The mile out was mostly easy and comfortable--I didn't even really notice I was running until the last eighth, and only the last tenth--coincidentally, some of the steepest uphill--was hard. While I was flopped down on the stone steps at the park entrance to gasp like a landed fish and listen to my heart thump, a nice Yankee in a pickup truck pulled over to shout and see if I was okay. (I said, "Yes, thank you for asking!") Nice guy; I'm glad he didn't actually discover a body on his way to work today.
Then I walked the half-mile around the park in 8:22, stretched out, and did intervals home, because either my allergies were acting up or my cardiopulmonary fitness was inadequate to the task (I was wheezing and coughing.) Because I only ran about half the distance, the trip back took 14:58.
I'm going to blame it on allergies, because I did well on the way out, and my entire neighborhood is fragrant of lilacs and pungent with marigolds currently. (I'm particularly enamored of a the dusty-purple-and-green four-color Victorian (It's not a Queen Anne: it's the other less fussy kind, without all the gingerbread) on the corner, about whose foundations some genius has planted lilacs and deep, deep purple irises that pick up all the colors of the paint and trim.
My left shoulder is still unhappy, which interferes with the climbing and archery both (I was having one of my best shooting nights ever last night, but my arm tired really quickly), but the left big toe which has been bothering me was very well behaved today. It was present, but not painful, and I'm calling that a win.
Last night, there were bats in the twilight. I like bats.
164.9 miles to Lothlorien.
According to the high-tech bathroom scale this morning, I am 239 lbs (17 stone 1 pound, because for some unknown reason it freaked out and gives me my weights in British now, and I can't make it go back). I've actually gained about twenty pounds (I was at about 15.13 last October, and I peaked up to 17.7, but some of that was bloooatttt.) since I started climbing (I'm a mesomorph, and I put on muscle like nobody's business given half a chance. Unfortunately, I'm also Ukrainian and have had a couple of bouts with crash weight loss due to major illness, and my body is very adamant about hanging onto those energy reserves In Case of Famine.) I'm still wearing the same jeans size I was in November, however, and if anything they're a little looser, and I think some of the fluff is starting to come off now finally. Which would be nice, because it's really not helping me on the overhangs.
For those of you playing along at home, by the way, I'm around a size sixteen currently. (I have the bone structure of a plowhorse and ginormous tits, and start to look awkwardly thin and feel frail if I drop below 160 or so. If I'm in muscle, I should weigh around 175. So yes, of course, all the sports I love are the ones where it pays to be light and quick and strong for your size. Go figure.)
Now, I'm going to shower and make tea and toast myself a bagel and spend the rest of the day working on Seven for a Secret, because I have eaten my live frog and have no other plans, and nothing worse is likely to happen all day.