Running to the grave.

So, one million brownie points for me. I went running all on my own last night. For at least a hundred miles I think (well, maybe a mile). Now I am probably going to die. I think my knees will never work again and one of my thighs feels as though it has been injected with plaster of paris, that has set to a rock solid and immovable rigidity. The good news is that apparently I do have muscles, as they all hurt.

The upside to this imminent death is that it was one of those ravishingly beautiful evenings. I was running up by a lake in the mountains. It is surrounded by forest and the moorland and the light had that 10 million pixel clarity to it that you usually see in the wilds of Montana where no car has ever sullied the air with exhaust fumes. It was beautiful. Well, until I ran through a swarm of insects and couldn't see anymore thanks to the fact that I had inhaled half of them, and the rescue teams were trying to break into my asophogus through my eyeballs.

Who said exercise wasn't exciting?