Balm in Gilead, chilled

“There’s nothing like a cracking cold Sancerre,” said Hemingway, and he was almost right.

It reached 99°F (37°C) in Connecticut yesterday, an all-time record for the month of May, and humid with it. Naturally, after our walk, I chose the day for yardwork, first cutting the pasture-high grass in the back yard, then wrestling with rakes, hoses, and bags of seed to combat the crabgrass infestation in the front. I then went inside, sat down in a puddle of sweat, put my feet up, and killed two quarts of iced tea that some angel had made and left in the fridge.

This morning was much cooler, and I headed out for my scheduled four miles with short-hill repeats. Things felt mighty fine—loose, rhythmic, smooth, light—until just about three miles, when I felt the tiniest twinge in my right achilles. The brakes went on pretty fast. A few gentle stretches, a little walk, and a second attempt. Nope. Mind you, this was the merest hint of a problem, the shallowest possible breath of an ouch, but I’ve become the ultimate wuss. I really, really, really don’t want to run myself out of running. I don’t think it’s anything serious, but I’ll find out Saturday, and either carry merrily on or jump off a cliff. In the meantime, more iced tea, tart with lemon and redolent of mint and memory, is indicated.



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