Robin red breast

Some people look for crocuses poking through the brown grass, or curse their seasonal allergies; as for me, the sign that spring is finally near is the first runner's chafe of the season. Unlike my more hearty friends who run through the winter, I am just now emerging from my hibernation to answer the call to rise to my feet. Like my squirrel sistren, I have discovered that my carefully placed stashes of survival rations have become depleted during my winter absence; yes, those sticks of body glide that have been hanging out on my dresser (the site of which seemed to be a perpetual chastisement for my sloth) have turned out to be empty.

Heedless of my better judgment which, though slowed by my still-groggy state of mind, still told me that I should not attempt to run without greasing up, I hit the rubber path (no, I still have not braved the elements) sans anti-chafe protection. And now - I hurt. But it's ok, because it's all downhill from here (in some ways at least). I've had my first 'hey, wake up and resupply, dummy!' moment to tell me that I need to get serious again and be prepared. Red welts will shrink and fade as, hopefully, will my times and wasteline.

So, procrastination and lethergy be gone - it's time to lumber onto the lake path to get ready for a summer of events.