sweaty boy | straight boy

I'm currently cooling off over a glass of salt water, having arrived back from the gym a short while ago. In order to prevent my knee injury from flaring up between now and the marathon, I've begun running short four to five mile distances on the mill as often as possible in order to condition my tissues (advice from the physio I saw on Friday afternoon) without subjecting them to longer runs on the tarmac, which isn't easy on the joints and pretty much all I'd been doing to them previously.

Indoors boring? Well, actually no; tonight was the most fun I've ever had on a treadmill; having pulled a bunch of fun and energising tracks - geared towards putting me on the moon or higher - from my recently fortified iTunes library (a big thank you to my dearest patron of the arts), dullsville was just not going to be on my list of destinations.

It felt great, actually to the point that I lost track of time and ran for much longer than I'd intended (oops), at a higher intensity (oops), and at full incline (to add to the pleasure of the pain, no oops, it was highly erotic). By the time I stepped off the treads, the litre of water that I drank was pretty much apparent on my clothes; my tank had become a second skin, my lycra felt downright saucy. Straight boy drops his dumbell, grins at me and says, "Looks like you've been having fun!"

"Yeah, pretty intense, that..."

He pauses to notice a great big bruise at the top of my left shoulder, pulls a sly expression and motions towards it with his chin,

"At least some of us have been getting some!"

"Huh... yeah!" ...and away my eyes roll.

Of course, I'm too innocent to know what he was talking about, but it made me chuckle all the same. I'm bushed; time to wash the layer of homegrown sandpaper off my face and back, and crash. There are days when you just know you're going to sleep like a baby.