As the last of the winter squalls full of marine stink blow in from the west, with the wrath of Neptune only amplified by its long journey from ... where, Patagonia, perhaps? ... the time has come once again to chuck the gauntlet at the floor and wriggle (or waddle) into action. This brief climactic return of winter's maelstrom will soon pass and the early signs of spring - the daffodils and lengthening days - will surely reawaken the runner's desire in me again, as it always inevitably does.
A lot has happened in recent weeks. Too much, in fact, though precious little of it had anything at all to do with running. Nearly all of it hastened my decline from the list of those that call themselves runners. Along the way, and in beautiful, poetic sadness and irony, my Garmin Forerunner GPS threw in the towel, committing chronological harakiri, and refusing my best and not inexpensive efforts to revive it; its blank face and lifeless internals condemning me with their silence. Its death neatly paralleled my decline in fitness, and its lifeless heart is now as empty as my running log. I feel, although it is of course ridiculous, that my failure to run was responsible for the death of my watch, as absurd as that may be.
Never mind. Watch or no watch, it's time to get moving again. Inertia only magnifies life's problems, while mobility and momentum diminish them, and in my experience, substantially so.
So. Here I go, once more.
Hallelujah.
Set-to-tember
