Distance.

It doesn't make sense. Frankly, it never has.

I remember a day in Saskatoon when my son was perhaps 15, cycling along beside me as I ripped around the Meewasin Trail (running), and he said: "Mom, for the amount of exercise you get, there should be nothing to you."

It's true. These days I swim 2000-4000 metres a week, and run approximately 40-50K. How can I still be so much heavier than I want to be? Truly, I am a freak of nature.

I'm going to try to stay on track with Greg during his marathon training, which means we do one long run a week, and several shorter ones. Yesterday I broke my own personal record for distance, and ran 24K. You know, it wasn't that bad. We build up to 32K.

I don't particularly have aspirations to run a marathon. The half last year was good fun, true, but I run because it's part of my lifestyle. I committed to this New Years Eve, 1995, when I smoked my last cigarette.

So the running comes along, the weight loss doesn't. It's frustrating.

But I rant. For it's early in the morning, before the birds are singing, and I've been awake for too long.