Luckily he had a conflict, and we pushed our run out another week. Now, two weeks since I last saw him, I’m in a better place. I’ve followed the intermediate plan religiously, eaten better and avoided the drink. Not a drop has passed my lips. My old legs are back. I feel more like myself. I’m strong. But logging the running miles in the training plan humbles me. Humiliates might be the better word. Luckily the triathlon isn’t for months. Running is my best leg. Next month I will focus more on the swimming and biking. You would have thought that I flung the Holy Bible in Clew Bay and spit on the Pope himself if you talked to Fiona these past two weeks. She never stops reminding me how abandoned she feels. Still, I run. Still, I stay out of the pubs. Da and I continue to avoid each other. Actually, I avoid everyone. It’s easier. For too long, I’ve been spinning, lost and out of control.
