Running Body, Rewards Chosen

This morning’s mood is best summed up by, “give me the coffee and nobody gets hurt.”

Not that I’d actually hurt anyone (without severe provocation) but the threat has a few salutary effects. One takes what one can get.

The weather watchers say we’re going to have another heat wave–not as bad as the recent dome, but it won’t cool off at night like it usually does, which is a recipe for disaster in this part of the country. Very few people have air conditioning and we’re used to opening up windows overnight to keep the houses livable. The cumulative effect of hot days and nights bearing no relief stresses the very young, the very old, and the chronically ill.

I’m upping my running mileage too, so this will mean getting out the door early, for whatever variety of cool can be found. I’d forgotten how an alteration of the running schedule makes the entire body feel different–my legs feel a lot longer, for example. And different parts of my arms ache because running is a whole-body effort and if your trotters are tired concentrating on your arms can provide the last bit of help needed to keep you going.

I suppose I’ve been running for a bit now, and it’s completely reshaped my body. I’m pretty sure even my bones bear the marks, with muscle attachments pulling at them in specific ways while I jog along. A lot of people don’t realize just how dynamic one’s bones are; they respond like muscles do, changing shape and reinforcing areas of high stress.

Pretty sure mine are mad at me right now, but it can’t be helped.

I feel at once taller and more compact when my mileage goes up, especially when intervals are added to the mix. Running also requires a very particular brand of kinesthetic attention, like dance, combat, or climbing–knowing where one is in time and space, thinking a few moves ahead while staying loose and ready for surprises.

Maybe that’s why I like all those things; they make my brain stop eating itself for short periods because the whole mass of walnut-folded grey matter is busy making sure I don’t accidentally dart in front of a bus or tumble off the damn wall.

If I fall in front of a bus, I want it to be deliberate, you see.

Someone’s started messing with a leaf blower, which means the neighborhood is officially awake and the day has begun. The dogs got a handful apiece of yesterday’s party Cheetos in their respective bowls; the Prince had his vaccinated friends over to play video games, eat pizza, and watch Miyazaki movies. It was a roaring success, though a little strange to have people I didn’t give birth to in the house again.

And with that, it’s time to walk said shaggy beasts, then get out for that increased mileage. There’s Hell’s Acre to write today–the heroine is about to pay a call which will alter her entire life, though she doesn’t know it yet–and maybe a little werewolf erotica, since I’m done with that difficult revision.

My reward structure is all messed up. “You did good! Here, have some anxiety-thumping caffeine, go out and run until you think you might throw up, and write some monsterfucking–you’ve earned it!”

What’s even funnier is that I choose those rewards. I don’t know whether it’s being a writer or just being wired strangely. Ah well, I’ve been a weirdo for 40+ years, there’s no point in stopping now.

At least by the time I find out where the leaf blower noise is coming from the coffee will have sunk in, providing its tranquilizing effect. Small mercies, the only kind we ever get around here.

Happy Thursday, my beloveds.

Mileage and Cheese

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A lovely cool grey morning, though without a single spatter of rain, has me feeling almost myself again. Almost, just not exactly quite. I managed to get out the door for the morning dog walkies a few minutes early, which meant less traffic on the sidewalks; the day’s run was accomplished at a slightly lower speed than usual since I’m bulking mileage. Come Friday or so I’ll do some intervals, then after a few days’ worth of rest my speed should start to creep up while my distance remains steady.

Or at least, that’s the plan.

I did not get a heroine involved in a stabbing yesterday, though it wasn’t for lack of trying. I think the stabbing has to come today, in the hero’s POV. Serves him right if he gets a puncture; he’s been getting a bit arrogant lately and needs someone to take him down a peg or two. This being Hell’s Acre, of course, he’ll get it in the most mannerly way possible from our dear heroine.

I mean, she’ll stab, but she won’t be rude.

Other than that, the day is set aside for revisions on Sons of Ymre. There’s a lot more horror than romance in that book, and the Lovecraft and King in Yellow references fall fast and thick. My poor editor. *evil chuckle*

I’ve queued up a lot of Miles Davis for the afternoon’s work, and am attempting to use another jolt of coffee to clear the mud out of my head. I’d forgotten how absentminded upping my running mileage makes me for the first couple days. On the plus side, I’ll sleep well tonight, which is a blessing all its own.

The minus is that my usual work pace has dropped to what feels like a snail-crawl. I know it’s not, I know I’m in a good spot and can afford a few days’ worth of not-quite-top-speed, but still. It irks me to be operating at less than full capacity.

Some of my slowness could be the absence of lunch, a problem easily rectified even if the dogs are going to be underfoot as soon as I twitch to rise from my office chair. Since I’m contemplating midday bruschetta, their cheese-sense is no doubt tingling. I swear, the instant any human in the house even thinks about thickened milk product, both dogs perk up and scuttle forth to beg for treats with single-minded intensity.

…I just glanced at the office door. Miss B is sitting, ears up and eyes bright, waiting. Every inch of her is expectant.

I suppose I can’t disappoint the poor elderly dog–and Boxnoggin is coming down the hall, his nails clicking on hardwood. Time to wade through canine excitement in the direction of the kitchen and hope the kids left me some fresh mozzarella.

Stop, Whoops

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This happened a while ago, but the picture’s too good to leave languishing. I call it “Whoops.” Looks like someone had an awful night.

I’m still in recovery. Having a book slide out so easily does not, unfortunately, mean the recovery process is shorter. If anything, it’s longer, because the flywheel takes more time to spin down. Or so it seems.

Be careful this weekend, my beloveds. There’s a heat wave on, and tempers are short this time of year. I’ll be hiding in the dark cave of my office, sucking on ice cubes or limeade, trying desperately not to develop heat prostration or a rash.

Ugh.

Whyfor, Carl?

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Normally I do the Morning Walk Report on my Masto instance…but today’s was just a little weirder than usual.

It wasn’t the weather, though yesterday’s heat was only a prelude. They’re saying over 100F sometime this weekend; I’m sure that will be fun. But this morning there was a little coolth, and Sandra came by the birdbath as usual so I knew Carl and Jerry were okay.

Anyway, I strapped the dogs in and got us all out the door, thank heaven.

It wasn’t until we were halfway down the block, a bee crawling on my shoulder and Miss B very interested in some lithadora, that I realized Boxnoggin wasn’t prancing just because he was happy to be out of the house. No, he was dancing in place for an entirely different reason.

If it wasn’t Carl it was his evil twin, standing in a driveway and eyeing us sidelong. I caught a wicked gleam in his corvid eye while Boxnoggin strained at his harness, just longing to get across the street and Make A New Friend.

Given that Box’s idea of “friendship” with smaller creatures is “shake it like a Polaroid until the neck snaps, then look mournfully at the corpse wondering where your friend went”, I felt it was unwise (to say the least) to let him seek a closer acquaintance with Carl.

Besides, Carl fights dirty. I should know.

I don’t know if it’s normal behavior for a crow to follow a wild-haired writer and her two canine companions around the block for walkies. But every time I looked up, Carl–or his evil twin, I am certainly not ruling that out–was perched nearby, taking off with a snap-flutter as the dogs finished their sniff stops and moved on. I’m not sure if he was herding us, just curious, or doing recon for a sudden attack.

What I do know is that Boxnoggin was very aware we were being watched, and seeing him alternate between fierce “it’s on the ground, let me go SHAKE IT” and coy “ohai, you are watching me from above, let me display coquettish prancing to entice you closer” was not the most amusing thing I’ve ever seen–but it was close.

That was how I came to be standing on the sidewalk audibly scolding a crow for taunting my poor dog. “He’s not bright, Carl,” I informed a bird slightly bigger than Boxnoggin’s head. “This is beneath you, frankly, and I’m disappointed in your behavior.”

Carl cawed a couple times in reply, clearly unwilling to give up the game.

Once we got to the backyard and I let the dogs out of their harnesses, Carl settled in the cedars, watching while I herded them back into air-conditioned calm. He was gone when I came back out, hair braided and the rest of me slathered with yet more sunscreen for the morning run.

I don’t even know.

As for the run, I sweated sunscreen into my eyes so that was fun. Also, the bees are getting to be a nuisance. I love them, I truly do, but trying to crawl into my nose is not the thing. I suspect the only reason they didn’t go for my ears was the fact those are always blocked with music-delivery pods, and my eyes were left alone because I was blinking furiously trying to get away from the stinging.

They’re leaving my mouth alone, at least for now. Small mercies. I was also afraid I’d crush one settling in my elbow as I ran, but I guess it just wanted a drink? I’m happy to help but dear gods, the little pollinating bastards seem to lack all sense of self-preservation.

I’m hoping Carl’s accompaniment was merely curiosity. If he’s planning hijinks, I may have to stroll the dogs while armed. I’m sure the neighbors won’t wonder at me walking along, two dogs strapped to my waist, a golf club over my shoulders.

It might even add something to the morning…

Unexpectedly Difficult

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It was unexpectedly difficult to make coffee this morning. You’d think such a simple operation would be easily accomplished, but no. If it wasn’t forgetting the water it was forgetting the grounds, and if it wasn’t either it was staring in perplexity at the stove and wondering what the hell is this thing for?

…it’s gonna be one of those Mondays, I can just tell.

I finished a revise on Season Three of HOOD this weekend, and was going to continue working straight through but my body staged a revolt. I don’t think it’s the plague–though it would be par for the course if I came down with a bout right just before the vaccine becomes readily available–but still, curling up in a tiny ball Sunday afternoon was the best strategy, so I took it.

There’s no shortage of work looming on a Monday. At least I have a little wiggle room in the schedule for the second book of The Black God’s Heart. And at least I finally, finally figured out how to make coffee work and am grimly, grumpily sucking on the morning ration of java. I’m not used to this amount of brain fog and can only hope caffeine will scrape it away.

Part of the loginess might be that I was up at 2am, as has become somewhat of a habit, and there was deep cottony Silent Hill fog out my window. Which was pleasant, but then I went back to bed and the idea that suddenly a leering face might coalesce out of vapor and press itself against the glass just wouldn’t go away.

The problem with a vivid, well-trained imagination is that it doesn’t shut off. Ever. Just like the rest of my brain. So that was fun.

Consequently, I’m incredibly salty this fine cloudy morn, and have a deathgrip on my temper. The last thing I want to do is snap at someone who doesn’t deserve it, so I have both hands and my teeth firmly buried in the hide of my anger. A run will help, if I don’t collapse in the middle of it. I don’t know what I’d do without burning the adrenaline and stress off by hauling my silly corpse along at what passes for relatively high speed.

Anyway, here I am, and here Monday is. We’re eyeing each other like an action movie standoff. We know who’s going to win, or at least survive, but half the fun is getting there. (If “fun” is, indeed, what we can call it.)

The dogs don’t care what day it is, they want their ramble and I can’t blame them. Time to get my jacket and get out the door. We’ll tackle the week together, I suppose.

Excelsior, and all that.