untitled 7/23

Books Read:
22. The Mood Embosser — Louis Cabri
23. Why I am not a Feminist — Jessa Crispin
24. The Year of the Flood — Margaret Atwood

Kilometres Ran:
week twenty seven — 100.5
week twenty eight — 65.2
week twenty nine — 62.4

To date: 1,681 km

Three weeks ago I sort of lamented the fact that I’ve read only 21 books over the first half of 2017 and here I am reporting that since then I’ve managed to fumble my way through a book of poetry. It’s good poetry though. But I’m a Cabri fan. This is his first book. It very political. There are glimmers of his later work here and there. I definitely like his more recent stuff better, but it’s worth reading. I’ve commented previously that this year seems to be the year of reading dystopian post-apocalyptia and so after a short break from that I’ve fallen back into it as I wade through Crispin’s manifesto. I mean Atwood’s second piece in the MaddAddam Trilogy. My goal by week thirty is to maybe hopefully possibly have both books finished. It could happen.

I finished June and started July running nine days straight, which I think is a record for me, and completed my first 100 kilometres in a week. I was feeling pretty proud of myself that Sunday afternoon when I probably should have been writing something about it here but instead I was reliving my 100 km glory on Strava when in my feed a saw that another runner who lives just down the street, let’s call her Audree, had run 50 miles. On Saturday.

week five

Books Read:
9. A Sport and a Pastime — James Salter
10. Poetryworld — Louis Cabri

Kilometres Ran:
this week — 28.61
to date — 120.64

A sport? I must have missed something. I kind of get the pastime part. Maybe there’s some baseball metaphor at work that I completely missed. Sounds like a job for George Bowering…. Anyway, I thought this book was alright although I found the narrator rather curious. He’s a character in the story, obviously, but he’s rather shady it seems. Not trustworthy to say the least. But strangest is that he seems to be around directly observing an awful lot of the arc of Dean and Anne-Marie’s relationship. Impossibly so. It reminds me of when people claim the Bible stories of Jesus are definitely all totally true because they’re from eye-witness accounts, including events that happen without anyone around to eye-witness them. He sweat blood? Really? You watched him and Satan hang out in the desert? Sure you did. Seriously, the amount of time that narratorwhatshisname spends watching Dean and Anne-Marie have sex…there’s a lot of sex. With an audience. Wait, am I also the audience? So, anyway, Poetryworld, another from the CUE Books archives that I’ve failed until now to read. And I should have gotten to it sooner because I loved Posh Lust and Louis Cabri is one of the best people I’ve had the pleasure of meeting. Poetryworld hurts my head, like a long series of tongue-twisters for my brain. I enjoyed this collection a lot. Worth picking up a copy, and I know where you can get one.

week five
My physiotherapist suggested that I try the Strava app to go with my Fitbit so I did a few runs and I’m confused. The thing on my wrist tracks what I’m doing and then it syncs with the Fitbit dashboard and Strava syncs with the Fitbit dashboard and the two take the same data and come up with remarkably different results. The distances are often close, but you’d think they’d be exactly the same, no? The times and splits, close. The calories burned, well, not close at all. And that’s fine because I assume that they’re both just guessing, really. But the information going into both apps is the same information from the same source. The only thing that I can think of is that the Fitbit dashboard is lying to Strava, but that doesn’t make much sense because Strava tends to be a bit more generous on the time tracking. And waaay more generous on the calories burned. I used to pay more attention to that caloric burn, because I would think that if nothing else I’d earned enough metabolical reserve for that post-gin-and-tonic bottle of wine. Doesn’t matter much, what with currently doing–and killing at, I might add–sober February. But if I start doing hot yoga, someone just put me out of my misery.