Well, that was fast.

This was my first weekend home in three weeks. And it’s my last weekend home for three weeks. As a result, I did almost nothing all weekend.

Laundry? Check. Haircut? Check. Dancing at three a.m.? Check.

Casey came over last night. He’s a far more accomplished harmonica player than I am, so I asked him to record a new part for “Heartland.” We were taking a break on the roof deck when we looked up to see the most excellent sunset ever. It looked like the sunsets I drew as a kid, all clouds and vertical lines. It was astonishing.

This morning, just over a water tower across 80th Street, the moon — waxing or waning? I don’t even know — is huge and white and setting in the clear blue sky.

I’m off to the doctor this morning. My back’s not much better. As a result, I haven’t run in almost three weeks. Between the injury, the new record(s), and two more weeks of touring (Northeast and Midwest), the likelihood of my sixth NYC Marathon bid is diminishing. Which sucks.

I’m off to Miami in the morning. Every time I see Diddy on the side of a bus or a phone booth, I get a little nervous. It’s going to be a crazy week. I’ll be pleased when it’s over. I’ll be pleased when Ethan and I are building sand castles in Madaket. That’s the real finish line.

Update: Dr. Gilbert said I could be back to 18-miles in three weeks. It’s just muscular. He gave me some stretches, said to keep up the warm showers and Advil, and get back into slow and steady training. So I just visited and printed out a training schedule. I have eight weeks. I guess that’s the real finish line now.

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