Walking for 3, running for 2. Thus ends cycle two. Huzzah, says I.

Two dudes in a parked car in the back parking lot of my building, just running the car and hanging out. One hangs out the window, eyes baggy, and asks me (in moderate russian accent) for a smoke. Besides counting my blessings that I am not also a loser hanging out in a parked car in Little Russia on a Friday night (yes, I am a smug creature)… I thought it odd, considering how I was dressed. I’m sure there are active people who smoke, sure, but I don’t quite know how the whole breathing thing works for them, even short term. It can’t make things easier.

Shout out to one of my loyal readers (yo Mr. G!) who gave me an advance on a prize I earned: a better water bottle, with a lower-back-groove-fitting belt attachment. It fits well, and I do like it but it shall take getting used to, the sensation of feeling water sloshing up near my back in time to whichever gait I’m running at.

Intriguingly, the muscles/joints that were achy last week are not any longer (in any really notable way), but a whole new set of muscles (the back of my lower legs) are. This feels more natural, like something is working somewhere. It felt significantly less strained over all. I slowed my pace a crack, and that made a difference — I think I have been, unconsciously, going faster than necessary to start out.

Today is what a work friend calls my minus one anniversary — one year from today, I get married. So maybe this was running in the back of my mind at the same time, thoughts of future things (houses and yards and cars, oh my). Fun speculation, positive, but strange. Suburbs are still funny places to me, never having lived in one, and I can’t say I can imagine living in anything like it but, of course, stranger things happen. This one is nice, like a proper neighbourhood — the yards are big and lush (for North York) and the houses look well built (circa the fifties and sixties). The lots are a little close together, but better than the cheap-ass monstrosities being built outside of Toronto these days (they make my inner country girl wince). Still, I can’t say whether I/we could fit in such a place, anywhere (Ontario or Maritime variants).

Ooh: I saw a black 1978 VW Beetle, a convertible with the roof open, sitting in a driveway with a For Sale sign. I slowed down my walk and let myself dream… later, I saw a sexy silver convertible Jaguar with the license plate “JAVOOM”. But I’d spring for the beetle any day. I miss my 1982 Buick LeSabre every now and then…