are cruising on the white line. As he passes us, the old bastard starts mouthing curse words at us and gestures for us to get off the road. Of course, no one was coming down the other lane. He just didn't want bother moving toward the center line and expected us to jump from his path.

Christine used some of her truck-driver phrases as I just tried to laugh him off. It was reminiscent of the ice-pop guy incident two weeks prior. At that time, we had finiished another 18-miler and wound up clocking in at Wawa. We planned to make it our end point so we could walk the mile back to my house. Again, it was another scorcher of a day, so we ran in and each bought a 99-cent ice pop, the kind the changes colors as you eat it. We were like two schoolgirls--allright, not physically, but spiritually--as we raced to rip off the paper. It was a form of oral sex. Pleasure. Ecstasy. We were practically moaning. That is until a mini bus pulls up. The driver, another guy swimming in the obese zone, pulls the door open. "Hey girls, eating that ice cream is only going to ruin your workout."

I just smiled. Christine, on the other hand, says: "Hey, we just ran 18 miles. We're entitled." After all it was a mere 90 calories. His face just kind of sank into his lap and he pulled off.

For some reason, people seem to get angry or bitter when they see other people working out. Is it envy, jealousy, or simple guilt for allowing their own gut to rest on their thighs?

On a kid note: Grace ended her four-day cessation of pooping. For two days I worried that she'd take another BM in my mother's pool. But today when we got home from swimming, she ran to the bathroom with a fear in her eyes, knowing she was about to produce a monstrous waste.

That's my girl!