Bike about 8 miles, to work to gym to home.
Precor Elliptical, 15' @ 100% incline and 70% resistance, ~1985 strides and 225 calories.
Swim 1K.
I haven't told all my stories. My recent mention of The Fall reminded me of what I could tell about English 109. I am still glad I am more attractive than particular people for particular reasons and freely admit that particular, and I am certain, universal, human foible, of comparison and self-congratulation. Blake continues to charm me. PLT just sent me recent photographs of several sprouts, and TJZD just produced a new, almost ten-pound one. Those are stories I could tell.
But, as I told RDC yesterday, as we discussed pen vs. keyboard, though I can write faster with a keyboard than with a pen, the latter allows for contemplation whereas the former demands constant attention (the screen) and input (the keyboard).
It was sophomore spring that SLH and I belatedly took English 109 together, reading The Fall and Endgame and The Maltese Falcon and, spew, Harold Pinter's Homecoming. But I think freshling spring saw one of my favorite SLH memories. That semester, we had biology together (inspiring my nickname Polly), on the opposite corner of campus from our dorms. One warm day we biked back to lunch, on one bike, me on the seat and he on the pedals of an over-worked 10-speed. I think he hopped curbs on that thing, long before anyone, even ordinary people, made bikes jump. We scattered people and sheep in our path and left a wake of pissed off people with run-over toes. I remember clutching his love-handles, legs splayed out to keep out of his way, clutching the saddle with my crotch alone, bouncing over curbs and boulders, shrieking and laughing and shrieking with laughter and wondering when we were going to die.
Eighteen years later that exuberant glee and fear is fresh in my heart. Dearest SLH, I'm so glad you're back.
That's my only story right now.
Except not! I just glanced down to my backpack, wondering what therein might inspire a story. I glancingly remembered that a storyteller did that, found an object about his person and began a story from it. Instantly--and I'm glad not longer--I recalled that I was thinking of Dr. Dolittle, who when his family wanted a new story would look at whatever was in his pockets or his little black bag.
And that's another story. This evening RDC made us hot chocolate, with chocolate he brought back from Barcelona. This is not Swiss Miss Swill: this is liquid chocolate. It forms a skin readily, so you drink it with a spoon at the ready for stirring. Sometime recently I told RDC about Gub-gub's story, about the food sprites who had wonderful innovations for dining, like the speaking tubes into which you say whatever you cannot say at table; and the serving of fruit from one end of the table to the other as with tennis balls, with rackets; and the pincushions for fish-bones. What I didn't remember until tonight is yet another of their inventions: wee clotheslines on which to hang the skin of your cocoa so it doesn't gloop over the side of your cup.
Except I doubt Hugh Lofting said "gloop."
The only other story I can think of currently is the one that Blake is declaiming in his box. He's singing about the events of his day and his love for feet.