“I am at the moment writing a lengthy indictment
against our century. When my brain begins to reel
from my literary labors, I make an occasional cheese dip.”

— Ignatius J. Reilly

—

The worst possible scenario appears to be unfolding. The thing I dared not even think about, for fear that it might come true.

Mo seems to be getting better. And she’s on to me.

“You could still get pneumonia, you know,” she texted me from Rehab Central, formerly The Bedroom and at one time Zuki’s Afternoon Siesta Lounge before she commandeered the Texas stool in the living room.

The message sent chills through my body. Or possibly the air conditioner had just turned on. It’s still summer. I had no idea the air conditioner ever turned OFF in summer.

Today’s test outing went fine. Three miles in ridiculous heat. There’s something about running on a sun-drenched day in 100 degree weather during the waning moments of the vermin. Like it’s being cooked out of your lungs. Or your brain. It’s definitely doing SOMETHING to my brain.

Things felt fine until I got home and the inevitable coughing fits began. You can hide a lot of sickness symptoms from your spouse (ice cube in the cheek while taking your temperature for a 92.7 reading!), but coughing is a tough one.

I have developed a workaround where I watch her, and then cough exactly when she does. She now assumes she has the worst cough ever and it’s broadcasting in stereo. My fear: If she continues to get better, her cough may dissipate, along with her tolerance for my runs.

I got another round of covid tests from the store this afternoon. I think we’ll try them tomorrow morning. I can then make a run for it in the 15 minutes it takes for results, and get in at least one more outing before being shut down forever.

It’s funny. The three stages of running and being really sick always seem to be:

Before illness: I am bulletproof. I can run forever.

During illness: I am surely going to die. If I survive this I will swear off extreme exercise forever and grow old peacefully.

Immediately after illness: I am bulletproof. I can run forever.

Never a lesson learned, never a compromise made.

“Those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it,” George Santayana once said. But as a garage band guitarist in the 1970s, I always resented him because his solos were too hard to learn. And so I persevere, with a hacking cough and still no knowledge of how to play a power chord.

And that’s how I went from swearing off the October craziness to plotting how many miles I can get in before it starts. I have now had my Big Illness for the year, so I’ve got the Monopoly Get Out of Jail Free card for now until ATY, yeah? Bill Bowerman, my current AI coach, thinks it’s OK. He was Prefontaine’s coach and Pre is still going strong, right? Maybe it will work for me as well.

The only possible roadblock at this time, the one thing I lie awake at night worrying about: What if Mo makes a total comeback?

Upside: I can hear her sneezing uncontrollably in the next room. There’s still hope!

It promises to be an interesting century. Or at least three months. How do you write about a world that even Orwell couldn’t have imagined? The only hope for retaining any part of my dwindling sanity is running. A lot. It’s going to take a lot more than a fancy pants virus to stop that.

But I’m stocking up on cheese dip. Just in case.