F#CK.

Thanks for ruining my weekend Boston (and you too Vanilla). This heartbreaking Cleveland loss in the ALCS shall go down as "the choke" or "the stop sign" or perhaps "the curse of Joel Skinner."

However, baseball was the only reason for my cussing this weekend. I got back on the roads Sunday with a 30-minute run. No route in mind. I just ran until my timer went off and turned back toward home. Sometimes those can be the best runs. Running without direction or regimen.

Obviously, the world was glad to have me back. One kindly old lady aimed her car for a friendly bumper nudge. And I swear I heard a faint cat call from the window of a passing SUV. It's good to be missed. And this morning only a little soreness. But it's not the hip pain I was feeling before. This is more like the soreness of muscles that aren't used to moving so much. I even played with my big green bouncy ball again. Without falling!

It's time to get back into race shape. There's the Home Run for the Homeless, a four-mile race on Thanksgiving morning (read: hungover). And Martini is baiting me with an ultra in January. Apparently, he thinks we'll be able to train for a 50K during the typically mild Ohio winter. All I have to do is ramp back up to my marathon training in a couple weeks and then double the mileage. I'm sure it'll be fine. Good times! Now I can get back to writing about running instead of that rambling nonsense I posted Friday.