A year and a half after blowing out my back (stupidly) carrying a standup freezer by myself down uneven-at-best basement stairs (I was pissed about something stupid and refused all help which was, say it with me, fucking stupid), I've managed to get myself back into a daily running routine. Aiming, by late Spring, to get back to my six-miles-a-day (I'm currently doing half that).

Why six miles, you ask? Simple, really: spite.

In Haruki Murakami's WHAT I TALK ABOUT WHEN I TALK ABOUT RUNNING, he said that he ran six miles a day six days a week. Loved that book, but HATED his 1Q84 follow-up, COLORLESS SOMETHING SOMETHING AND THE SOMETHING SOMETHING (I only remember the first word of the title), so I decided I would do six miles a day, seven days a week, as a middle finger for writing that shitty book (IMO, 1Q84 is the last great – or even readable – thing Murakami wrote).

So long as I don't blow my back out again, I should be on track to get back to the six and continue my reign of spite-running two years after the herniation. Hopefully this will shut my doctors and father-in-law up about my weight gain over the last couple of years.