Stairway to Nothin.

Do you remember the Stairmaster? I means the ones that look like small escalators to nowhere? Well, about a half-dozen of them reside at my gym, where I have happily ignored them for months. They look like relics from a less enlightened time to me, like anyone on them should be talking on a cell phone the size of my head and reading a book called "Pasta: a dieter's best friend."

But, no, my physical therapist has informed me, those monstrous machines are still quite relevant. And they would be helpful in solving my "glute problem," actually.

(The aforementioned problem, as well as I can ascertain, is that I have a weak ass. That's unfortunate for many reasons, including but not limited to its negative effects on my running gait.)

So, today, I set out to do 15 minutes on one of those instruments of evil. It turned out to be a miserable 12 minutes. Tomorrow, I will do the full 15 -- promise. Those things better be extra effective, because I can tell you that they extra suck.

So, the run on Saturday morning went well. I did five miles while everybody else did eight miles. Turning around earlier than the group, I learned, makes you feel fast. It also puts pressure on you to be fast, because it would hurt a lot if a bunch of people passed me.

Anyway, I ran again last night (four miles), but my leg was really bothering me, so I walked some, too. I am trying not to worry about it, though, because the PT session was particularly torturous yesterday. Maybe the leg was just saying "enough!" for one day.

Oh, and from the department of awesome news: My sister Christi and her gentleman friend Aaron are coming up for the marathon! Soooo, I better run it, huh?