Soviet Revisionist History

There is, as they say, a first time for everything. Since I started penning this blog, I’ve never missed entertaining my throngs for a whole month. Yet it’s happened. June came, June went, and you found yourself with a surprising extra twenty minutes on your hands, having not been distracted by my blather. I know that you all put that time to good use, solving world hunger and analyzing the chemical mix that produces the odd orange glow on the Speaker of the House. But if you spent a moment of that time pondering my whereabouts, please call off the All-Points Bulletin. I am alive and reasonably well, and I have no intention of stopping this periodic nonsense.

But, you beg, why the absence? I could simple say I’ve been busy, and it wouldn’t be a lie, however it’s actually a bit more curious than that. While you might find it hard to believe, I am sensitive to avoiding undue repetition of theme. The whole idea of this running column, pun intended, is to celebrate the adventure of running into the later years, when we’re not only not spring chickens, but we’re fast approaching, if not already past, the mid-summer poultry stage. A lot of the story of running hard and competitively as a master – no, wait, make that a senior now – is dealing with inevitable injuries and health issues. But how many times can you hear me whine about stuff that hurts? I’ve got to keep this upbeat, or I will inspire you to run…away.

In late May I’d written a column called “Bozo”, referring to that famed blow-up punching bag of our youth and waxing poetic on how Bozo always got back up again. Keep it positive! I wrote how my training seemed to be turning a corner, and how things were looking up. But a more timely issue popped up demanding air time that week, and Bozo was put on the shelf for the following episode.

Only days later, another issue popped up – this time in my right hamstring, this one sudden, painful, and in the middle of a set of two-hundreds on the track. Coach Dad had devised a diabolical workout for Darling Daughter the Younger where we’d start at a relatively easy clip, and reduce our target by a second on each rep. Since I spotted her ten seconds on each, the difficulty level was just about right for each of us. But on number five, Mr. Hammy went pop about fifty meters in.

The good news of the night was that DDY not only finished the workout and made her time target on number ten, but I had the fun of watching her discover a new gear from the sideline, watching her stride, rather than from behind playing chaser. But my frustration over this bodily failure made the pain of the injury that much worse. Another training break, right when I’d hoped to ramp it up!

It just didn’t seem like the right time to opine on how well things were going, so Bozo went back on the shelf, and after a few hyperactive weeks of work and vacation thrown in for good measure, suddenly, it’s July. How did that happen?

By now the ham is healed, and while other stuff still hurts (what else is new?), the big issue is that rather than having seven weeks of solid prep before my next target race, I’ve gotten in only one good one and have a mere three remaining. But that’s how life goes. I’m be playing catch-up in my training, and I’ll also be playing catch-up on a few interesting topics here, so stay tuned.

Now you know the rest of the story, but there is still that blow-up punching bag sitting on the shelf…what to do? I hate to let a bit of polished prose go to waste, so here’s the plan. Those of you old enough to remember the cold war knew how our comrades on the other side could rewrite history to match their world, and do it with a completely straight face. So I’m taking a page from the manual of Soviet Revisionist History. What was that I mentioned about not posting in June? No, that was simply not true, comrade! Look, my last column was published on the final day of June, and you can read it here! Do not believe that propaganda! We speak only the truth!