This was the scene from Mile 33 this morning, you were still showering and cursing the fact you had to go to work.

I was too, but being on vacation means I’m vacationing from the paying job, and still required to slave away on those that don’t pay.

… neatly describing the fly fishing industry in its entirety.

Part of my New Year’s resolve meant my forthcoming vacation could be spent on trimming my pear shaped frame back into something recognizable. The combination of foreswearing tobacco and holiday excess had allowed me to become soft and weak, and when looking down I could no longer see toes, or any other important anatomical feature.

It was Mile 36 that put me in a quandary, those invisible toes in proximity to discarded sharp objects. The beauty of “smart” technology allows me to quickly check whether the contents are uppers or downers, and whether I should stab the gluteus or merely lick the damn thing.

As I bent down to gather them up for proper disposal, a passing motorist smacked a mourning dove which rolled to a stop at my feet.

Too damn much coincidence for my tastes, so I glance skyward and mention to no one in particular, “Old Man, this is most certainly a test of some sort, and I’m not falling for it.”

Bravado mostly, I knew the bird would be there tomorrow, most likely with a lot less livestock than its current fresh flavor.

Copaxone is a drug for those that suffer from MS. Why they felt it necessary to share is beyond my comprehension, yet quite popular in both creek and roadbed.