There's just no way around it: I am a cold-adapted life form. This morning, I did three miles on cruise control (around a fifteen-sixteen minute mile) without even pausing, and felt like I was good for another three (I walked in the door eight minutes ago and my pulse is already back under 90), but I decided to quit while I was ahead--because three miles was my goal, and it seems like I should celebrate that with some sort of reward--and because I am climbing tonight, and it seemed silly to kick my ass that totally beforehand.
Instead, I feel good. Really good. Thank you, approaching autumnal equinox. Thank you, cooler weather. Thank you, thank you, thank you, angle of insolation.
God, I hate summer. But this--this is perfect. It could be like this always.
Tomorrow morning, I guess we try for those four miles. Which means levering ourselves out of bed at 6 am again, but hey. That's what the detonator is for... (Also: must keep running at VP. No matter how hungover I am when pnh, tnh, and Jim Macdonald are done with me.... also. Bear. No sunburn this year, you silly twit.)
In other news, Bette Midler? Still awesome. (via oursin)
And John Scalzi, also awesome from the archives. (And I'm not just saying that because I'm sleeping with him next week. Okay, okay, in the non-euphemistic sense: we're roomies at Viable Paradise. And now I get to say I slept with Cory Doctorow and John Scalzi. Now if we can just get China Mieville to teach at VP, I could have the shaven-headed SFF writer roomie hat-trick....)
376 miles to Rauros, and the Breaking of the Fellowship. I am taking my last sight of the light of Lórien.