Your Sister is sick, but she continues to work. I assume we'll go to Asheville this weekend for the restaurant, and we might pick up her car stereo too. Depends on how she feels. I handed her the bag from you and Your Parents, but she's too waterlogged to enjoy opening it. It sits next to the sick bed.
I feel a bit nervous about the race. I know my start time and where to go and when I should wake up and stretch and snack. But I worry about the crowd and preparation of the staff. This is no longer an official event for the Memorial Festival, and I hope the new organizers secured some police protection for the runners along those back roads. They're also running a 10K at the same time on the same course.
I don't feel like I've done enough to get into shape. I lost time to gardening and weather, and, while I feel lighter in some places, I worry about my legs on the hills. And the last hill looms. It fucking LOOMS. I'm determined to run until I vomit. I haven't done that yet, and I suspect I need that rite of passage.
Picture of the Day
This is the kind of ads that can boost newspaper distribution.