Wednesday, December 12, 2018

Saw this bit over at The Woodpile Report, Remus, writing of himself with regard to his current kit for cruising the woods and his overall capacity for doing such with advancing years;
"Okay, tell the purists to leave the room, I have something to tell you. Yes, I have energy bars and freeze-dried food in there, so, I'm compliant with the syllabus. But there's also some canned food. Shhhh. Yeah yeah, cannedmeat. One can of premium sardines, 240 calories and lots-o'-good fish protein, calcium, and oil. Wonderful stuff, if too pricey for my everyday use. And one of those teensy cans of potted meat, also 240 calories. And here's the best part, 200 of 'em are from fat. Mmm mm, fat. 
I'm told a man of my years ought not be traipsing around the hills in weather that would give pause to a feral dog. Truth is, I pick my days with more care than I used to. Think about it, though. In a real calamity there'd not be a choice, and who needs a well thought out pack and periodic practice more than a high mileage guy? And it's not like I'm training for partisan raids, this is a mission-oriented, round trip proposition. Doing what needs done will be derring do enough."
Which made me think of my run, just last night; four and half miles, give or take a hundred meters, in 29 minutes flat. At 46.
My own evaluation? That's some punk-ass shit. A man of my talents should be able to do 10 in one hour flat.
Mortal feats are for mortal men. Press the envelope, lest nothing extraordinary gets accomplished.

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