Road Etiquette

You have all read my rants about driving etiquette for both drivers and cyclists. Now I am going to extend that to encompass runners. But, I am going to start it out with a question; a poll of sorts.

How many of you give wide berth to runners on the road?
Or, do you just assume that they have the shoulder, which should be enough space for them?
Or, alternatively, do you get irritated with them being in "your" space and get as close as possible to them as you race by at speed, thinking "I'll just scare them a bit, that will get them to use the pathways (if there are any) next time?"

I am one of those who doesn't use the pathways. They're too curvy and crowded, especially this time of year when the weather is cool and the fair weather runners are out. These are the ones who were huddled in their air-conditioning all summer complaining that it was too hot to be outside running. Instead, I use the road and try to run on road that provides ample shoulder room. There are never any other runners congesting my path, and I can always see my target.

As a runner, running on the road and not the paths, I am always cognizant of my space. More specifically, the lack of it when facing oncoming traffic. I love when there is a shoulder; I run as close to the far edge as possible with my eyes on the cars coming at me. I constantly calculate what that driver is apt to do and based on the result I either maintain my space or move over even more.

I have been paying more attention lately to categorizing the different types of drivers. There are not a lot of drivers who speed past to prove a point; however, there are those drivers who, out of simple distraction or lack of attention, swerve into my path. In the past, I have posted about these crazies. They really are few and far between, thank God.

Most drivers fall in a range between those who give a little more space, as long as there is no oncoming traffic for them, and those who will move into the opposing lane to give as much space as possible. In my experience, do you know which type of drivers are most likely to move over?

The truckers.

Now, I was thinking as I was running today that there could be a few reasons for this. First, they are usually professionally trained. I imagine that part of this training involves heightened awareness of using their space efficiently, and safely. Their eyes are probably farther up the road than the average driver and figuring out how to deal with maintaining their space safely. Or, conversely, they may just see the woman running on the side of the road and want to create more space in which to see her both on the approach and from the "rear" mirrors.

There are all factors, yes. I have another theory. I think it is because I wave to them. Yes, I wave to the drivers who go out of their way to accomodate my space. Actually, I give them a thumbs up, thank you, then a wave.

They always wave back.

Maybe word is getting around on my running routes that a crazy runner, that would be me, is waving to all the truckers. I wonder if they understand why I am waving. When there is a row of oncoming vehicles, I like to see how many of them will move over. I wave at every one that does. I spurn all those that don't. I never have to spurn the truckers.

I hope that maybe my good will to the drivers on the road, who have more power in the situation than I do, will influence these same drivers to transfer their consideration of their space on the road to all other runners and cyclists. I hope that the drivers of cars will take heed from the actions of the truckers. And, I hope that all other runners and cyclists will understand the power they do not have and be grateful for what they can get.

Bottom line: everybody just be courteous and respectful. Progress will be made when the drivers of vehicles stop acting like bullies on the playground, and the runners and cyclists stop testing and teasing said "bullies".

The Good And The Bad In Huntsville

Before I start, let me humbly apologize for not posting in almost a week. I did not have anything mind-numbing or provocative come to mind this week; or, at least nothing that was suitable for public display.

Also, as much as I like writing, my life is a blog but my blog is not my life.

Here I sit, showered, fed, and coming down off my adrenaline high. I took a nice nap at the mechanic's shop while he changed the oil in my truck and then told me that my radiator was leaking: he will have to keep the truck until Tuesday to replace the radiator, free of charge thank goodness because it is under warranty from a job they did in November. I intended to take a nice long nap when I got home, after showering and eating {in that order} but the headache meds he shared with me must have had caffeine because now I am not sleepy. Oh well!

This bodes well for you all, my burgeoning audience.

I rode in the Huntsville Raven's Ride, or Raven's Revenge this morning. Not sure why the term includes "Revenge". Maybe it is because of the sore body that results and hangs on for days afterward.

This was my first bike race after many running races, spanning 5Ks to half-marathons. Aside from the fact that I had to bike 33 miles when I was only mentally prepared for 20, I did those 33 at an average speed of 18.5 mph and was among the first to finish of those who rode the 33-mile route. I had some concerns going into it; and probably a few expectations. Overall, like any race I have competed in, there were things I loved, and things I hated.

Things I Loved {I always start with the good things}:

1. The picturesque scenery of the last half.

   If I wasn't such a twit about not stopping during
   my races, I would have thought to stop and take pictures. I always forget that part.

2. The straightaways.

   ...in a field of hills. No other explanation needed. However, sometimes it was hard to tell the difference between a truly flat straightaway and a very low-grade hill ~ until I was into it a few minutes and started slowing down.

3. The downhills.

   I could throw it into high gear and race down at 25mph. Woohoo!

4. The brisket that was served after...

   ...sounded like something I would love if I had stuck around long enough to eat it.

5. The compliment on my speed and form from another rider.

   He (ya think?) could have just been trying to pick up on me. He followed this with a comment on how he was tucked in behind me in the first 10 miles because of it. Or, maybe he just liked watching my ass. Either way, huge ego boost.

Only 180 participants.

Why can't the other races I participate in be this small and cozy?

Things I Hated:

1. The uphills.

   A lot of them. I am still trying to decide which type
   of hill is more tolerable: the short, high-incline ones where you have to drop into the lowest gear and power up at speed or the long, low-incline ones where you think you are never going to reach the top and the speed you gained from the downhill of the previous hill wears off far too quickly to give you any help up.

2. The fire ants at the start line.

   They obviously thought I was an interloper; I still have the welts. Where's the Ortho man when you need him?

3. The missing marker for the 20 mile turnaround.
4. The last 12 miles I had to do because of #3.

   However, that was where the most idyllic scenery was (see #1 in Things I Loved).

5. The lady cyclist who kept trying to pass me on the hills.

   At one point she blocked me in while trying to pass--huffing, puffing and hacking beside me--but couldn't get the speed to actually do it. I kept waiting for her to pull past me. I finally got pissed off and blew past her as we crested that hill and then in high gear made some distance between us so I wouldn't have to suffer her anymore. She caught up with me at the second rest stop (about 15 miles later) as I was about to pull out.

6. The policemen directing traffic along the route who had no idea what the route actually was.

   In the final three miles, I went straight when I think I should have turned left. Can you say 'missing directionals'? There was a policeman at that intersection who just stopped traffic, smiled, and waved me on. One other rider did the same thing; I didn't feel so very stupid and alone that way. Thanks to Trent for being there; we got a tour of some of the local business parking lots and side streets. We briefly entertained the idea of going the wrong way on the feeder but decided it would be too risky. This added about 2.5 miles to the route.

As you can see, it was a mixed experience. I may not do this race again, but then I rarely repeat races. What I definitely plan to do is use the route they mapped to go up there early some Saturday or Sunday and do parts of it again on my own. It really was a very peaceful and bucolic setting, one which it is hard to duplicate in my town.

And, I promise when I do that, I WILL get pictures. But for now, my body has to rest. I don't want to even think about getting on a bicyle until at least Wednesday.

Charitable Donations

Merriam-Webster defines charity as:

a. benevolent good will toward or love of humanity;

b. aid given to those in need;

c. an institution engaged in relief of the poor.

Anyone who attends a church even semi-frequently is familiar with this concept. And, even if one does not attend a church, this concept of helping those less fortunate is common in our society. In fact, it is most cogent in tragic situations: Hurricane Katrina, 9/11, the tsunamis in Asia, etc. Americans come to bat without hesitation.

Today, a visiting priest from Kenya presided over the Mass. I can't remember his name. The cantor for some reason departed from protocol and did not formally introduce him to the congregation. This struck me as odd.

His English was moderately comprehensible ~ there were only 5 times during his homily that I had to glide over a word that was inaudible or garbled~ and his manner was pleasant enough.

His homily began with a joke about paying attention. It made everyone laugh. Then he launched into the meat of it all: charitable donations, specifically, a mission appeal for his church in Kenya. He proceeded to describe the work he does there, the congregation he serves, how he believes that his congregation does the best they can with little resources. He detailed the costs of sending seminarians to school by illustrating that out of 10 vocations he receives in a year that his bishop can only afford to send 5 to seminary.

Underlying this all was how Kenyans have little and Americans have much.

He talked about the orphans and how they become a ward of the church. He detailed what costs are involved, paralleling it to the costs of raising kids. Understandable.

But, this is where he transgressed into a fragile arena. He likened those orphans to the seeds of terrorism.

"If they do not get the support they need to pull them from poverty, they will turn to sin and be more likely to turn to drugs, sex, and crime which will make them fertile ground for terrorist activity."

Unbelievably, he went even further. He then used good 'ole Catholic guilt on the congregation. Can you imagine that?

Addressing the women, he asked "How many pairs of shoes are enough, ladies?" He repeated it several times. I sat primly in the pew, envisioning my closet and the multiple stacks of shoe boxes that reside there. I tried to keep a smile on my face as my mind calculated how many times I actually wear each pair of those shoes in a year. Then, I did a quick cost analysis and rationalization for why I need all those shoes. Something to do with matching the clothes in my wardrobe and replacing old shoes that were worn down or out.

Catholic guilt is a powerful tool. I know because I have lived with it all my life.

He turned his sights to the men in the congregation. "How many shirts are enough, gentlemen?" Again, repeating it several times. Even though I am not a man, I still sat pristinely in the pew, mentally ensconced in my closet, looking at the rows of hangers and rationalizing why I need all those clothes.

But I don't buy haute couture and I only buy what can be worn with several other items in several different ways. That's OK, isn't it?

For a moment, his guilt worked on me. I began to feel that maybe I should be giving my money to the mission appeal. After all, just because my husband has been out of a job for two years, I am still better off than most people in his country right? I have a house, a few cars, and know where my food is going to come from every day. I have a warm bed to sleep in, in a house that is safe and secure from invasion.

And I thank and praise God every single day for these things.

Struggling over his homily, the thought strikes me: I would give so much more to help those in need if it weren't for the corruption that has seeped into every facet of charitable giving. Think about all the instances where the wolf in sheep's clothing has made off with millions upon millions of dollars of money intended to help those in need.

Think about the food drops that have been stolen and/or confiscated by warring factions in multiple countries. All of the helpless souls who starved because of this.

Think about the middle men who get their hands on the money that is donated magnanimously every single day. Money that could have supported a family for a year instead used to buy fancy cars, jewelry, clothes, and who knows what else.

This is where the responsibility collides with reality. And this is where I grind my teeth and wonder how much of my money is really going to help those in need. And I hate to waste money but even more, I hate to see my hard-earned money go to thieves and villains.

My husband and I work very hard for what we have. We have never been selfish in our donations but we have found that over the years we need to be prudent. The evils of many a ploy for charitable donation have led to jaded opinions of all of them, benevolent or not.

Maybe Merriam-Webster's definition needs to be modified.

Or maybe the organizations that are truly benevolent need to be more in the open about their operations.

In either case, I don't savor donating money anymore. I will donate things. I will donate my time. In fact, I would much rather take a mission trip to help those in need, maybe those orphans in Kenya of which the visiting priest spoke of, than to dump money into an operation fraught with usury, corruption, and greed.

Fear of Car Maintenance

I think I am getting over my fear of dealing with car maintenance issues.

Let me explain. It has evolved through necessity and a well-written owner's manual. {how I love good technical writing!}


Necessity is the important impetus here. Plato once said "Necessity...[sic]...is the mother of invention". Maybe necessity is also the seed of motivation. Without an element of necessity, it is easier to just forget a problem exists, or, worse yet, to be lazy about figuring out what to do about it. It is easier to use excuses that involve lack of experience and lack of time. But, if that problem has long range consequences for not being resolved, necessity is created, and from it, motivation.


A little background is in order here. Historically, I have been willing to lump car issues of any kind into my husband's domain. It didn't matter if it had to do with purchasing, selling, insurance, maintainance, repairs. If it was remotely associated with the car(s), it went onto his pile. This is because I lived by the stereotype that men think women know nothing about cars, that they can't and don't want to learn, and therefore will take advantage of any woman. I have been quite successful with the position for many years.


Until recently. Necessity has forced me into taking responsibility for car maintenance. I am fortunate enough to be able to rely on a mechanic who works at a shop that is owned by a man who knows my husband. For the past several years, this relationship has worked out well. I call him whenever I have the slighest problem with one of the cars. He never steers me wrong, explains things so I can understand, gives me the best prices, and, for the most part, never makes me wait for repairs even when I drop by last minute.


But, the relationship with him has been a bit of a crutch for me as well because I use him to answer questions that, out of true necessity and the right tools, I could do on my own.


This is what happened last weekend.


Saturday evening, while I am driving the car that my teenagers share, I noticed the coolant low warning on the console. Then, I found out that one of them actually knew about it over a week ago and forgot to tell me. Great! That's all I need is a cracked engine block or something from overheating.


Saturday evening, no way to get to the shop until Monday. Coolant low is a big problem if it goes too far. I debated waiting until Monday; however, I thought how hard can it be?


Questions came up: what type of coolant do I use and where do I pour it in? I had visions of pouring into the wrong compartment or using the wrong product.


So, there is my necessity: if I don't fix this now, my car is going to break and cost alot of money; my mechanic is at home with his kids and can't come to my rescue. Done.


Enter a well-written owner's manual. It took me all of two minutes to find the engine diagram in the front of the manual, check the index for coolant, turn to that section, and read. Thank you, technical writers of my owner's manual. My hat goes off to you.

Off to AutoZone I go. I have been to this AutoZone before and they are usually helpful. Not really this time. Not only did I have to wait in line for quite awhile, but also had the misfortune of encountering a male who did exactly what I feared. He pointed to the back of the store and told me to pick any one of the products except the silver containers on the bottom shelf because those were formulated for a different type of vehicle. Couldn't he see the despair on my face? The concern in my eyes? I really do want to learn but I'm afraid? Won't you just pretend I'm stupid and take me by the hand and do it for me?


Nope. No such luck.


I saunter back there like I now know what I am doing. The shelf is 10 feet high and holds about 10 different products. I pick out Prestone. Hey, it's a name I know. But there are two types. The pointing guy didn't tell me about this, so I figure any one must be alright. I make a choice and walk up to the cash register, all proud of myself.


The pointing guy is not there, but a woman is. I quickly tell her my story and she asks if I am going to drain the coolant first. What? Drain? You can do that?


"All I want to do is top it off," I say, "because at the next service I will have my mechanic take a look at it."


"Oh, then you can't use this." She walks back, with me at her heels, and exchanges the products out.


Praise the Lord for someone who actually cares. Why did it have to be a woman? I was hoping that the pointing guy would be understanding enough. Maybe he thought that simply because I was in AutoZone that I already knew what I needed. But, didn't he figure it out in the beginning when I asked where the coolant was, and soulfully looked at him with my "please help me" eyes? I guess I was not dramatic enough. Next time I will put more flair into my request, maybe a little more "blond". Do you think a lower cut shirt might work?


That evening, my daughter and I filled the coolant. It was bone dry. No doubt if I had waited there would have been serious problems. The added bonus was that my daughter learned as well and maybe will not grow up with the same sentiments of fear and uncertainty about dealing with cars as I have.


There are still car maintenance issues that I don't know how to do, but should. There are also issues that I know how to do, but have never actually done. At least now I am a few notches higher on the learning curve and hopefully more self-assured.

House Cleaning P.S.

A simple post today.

I may have enjoyed my experience of cleaning my own house (heavy emphasis on "may"). There was the control; there was the appreciation; there was the satisfaction.

I also may have despised the experience: missing out on yoga and church, wasting one of the first truly beautiful Houston pre-Fall days to housework, and, well, just the cleaning my house out of pure necessity.

I recognize that there are both pros and cons to this.

First, the pros because I always like to start off with the positives in any situation.

1. I get to choose the aroma of the house-cleaning agents.
2. I use Lysol spray, which not only kills more germs, but makes things smell better.
3. I clean deeper into the toilet bowl because I use my hand instead of a scrubbing brush (I do have a glove on).

Now, the cons:

1. I have to give up my yoga class
2. I have to forego the beautiful weather
3. I cleaned left-handed ( I think Lucy took one of my gloves)
4. The whole house is not clean at the same time. I can clean only so much at one time; cleaning in stages so the entire house is never clean at the same time.

I know I have to find a new maid. I like the house being clean all at once and not having to give up my personal pursuits. I like not having to stick my hand deep into the toilet bowl and not having to get my mop or sponge deep into the corner to get the dog hair and other nasty stuff.

And, no, this does not make me a princess~

House Cleaning

Today, I had the opportunity to add another solo activity to my already vast repertoire. It occurred by default and hence was not something I would have chosen to do on my own.

It is an activity which I gladly gave up a few years ago: cleaning my own house.

Lucy, my maid of about two years, was missing in action this past Friday. No phone call, no text. I assume she was also MIA for my other neighbors who use her because I didn't see her car on our cul-de-sac at all.

I was peaved, to put it lightly. I only use her twice a month; but I really need her because after two weeks the house is about as bad as I can stand it.

I thought maybe she had mixed up the calendar and forgotten what week it was. My week. I tried not to panic, but instead gave her the benefit of the doubt. She did just have her first baby and is most likely in the throes of trying to figure out life as a mom. A working mom at that.

I gave her a whole week of benefit. When I didn't receive a response from my queries, visions of pushing a vacuum cleaner, inhaling toxic fumes while cleaning the shower, and cleaning the toilets flooded back into my conscious. It had been so nice to pay for the privilege of shuttling those jobs off to the responsibility of another.

Now they are mine, along with the time drain and planning involved. Uuuggghh! Call off my yoga class and that extra quiet time trying to finish my book. Yes, these things are to be the sacrifice for the cleanliness of my home.

In the end, it wasn't really that bad. Yeah, it took up time that could have been used doing something pleasurable. Or, should I say, something else pleasurable because in its own right, I did enjoy the end result of clean aroma and track marks in the carpet. Voila, the hairballs are finally gone from the moldings along the wood floor in the foyer.

Nothing that a strategy and a strong vacuum cleaner couldn't achieve.

And, believe it or not, I was not truly solo. SSSSHHHHH, don't tell anyone. I had an accomplice. He wasn't there for my benefit but solely for his own. He sat on the Italian bishop's chair, swiping at the rag I used to clean the dust and pouncing on the Swiffer I used to rub the foot smudges off the wood floor. Yes, he was definitely in it for the entertainment factor.

He was Mojo the cat and I'm glad I could indulge his need for fun. Not like he doesn't have dozens of other cat toys around for that purpose. But, I guess that would be too easy. The entertainment factor was at a high, until I turned on the vacuum cleaner, and then he disappeared.

The house is nowhere near clean. It is exhausting enough to think that I still need to get to the bathrooms and the kitchen, and the kids rooms and the game room.

With any luck, Lucy will resurface. But, if she doesn't, I think that this solo activity will be very short-lived. Someone will have to take her place and I am determined that it will not be me.

Middle Age Body

In the middle of a 20 mile cycle not too long ago, a scary thought struck me. Blindsided me, actually.

What will happen to me ~ my body, my mind, my mood, my soul ~ when my aging body can no longer support my daily exercise? In simple words....when I get old.

That is a loaded question, isn't it? First of all, it assumes that "my" body will degrade at the normal rate. But what's "normal"? And, for that matter, what is "old"? I certainly don't feel my age by any stretch of my imagination, even though my kids call me old and, when I teach, I myself use my age as a joke to break the ice in a roomful of teenagers. I don't look as old as I am, or at least that's what most guys tell me. Based on that then, it might mean that I have an extra ten years before I get to "normal".

It is a fact that aging is accompanied by decrease in muscle size, destabilization of bone structure, and tightening of ligaments and tendons. However, it is also known that those who start exercising relatively early in life and continue to do so into the later adult years can slow down that natural aging process. And what about the impact of good diet and nutrition, which many times are in tandem with the athletic mindset? Furthermore, genetics and overall demeanor. These must all play a factor, somehow, I hope.

Like I said, maybe I am not "normal". Let's assume for argument sake that I can keep up with this routine for another five, hopefully ten, or so years. After all, when you have athletes like Jack LaLane (remember him, is he even still alive?), Lance Armstrong, Brett Favre, et.al. setting the standard, it is kind of hard to sit back and use the excuse that I'm getting too old for this. Every race I have been to has tons of "old" people, gray hair, wrinkles and the like, running, this includes the half-mari's that I have run. There is a precedent for the aging body continuing to do its thing well into "old" age.

So, somewhere between 50 and 75 my physical ability will decrease. I can probably count on slowing down, so instead of a 9:10 mile I will have to settle for a 15:00+ mile. OK, I guess I can handle that, as long as I still have a choice to run, or not to run.

Maybe that is the key there: choice. I want to retain my ability to choose. I don't want that wrenched from me because of an aging body.

OK, so with luck, as I age, I will figure out "other ways" to cope without the intense exercise. But what ways?

I know I use exercise as a pacifier now. Sure, it helps me keep in shape, better shape than I have been in my entire life. This, in turn, helps me feel good about myself in general. But, more than all the surface-level results, it calms my thoughts, my moods, my very soul. If I go more than three days without it, the fog creeps in, making me dark and gloomy. My muscles ache more than usual. I start bingeing on foods that under normal conditions I would never consider ingesting.

When I have a physical goal I am striving for, whether it is six mile slow run early on a Sunday morning or training for a half-marathon three months down the road, I feel at peace with myself. I feel productive, effective, and serene all at the same time. It's almost like my physical activity, the little and big challenges in that arena that I overcome ever time I set a goal for myself, is an element of me that would be painful to lose at any cost. And, like a severed limb, would continue to ache even in its absence.

This is my fear.

If I get to 75 and have to give up the extreme sports, like skiing and cycling and running and weight lifting (OK maybe not swimming but I don't particularly like swimming to begin with), what would I replace those with? Shuffleboard, bingo, walking.

My mind reels. I hope by then I have lost the inner need for the intense physical activity. Every "older" person I know seems to have reached and confirmed this eventuality.

But, if that is what it means to get "old", I don't want a part of it. I will try to hold it off as long as I can. I will thoroughly enjoy every minute that I have using my body, aging or not. I vow to come somewhere between beating it into the ground and pampering it for fear of injury. Because, eons past any of the aforementioned diatribe, I don't want to get to that magic "old" age, whatever that number may be, and be sorry that I didn't try and do everything that I could before I lost my ability to choose.

At that point, it will all be too late.

Here's to keeping it active for as long as possible.

The Fog

I did have things I wanted to do today. Phone calls to make, emails to send, thoughts to think.

Just like every other morning, somewhere in that netherworld between dreaming and waking, I listed out in order the events on my schedule for the day. While my enthusiasm was underwhelming, I knew what had to be done. By the time my body's energy equalled my mind's motivation, I had no doubt that those things on my list would get accomplished. After all, that's how it is with me.

But something happened between the drive back from the school and now. A dark, grey fog crept deep into my thoughts, enveloping my mood and holding my initiative hostage.

I think it started with the nap I took right when I returned home.

"Just lie down for an hour. You can make the 8:30 class," the approaching gloom in my head whispered to me. Silly me. I believed it. Mistake number one.

It would have been much more productive for me to clean the sink of last night's dishes, empty the litter boxes, and start the laundry....and then go to yoga.

Well, I woke up at 8:30 a.m. I guess that 8:30 a.m. yoga class is nothing but a memory. OK, I coaxed myself, I can recover from this. I checked the schedule and found a class at noon. I gave myself a pat on the back for propping up my initiative. But the fog was still approaching.

I pulled out my computer (mistake number two) and started on the next item from my list, which happened to be confirming some travel plans. Flight reservations were a little glitchy, but I made it through. I think the biggest pitfall came in the hotel reservations. In tandem, I multi-tasked the dishes, litter boxes, and laundry.

Still no yoga. But it wasn't time to go yet.

So, back to hotel reservations. I found myself getting angry. The grey fog that was seeping into my thoughts and playing tug of war with my initiative was now getting darker and heavier and beginning to engulf my mood. As I went from hotel to hotel, Tripadvisor to Priceline, I became increasingly frustrated that they all wanted payment up front plus a 14-day cancellation window. What happened to the days when you could just make a reservation with no money on the table? That is not a rhetorical question, only exasperation talking.

By the time I threw in the towel on that one, with the added bonus of not having committed to anything therefore the prospect of dealing with it again in the near future, it was 11:15. Still time to get to my yoga class.

But the fog would not let me out of its grasp. It was right on top of me now.

"It's OK. You can take a day off from exercise. Yoga will still be there tomorrow."

Mistake number three.

The fog had me. I relented; my iniative, my thoughts, and my mood drained of vitality. All three were lying flagged and shuddering on the ground. I was grateful that no one was around to witness their bitter demise but me, as I skulked around the house trying to recover the remnants of my tattered schedule.

The good news is that I still have half the day left. Even better: this post revitalized me. The fog is lifted and scurrying away. The sun is even shining outside, for the moment. This doesn't worry me as long as the sun is shining on the inside.

Too late for yoga, or any other exercise for that matter.

But tomorrow is another day.