Return of the Newbi

Dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb-duh-dumb, dumb-duh-dumb ...

Forgive me, for I wasn't even drunk when I made the decision. I hadn't run since my bungled fake race attempt last weekend, and more than a week before that I had managed only four miles while I was sick. The point is I was feeling a bit anxious to get back out there.

But there was no easing back for this -- what's the word I'm searching for? -- nincompoop.

After spending my Friday off gift shopping for those brats my nieces and nephews, I sprung out of bed Saturday morning with the runner's itch. I had to go long. No other choice. I managed a challenging and uplifting seven miles. My pace was somewhere between geriatric driving an automobile and escargot on sandpaper, but it felt great. It was a Parade Wave Run. The whole time, no matter how tough some of the uphill stretches were, I felt like giving everyone the Queen's wave.

Sunday morning, I felt like a new runner who had just broken a new mileage barrier. I barely moved all day. Luckily, the Cleveland Browns were on TV, beating the Buffalo Bills and tying Pittspuke for first in the AFC North Division, and I had beer in the fridge. Unfortunately, I am not a Jedi yet, and instead of using mind tricks I had to get off the couch every time I wanted another bottle.