Hills this Wednesday were less rainy, and less cold, and generally less horrible. They still felt bad, and by the fourth time running up I still wanted to hide behind some trees until my half hour was up, but this time sneaky Coach Phil waited just before the steepest ending hill and ran up with each of us as we arrived, saying how strong we looked. Which, in my case, was a complete lie. I know what it looks like to run up a hill looking strong, because my teammate Amy who is all posture and calf muscles bounces right up them with light quick steps as if her body is unaffected by gravity. I, on the other hand, hunch over and shove myself forward in effortful, wheezing, tiny increments as if running in an atmosphere composed largely of syrup.

Then I got in my truck and drove to Portland and got on an airplane and flew to Vermont and got in my friend Patrick’s car and drove to Quebec City, where I will spend the next week.

Where I will somehow, tomorrow, do a ten mile run in the snow on my own.

Where the keyboard is just different enough to be completely frustrating, so that is all for now.