Excuse Me, I’m Running Here…

This year seems to be powered by high-grade rocket fuel and frankly, I’m a little peeved at how quickly the days are flying by. The hours are stumbling into each other in their haste to be over with: I watched the full moon disappear over the horizon last week like a thief with a good haul—quick and quiet. So, with all this rush, rush, rush how’s the running motivation holding up, you might wonder…

forest_of_excuses

The enthusiasm to put takkies to tarmac is still there but the thicket of excuses is proving more tricky to deal with in that they are hydra-like, cut off one and two more slink up. Where do excuses come from? From some lazy-ass part of the brain, that’s where. Some slothful synapse gets the message that running is in its near future and it starts firing off excuses like some newbie with a machine gun on automatic. Rat-a-tat-tat-tat the excuses hit and the fingers start faltering on the laces. Sigh.

So yeah, that wretched synapse is always going to be firing off excuses and I have to smoosh them down everyday—are you with me on this? I’m happy with my weekly mileage but I have bigger plans for the weekend and am going to have to break out my St. George sword to slay the bigger excuses. Can’t wait.

[Img.Src: forest]

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