Samson, girded for Shania. I was supposed to jump up on the Betzwood Trail today and bang out a 2 mile time trial, but opted instead to get my head shorn after work. My side hair was so long I could grab it, twist it, and form a bail of undisciplined laziness. Uncle Sam reprogrammed me when I entered the military; a sign of side hair is a sign of weakness. Sidehair touching your ear means that we will lose the Fulda Gap to the Soviet hordes. Sidehair you can grab in handfuls may as well be the ending of Wargames before W.O.P.R was unplugged. So I went to the King of Prussia Mall. This place is an unfathomable. I'm not going to rant about it. All I can say is it reminded me off Grand Theft Auto - Vice City complete with echoing, subtle elevator music, security Gestapo, and endless pixelated characters carrying sacks of shit they don't need. I entered a hair salon, saw a Queer-Eye-for-the-Straight-Guy metrosexual holding a coconut tub of something with the patina of chocolate basting it into a woman's hair, and promptly walked over to some place called "Mastercuts." The woman warned me, placed a 1 protection on her clippers and went to town. I now got no sidehair and hope to repel the lactic Soviets on Sunday. -------------------------- 2 mile time trial. Funny how us runners fixate on numbers and associate them to anything related to our PRs, goals, or dreams. Price of gas is down to 2.29. It ranges from 2.29 to 2.33 to 2.49 depending on how much octane you want in it. I jumped up on the antfarm dreadmill. Did 3 miles warm up and cranked it to 10.6mph (goal MP) at .5% grade for 2 straight miles. All systems go. I wasn't breathing heavy at the end and felt ok. 2 miles cool down. 7 total miles. The John Glenn bronchi give the thumbs up to Mission Control who gets the same thumbs up from the Jim Lovell tensor fasciae latae. Will they launch me into a Gemini 7 or Apollo 13? 3c, 1b (c = 200 ab bar, 100 side to sides) ------------------------- The gulag in Connecticut has been sold to the lowest, and only bidder. The buyers are happily moving in in a matter of weeks only to weep uncontrollably upon their first pass through the gauntlet of genetically-inferior street poop toasting some driver named Dusty or Rusty or Junior while they tilt back plastic cups of PBR with the temperature and apparent-consistency of ape urine.