And so trying to put as much distance and blog headers between myself and my erstwhile insensitive and sophomoric postings that have become the standard fare here these days, how about I write about my run today? This is a running blog I think about training and racing, or was, or should be and, perhaps, might return to? Amen. 6.5 miles at VF with my work mates. I played caboose and used words like "tired," "dragging," "8:45 pace," in my emails to the work crew before we met. Despite all that, we were doing 7:15s along the Betzwood trail talking about the marathon, upcoming races, and Thanksgiving plans. I wore the striped engineer's cap and shoved coal into the guys up front but then engaged the brake as they unconciously eased into 6:45 to 6:30 pace getting ever more excited about this race or that. The talk of running and the mental images of upcoming competition, arch-rivals, and goal paces tend to scare a crowd of runners into a frenzy of ever-increasing pace climaxing into an all out war at the end. Each runner doesn't want to seem phased as the pace begins to hurt. Breathing is pushed out slowly and to the side as the battling runners try to resemble the officer on the front line who doesn't want to get caught ducking down when the zip, pop, and hiss of the enemy's lactic bullets ring out . I wanted no bloody part of this and let the horses go racing off into the gray gloaming of a Thanksgiving eve (no malapropism this time on aforementioned word). I ran in the back and got to listen to the heavy, wet, deep breathing in the lungs of a recovering runner and feel the protesting, grumpy tendons and listen to the discordant chorus of muscles play their own instruments out of tune while the conductor stares at next year's concert schedule wondering how he's going to turn them all into a majestic, legendary, mellifluous sub 2:30 symphony.