We spent some time on vacation a couple weeks ago and despite renting a mountain bike one day and doing some unintended hill climbs (wife was not happy with my choice of trails) I ddint spend much time in the saddle. However, with the holistic approach of just getting some exercise, I did pretty well.
In the name of keeping with family tradition, I was nominated to carry back a collection of rocks we found on a relatively isolated beach.
Fine, load me up like your own personal pack horse so I can help deface a national park. Being 25 pounds heavier, I slightly lag behind the group headed home. As their pack horse, I decide to canter to catch up. What the hay… Ill just keep going. After a half mile jog on a wooded path, laden with 25 extra pounds of contraband, I come to the trail head, sweaty and with a small flesh wound on my leg. Helga and Klaus (dramatic license), the German tourists, who I run into look horrified. Whether it is the blood, the amount of sweat a slight man could generate, or the idea of them having to do whatever I just did to see the National Park icon we are neighboring, the expression quickly dissipates when, through my best international sign language, I direct them towards the correct tourist path.
Vacation training: check.
I’m almost to my personal fundraising goal. Help me out and put some cash towards my efforts and towards cancer research here.
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