A Sad but Wise Decision

The 2012 Bellingham Bay Marathon will not be the first marathon I run, as I originally planned. Thanks to two persistent injuries (one on the inner part of my left knee and one on the outer part of my girlfriend’s left knee), my girlfriend and I have opted to sit this marathon out.  It wasn’t an easy decision, but we both felt it was the wisest option.

Sure, we could have run in pain and then limped along as far as our legs could carry us.  But we both agreed that our chances of finishing this race were extremely slim.  So, rather than tearing up our tendons or ligaments or whatever, we’re choosing to rest until we’re completely healed.  We’d prefer not to ruin our legs for the future.  This way, we’ll both have a better chance of crossing the finish line at the next marathon we train for.

When will that next marathon be?  Right now, we don’t know. What we do know is that after our initial injuries, taking two or three weeks off and then easing back into short distances and a run/walk routine didn’t allow either of us to heal.  So it might take a couple of months worth of rest (read: no training at all) for us to properly heal and be ready to begin training again.  We’ll both know more after our visits to the doctor in the coming weeks.  We also know that when we do begin training again, we’ll have to take it slow. No more forcing ourselves to run faster than we’re able.  And no more four-month marathon training. We’ll have to ramp up the distances slowly, over the course of about six months, I suspect. That will be a better way of going from 0 to 26.2. (Maybe a gait analysis would serve me well, too.)

I want to make sure we have this in writing, so I cannot renege. Elisa and I will run a marathon. We’re not giving up on that. We’re just postponing it so that we can actually finish the race. Make no mistake: it will happen.

Wine Party at the Fly Honey Warehouse

Humans aren’t the only beings that love to throw parties centered around alcohol.  And we’re not the only ones who sometimes reap physical harm from such Epicureanism.

Earlier tonight, as I quietly sipped down a glass of merlot, I was unwittingly setting the scene for a raucous fruit fly soiree.  You see, after I finished my drink, I left a drop in the bottom of my goblet and set it aside on the counter.  Twenty minutes later, I walked past the counter again and was astonished by the scene there.  Inside the glass, near the drop of wine at the bottom, was a small crowd of three fruit flies mingling and drinking.  On the rim, another fly had found a partner during the evening’s events, and the two were humping away, oblivious to their cohorts below.  I could be wrong, but I thought I heard R&B music and caught a faint whiff of marijuana.

Who were these little hell-raisers?  I hadn’t invited them, and yet here they were, getting drunk and fornicating on my countertop.  I snatched the glass and rinsed it out in the sink, intending to send each of the hoodlums down to a watery grave.  But only two of them went down the drain, while the others flew off in loopy, erratic patterns.  I wasn’t going to let them get away, though.  These flies had insulted me with their shenanigans, and they weren’t going to get away with it. (And frankly, they’d been floating around the kitchen all evening as I made dinner and ate it, and I was pretty annoyed. This whole wine party thing was just the last straw, and I was also bloodthirsty after having them all in the same place and coming so close to extinguishing them.)

I stalked around the kitchen, trying to keep my eyes unfocused, ready to pick out any movement in the air between me and the cabinets.  Clap! I got one!  I jiggled the fruit baskets on the counter, sending another right toward me. Clap! Another one dead!  I hunted some more and found a sixth fly sitting on a wall.  This one hadn’t been involved in the revelry, but I wanted him dead anyway.  I tried to stub him out on the wall where he was resting, but he flew away too quickly.  I saw the last of the partiers, and clap! Nothing but air between my hands. I’d lost him, so I took a break from the hunt.

I got distracted by other chores, and a few minutes later came back to the kitchen. There, on the top of my cork, which I’d turned upside-down to plug my wine bottle, was the fifth fly—the one that got away earlier.  I tried to crush him on the cork, but he evaded me.  Clap! Clap! Two misses in a row. I had to admit, he was good.  I lost him again, and then jiggled the fruit baskets.  He flew toward me and I clapped again but missed again.  He zigged and zagged, and my eyes lost him and then locked onto him, and just as he was almost out of reach, clap!  Victory!

Now, as I sip on my second glass and write of these heroic feats, I see the sixth and final fly floating in my periphery. Did he just land on my glass?  He buzzes past again and I clap once, twice. Two misses in a row.  Is there only one of them left, or are there more?  I can’t tell.  I might have to give up. I’m getting tired of this game, and there is more wine to drink.

P.S. The title of this post comes from a song by Minus the Bear. You can hear it here. (Warning: Vocals don't start until about 1:30.)