those are cassocks, not Cossacks.
In other news, the Presumptuous Cat is busy sleeping off her exhausting day...
4.5 miles this morning, though I had a hard time getting up any actual run. I did a couple of intervals, probably for a total of a mile or so, and ran the last mile home. Calves crampy, cardiopulmonary system not cooperating, couldn't find my stride. Bleh. Still not to Moria, but I might get there this week, if I am virtuous. Man, what a goal to be working towards....
Climbing last night was not so great. I got up a 5.6 I've done twice before, though I did worse on it than ever before, and then I did a 5.6 on the slab wall (with several falls--it's the one where the last move is a complete bitch, and I keep finding new bad ways to do it.) and the first half of another 5.7 that I have done before, but had no zoom to finish, so I finished the wall on a parallel 5.5 route. And I did a brand new unrated route that I think is a 5.5, which is easy, but very neat and a lot of fun--it's reachy and there's a corner to get over that requires bunching yourself up like a tree frog.
I skinned two knuckles, though, so I know I was trying hard enough.
We may try some climbing outdoors up at Wolf Rock if it's not pouring tomorrow, or on the weekend if it is.
My get up and go has got up and went. May I have my Tigger back please? I did not order this Eeyore.
I really feel like going back to bed. Alas, I have to write these essays I have to write today. I should probably start on those, but I am a procrastinatory creature today. *procrastinates*
Okay, Bear. 600 words on how you came to write The Stratford Man. You can do that. It's just like a blog entry. Pony up; no time for post-novel ennui today.