Day 87: Bleeding, Breathing and a Brush with White Goods
After yesterday’s excitement meeting the Gladiators and nursing the same stubborn cold that seems to have taken up permanent residence in my sinuses, it might have seemed reasonable to throw in the towel for another day. But towels, as it turns out, are best kept for drying off after a run, not for surrendering. When I woke up this morning, croaky and vaguely resembling a deflated bagpipe, I told myself, “No. No more days off.” It was time to get back out there, cold or no cold, time to be a a Gladiator! So I hauled myself out of bed with all the grace of a man who’s misplaced both his socks and his will to live, made a strong coffee and drove to Rochester. Onward to the Esplanade (With a Dash of Wheeze) I really wasn’t feeling at my best. But the air was cold, and for once, I didn’t care. I was here to run, not to appreciate meteorological nuance. I set off down the hill toward the Rochester Esplanade, breath a little wheezy but manageable—like a bagpipe that’s been patched with du...