His name is Alexander

I had to work late again this evening; while in a meeting, I found myself staring out the window at the setting sun, watching the long golden rays colour the room… yearning to be out running.

It struck me odd then, when arriving home I discovered my enthusiasm was back at the office (arrg, hardly fair). The last thing I wanted to do now was run; perhaps it was listening to the Cure on the walk home. I think I managed to slip into a pool of bitterness, wallowing in depression and for whatever reason I found it comforting at the time. That was going to have to end.

I quickly dumped the Cure from the Shuffle and loaded Save Ferris, an old favourite Ska Band. From there I let, routine take over and without much protest, I was out the door and standing on the sidewalk. We reached a compromise though; the body would see me through the run and I promised not to push too hard.

From there it was up Rockland, twisting through Brighton and before I knew it, I was bounding down the old stone steps toward Narnia (it’s an old lamppost at the end of a narrow path). I even managed to rouse a chuckle from two girls I’d passed. It was either a) the result of my foolish hurdling or b) my baggy, not so tight, tights… “looses” as Ally calls them (thanks Carter, she’s been amused for almost two weeks now).

Before I knew it, I was feeling great, and bounced out onto Beach Drive almost directly in front of a fountain I’d desperately needed a few weeks back. I took a few seconds to catch my breath, and have a sip of water… and this time, note his entire name - Alexander Ian MacMillan. That is twice now I’ve thought of him, I wonder if he was an Al, Alex or Alexander.

Training: a comfortable and smooth 59:43, AHR 137, MAX 169

P.s. Lawrence, it’s nothing spectacular, but it got me thinking, check here.