10 mile run, with 8 miles progression on the Betzwood in some humidity and some wind. I was listening to an eclectic mix of Radiohead's Amnesiac and Luna's song, "Star-Spangled Man" which made things a bit more manageable, especially when the chorus of "Star-Spangled Man" kicked in--it's peaceful, it's Lou Reed-sounding, mellow meditation for 5:4X poopers. Maybe I should wear the HAZMAT suit when I listen to it next time; I'd then really be "The Star-Spangled Man." Here's how it went down: Mile 1 warmup (7:20s) out to the trail Mile 2 6:44 (down) Mile 3 6:14 (down) Mile 4 6:02 (down) Mile 5 5:48 (down) Mile 6 5:47 (up, headwind) Mile 7 5:55 (up, mental toughness moment, wanted to quit, into some wind, started thinking of Faustian deals and bullshit excuses) Mile 8 5:43 (up) Mile 9 5:38 (up) Mile 10 cool down home (7:20s) My legs are feeling heavy; this workout felt harder than it should have. I suspect the racing volume is deep down there still. ----------------------------- There's been too much general, emotional commentary written about tapers. We are all guilty of complaining about about how they stink when it's our turn in line. I'd like to go a bit deeper than that: tapers are festering sores of doubt. By the time I reach them, I start to doubt my marathon goal pace; I doubt my workouts; I doubt my abilities. I question everything and come up short. Everyone in the field seems faster than me; nothing will work out right; the world is coming to an end. That kind of stuff. You know the deal. ---------------------- When Leonard Nimoy, mescaline, a bad Star Trek revenue year, and JRR Tolkien mix ----------------------- It should come as no surprise that my ability to wantonly buy books far exceeds my ability to sit for more than 30 seconds at a time and read them. Accordingly, on a recommendation from fellow Fitzgerald fan, Stephen, I purchased Ellison's The Invisible Man today. I walked around the hulking DaVinci Code displays with DaVinci Code prominently displayed from ceiling to floor with the DaVinci Code game acting as the display's bookends. I slipped past the DaVinci Code coffee table book and lifted my knees high as I stepped over fallen copies of the DaVinci Code: Deciphered which lay strewn across the floor as if someone just cracked the DaVinci Code and left in a hurry to stop the end of the world. I worked my way once again to the classics, wavering in front of James Joyce this time; I hesitated with his Ulysses in my greedy palms; I put him back down because the summit seemed too high, the climb too dangerous, the company too disagreeable today. Maybe some other time I'll buy it and stick it underneath the stack of books in my reading nook. It will wait patiently in line, behind The Quiet American, for probably about 10 years. Somewhat unrelated, the real reason we were in the bookstore was to purchase a treat for my daughter: The Brady Bunch Season 4. My daughter is going through a Brady Bunch mania right now and I'm complicit in the whole bloody thing. I'm a sucker for the show and find myself watching it with her. If you pay real close attention to the same laugh track on this show and you focus only on the laugh track, you can find yourself keying in on one specific laugh. It's hyenia-like and you wonder what the hell is going on with THAT.