I know you all are waiting for me to comment on the announcement about Bin Laden’s death, and I do have a lot to say about that but I’m tired tonight. Too tired to speak coherently about something so important. It wasn’t a typical weekend around our household.
It was Bloomsday weekend. The time when everyone converges in Spokane, Washington for the annual race of 7 plus miles. Tim beat the girls again, blowing out two calf muscles in the process. I participated in the race for the first time ever. Usually, I’m just there cheering others on. But not this year. This year I was one of the walkers.
You know what they call someone who walks the race versus someone who runs it?
A fellow from Kenya won it — crossing the finish line in 33 minutes give or take a few seconds.
Can you imagine the speed it takes to run 7 miles in 33 minutes?
And that’s taking into consideration Doomsday hill, which is as bad as it sounds.
Tim, old as he is, finished in an hour give or take a few minutes.
I’m proud of him.
But I’m also proud that I earned the title of Bloomie too.
On the drive home, we learned that my son-in-law had nearly taken off two fingers while working in the yard. Doctors think they can save them but it’s going to be a tedious, painful recovery. Very upsetting for all of us. So hang with me. I’ll be gathering my thoughts tomorrow, with a cup of coffee in hand.