I’m back in the saddle again
Out where a friend is a friend
Where the longhorn cattle feed
On the lowly jimson weed
I’m back in the saddle again

— Orvon Grover “Gene” Autry

—

Every runner knows the stages of covid:

1. High fever. Followed by
2. Stuffy nose and sore throat. Leading to
3. Congested lungs. Coughing. More coughing.
4. Still more coughing.
5. Golden girls marathon in the middle of the night.
6. Sore and exhausted. But then
7. You start to feel better. Other than the coughing.

Which leads to the most difficult covid stage of all, the one that WebMD and the Mayo website are scared to address:

8. How do you convince your spouse it’s OK to start running again?

Mo knows me too well. I tend to return too quickly and too hard, leading to a relapse and hospital pudding. So I wasn’t sure how I could talk her into letting me start up again, after knowing how sick I’ve been.

But then, I had a huge stroke of luck!!!

She got deathly ill.

Seems she has a nasty case of the covid herself. It’s weird, because I don’t think she’s been in contact with anyone but me for several days, so I’m not sure how she could have gotten it. But she did pick up the mail a couple of days ago, and I think it can be transmitted via political flyers, of which we now have thousands, so that’s probably it.

(Is there anything more gratifying than getting a political flyer asking you for money so they can send out political flyers? If you are a politician sending out a flyer but get word that the Iranians may plan to attack it, do you switch to a secret flyer for you and your “binky” while sending Kaitlin Collins as a decoy on the targeted flyer because what the hell she never smiles anyhow?)

I helpfully pointed out to Mo this morning that her constant hacking cough is annoying me. She seemed quite appreciative of my candor. So when I suggested that I might go out for a mile just to see how things felt, she was quite supportive. I think her exact quote was “live, die, whatever. Get me an onion on the way home.”

That’s the One Flaw in my plan. She has set out to make chicken soup, a secret recipe that has undeniable healing powers. Luckily, this is as far as she got after three hours.

At this rate, I think we will be well into the third Trump administration by the time she is finished, which will make all of this moot. Or possibly mute. Surely we will no longer be allowed to speak by then.

And so I went out for a short stroll. It was fine except for a couple of fainting spells, which were actually quite refreshing. I think they’re called trail naps when done during Cocodona but seem to be frowned upon at the park. Damn elitist trail runners.

I checked in with Coach Lydiard, mastermind of the Fit PA Fancy Pants Magic 8 Ball Training Plan©, and we devised a brilliant plan of getting back on the comeback trail. Which is basically do some shorter runs on the comeback trail and see how I feel. Maybe no trail naps on the comeback trail though.

Drastic days call for drastic changes, so I’m abandoning the Smoocha Mucha Lucha Lasso loop and switching to the simple elegance of the Dog Park Mile. I know, I know. Daring. But there is a bush that appears to be lowly jimson weed on the back stretch, and it is a decent cross between the Fat Ox and ATY courses. It also has a cairn, if one becomes disoriented after a trail nap. Worth noting: Coach Lydiard was known to be fond of dogs, and the dog park is on the course. This surely will count in my favor.)

(editor’s note: yes, that is THE Coach Lydiard. Though quite dead, he’s still available via AI, courtesy of the Fit PA Fancy Pants Magic 8 Ball Training Plan©, with token access. And by token I mean tokin’. Yes, that’s what the jimson weed on the back stretch is for.)

How will next week go? Beats me. I feel fine, but I haven’t done anything. Mo seems agreeable, but I fear she will become coherent again at some point.

But I have a long trail ahead, and those longhorns aren’t going to feed themselves. Although the raccoons gathering near Mo might.

If Bronco Billy can walk to get a latte today, surely I can muster up a mile as well. Giddyup, and whoopi-ty-aye-oh.

I’m back in the saddle again.