We're back in Stratford after a weekend away in Ottawa for a foot race. That is, a 1,200-km trip (there and back) for the privilege of hoofing as fast as possible over 8 km of Lanark County's variable terrain in the hope of doing it at least as fast if not faster than the last time I did it. I must be mad.

Himself, of course, is fine with foot races; he's strong and fit with nothing wrong with his feet. I'm actually quite fit, but not as strong as I used to be and my feet are a mess. Nevertheless, I covered the 8 km (5 miles) in 80 minutes. That's a 16-minute mile; a decent forced-march pace and not at all bad for a member of the Bunion Brigade.

Unfortunately, orthotic insoles are not made for such shenanigans, and I now have a substantial blister under the callus on the side of my left heel. As Churchy La Femme would say, ROWRBASIL!

Then we came home. Six hours of highway, plus road food. Today, I am tired beyond belief and quite unwilling to do anything more adventurous than a trip to Sobey's for minimal groceries.

Himself (who did the 5 miles in 51 minutes) has announced that he wants to break out a flower bed this week. I rather think that he has revised his plan to wait until his quads are feeling a bit more the thing. It's been a while since he ran 6 km and trotted two more.

We're a great pair, we are.