Anyone who questions the reality of global warming should have spent the last month in Central PA. Oy-freakin'-vey, as my great friend Sandy Paul might say. I look out the window and think, my, how nice it looks, and then I go out and I'm hit with a a wave like Bilbo Baggins must have felt when old Smaug scorched his little hobbit butt.
I went to the track last Friday (I have to go to the track anymore; I need a soft surface and my knees don't like surprises, like rabbit holes and sharp stones) and was all set to move my body for an hour. Just as I was finishing up, an old friend joined me and asked me to walk with him. At the time, it was 1:00 in the afternoon, 94 degrees, but with the humidity it was pushing three digits. So, naturally, I said, "Sure!" with a broad grin that only an over-the-hill jock can muster when he doesn't want to show any sign of weakness. Forty-five minutes later, I was thinking, You know, enough with this whole 'death before dishonor' thing! In all, I went over six miles, lost 5 pounds of fluids, and when I started getting goose bumps, I had another thought: What an odd thing: I wonder if I'm dying.
So, here I am today, considering doing the same thing all over again. But then again, I'm safe here in my air-conditioned living room. I'm sure that if I stepped outside and caught a blast of that old dragon's breath I'd change my mind right quick. We'll see.
