I'm starting to write this before I jump on the scale this morning. I'm not optimistic about what it will say. I've been doing the right things, pretty much. I've passed on the desserts, pretty much. I've just said no to the hooch, pretty much. Also, I ran 95 miles in 7 days, that's a lot.
So, why am I not optimistic? That scale is a sadistic piece of crap! Hey, look, I know I'm doing the right things, I know I'm getting in good shape, almost back to pre-injury form; but, however, thus, in contrast, I do not believe the scale will adequately reflect my effort.
Shouldn't it be enough that my clothes aren't as tight as they were 6 weeks ago? Shouldn't it be enough that I can tell? It should be, but it aint. That's what goals are all about, and that's what running in the mountains is all about. Less weight to carry up Devil's Thumb = increased chances of hitting Placer High School in Auburn in less than 30 hours.
Ok, enough, one more trip to the watercloset, I hope, I hope it's 175 or less; and ......
That's it, I freaking quit! Another stinking pound. One stinking pound. Not two, one. 176. I'm going to keep on keeping track, but I aint working myself up about it anymore, and if I want a brew I'ma have a brew, I was losing a pound a week before I stopped that habit (yikes, I just used drinking and habit together, that can't be good, perhaps, I'll stay hooch free for a bit, at least till I see Chase on Thursday.... yeah that's tomorrow.)
Well, there you have it, I'll see you later, I've got to drop and give myself 20.